Xander — POV
The door closed with a sound too polite for what had just happened.
No echo. No finality. Just a soft click that suggested courtesy instead of threat.
Tammy Veraga never needed volume. She didn't announce damage—she introduced it and let it mature on its own.
I stayed where I was, hands braced against the back of the chair I hadn't sat in. My pulse was steady. My breathing even. Anyone watching would have assumed I was untouched.
Across the room, Amaiyla stood motionless.
That was the first real problem.
She wasn't pacing or fuming or demanding explanations. She wasn't trying to reclaim ground or retreat from it.
She was recalibrating.
People always underestimated that moment—the quiet after revelation. That was when alliances shifted. When leverage decided what it wanted to become.
"You shouldn't listen to her," I said.
The words sounded thin even to me.
Amaiyla turned slowly. Not defensive. Not angry.
Focused.
"That's not an argument," she replied. "It's a reflex."
I straightened, forcing distance into my posture. "Tammy thrives on destabilization. She introduces doubt and watches what people do with it."
"And what did she introduce?" Amaiyla asked.
I hesitated.
She noticed immediately.
"You didn't answer," she said.
I moved toward the window, needing the barrier of glass and city and distance. Paris stretched below us—sunlit, elegant, oblivious. A city that hid its violence behind beauty.
"She wants you misaligned with your father," I said. "That's her objective."
Amaiyla folded her arms. "And you don't?"
I turned back sharply. "This isn't about want."
She tilted her head slightly. "It always is. People just pretend it isn't when admitting it costs them something."
I didn't respond.
Silence was usually my ally. It forced others to fill space, to overexplain, to expose themselves.
Amaiyla didn't.
She held my gaze, unblinking.
"Do you know what she actually did?" she asked.
"Yes," I said immediately.
"No," she corrected. "You know what she intended to do. I'm asking what she accomplished."
I exhaled slowly.
"She named you," Amaiyla continued. "Not as collateral. Not as currency. As leverage. That's not incidental."
"No," I agreed quietly. "It's deliberate."
"And you didn't contradict her."
That landed harder than Tammy's words.
"I stepped in front of you," I said.
"Yes," Amaiyla replied. "After she'd already framed the board."
She moved closer, closing the distance I'd tried to keep. I felt it immediately—heat, pressure, awareness snapping taut.
"You didn't deny it," she said again. "You redirected."
That was accurate. Precise.
I hated that she'd learned to read me this well.
"Because denying it would have made it real," I said.
Her brow furrowed. "And now?"
"Now," I admitted, "it's already real."
She inhaled slowly, then laughed once—soft, incredulous. "So that's it? I wake up engaged to one man, entangled with another, and suddenly I'm a geopolitical asset?"
I flinched despite myself.
"Don't reduce yourself to her language," I said.
"She didn't invent it," Amaiyla shot back. "She just said it out loud."
I turned away again, jaw tightening.
I had spent years ensuring no one ever said the wrong thing in the wrong room. Tammy had done worse.
She'd said the right thing in the right one.
"She knows about us," Amaiyla said.
"Yes."
"How?"
I didn't answer.
She took a step back, eyes narrowing—not hurt, but calculating.
"You told her," she said.
"No," I replied instantly. "I would never."
That much was true. Tammy didn't earn confessions. She earned observations.
Amaiyla searched my face. "Then you slipped."
I didn't deny it.
That silence was louder than any admission.
Tammy had once told me my problem wasn't recklessness—it was pattern consistency. I repeated myself too cleanly. Too predictably.
Restraint left fingerprints.
"She watches posture," I said. "Proximity. Timing. Who interrupts whom. Who steps in front of who."
"And you stepped in front of me."
"Yes."
Her voice dropped. "Like you have since Paris."
I met her gaze.
"Yes."
The word felt heavier this time.
She crossed her arms, grounding herself. "So what happens now, Xander?"
I had answers prepared for most scenarios. I always did.
Contingencies for my father. For John Hollingsworth. For Connor's instability.
But this?
This was a fault line I hadn't charted.
"Your father will feel the shift," I said finally. "He's sensitive to imbalance."
"And when he does?"
"He'll apply pressure."
"On you?"
I hesitated.
Her lips pressed together. "On me."
"Yes."
She nodded once, absorbing that. "And you plan to manage that by—what—keeping me insulated?"
"I plan to keep you unexposed," I said.
She let out a slow breath. "You keep using that word like it's neutral."
"It is."
"No," she said quietly. "It's not. It implies fragility."
I stepped closer without thinking. "You're not fragile."
"Then stop treating me like I am."
The words cut clean.
I searched for a response that didn't sound like an order. Or a lie.
"You don't understand how fast this turns," I said instead. "Once my father realizes you matter—"
"You'll move me further away?"
I stopped inches from her.
"Yes."
She looked up at me then, eyes steady. "And once my father realizes I don't obey?"
I didn't answer.
That was answer enough.
"I'm not a shield," she said softly. "And I'm not a prize. I'm not something you position."
I clenched my jaw. "You don't see the whole board."
"I see enough," she replied. "I see men deciding what I can survive."
Her gaze softened, just slightly. "Including you."
That was the fracture.
The moment restraint stopped feeling like virtue and started feeling like cowardice.
I reached out—caught myself before touching her.
"Be careful," I said.
Her expression shifted. Not defiant. Not afraid.
Resolved.
"You first."
She stepped around me, moving toward the door.
I turned as she reached it. "Amaiyla."
She paused but didn't look back.
"If you challenge your father now," I said, "he'll respond aggressively."
She glanced over her shoulder. "Good."
The word unsettled me more than anger would have.
"Why?" I asked.
"Because men like him only tell the truth when they think they're losing."
Then she left.
The room felt altered in her absence. Like the walls had moved inward without permission.
I stood there long after, replaying every moment. Every choice. Every step that had led here.
Tammy hadn't forced anything.
She hadn't needed to.
She'd simply confirmed what I already knew and refused to name:
That Amaiyla wasn't collateral anymore.
She was a variable.
And I had placed her exactly where my father could see her.
For the first time in years, control didn't feel like power.
It felt like exposure.
And I had no clean way out.
Only consequences waiting for timing to catch up.