Amaiyla — POV
Paris didn't become romantic at night.
It became honest.
The lights beyond the windows burned low and golden, throwing long shadows across the glass, the kind that distorted outlines and hid sharp edges just enough to make you forget they were there. The city hummed—not loud, not inviting—just alive enough to remind me that the world didn't pause for fear or consequence.
Inside the estate, everything did.
The walls held their breath. The floors swallowed sound. Even the air felt curated—controlled—like this place knew secrets and had been trained not to betray them.
I hadn't moved from the same spot near the window in over an hour.
I knew because my legs ached, and because Xander hadn't told me to sit again. He'd learned quickly what commands I resisted and which silences unsettled me more.
He stood several feet away, close enough to be unavoidable, far enough to be intentional. Jacket gone. Sleeves rolled back. His watch caught the light every time he shifted, a brief flash of steel before disappearing again.
That small, precise movement said more than words ever could.
"You're counting exits," he said calmly.
I looked at him. "I'm counting mistakes."
His mouth curved faintly. "That number is higher."
"Only because you keep adding variables."
"You are the variable," he corrected.
I scoffed. "Funny how that only became true once I stopped doing what everyone expected."
"That's usually when power becomes visible."
I turned fully toward him. "Is that what this is to you? Power?"
His eyes sharpened. "Is that what you think it is to you?"
The question caught. Hooked. Held.
I didn't answer.
Because the truth was dangerous.
Before I could recover, he spoke again. "Your father will call before midnight."
My chest tightened instantly. "You're sure."
"Yes."
"You didn't answer him earlier."
"I didn't need to."
"Because you already knew what he wanted," I said.
"Because he already knows what he's losing."
The words landed heavier than I expected.
"I'm not something he owns," I said.
"No," Xander agreed. "You're something he can no longer control."
That was worse.
Silence stretched, tight and humming.
"You let Tammy near him," I said finally.
"Yes."
"You knew she'd provoke him."
"Yes."
"Why would you—"
"Because pressure reveals fractures," he interrupted. "And fractures reveal leverage."
My stomach turned. "You talk about people like they're structures."
"People are structures," he replied evenly. "They just pretend they aren't."
"That's cruel."
"No," he said quietly. "That's accurate."
I paced, dragging a hand through my hair. "Connor thinks you're shielding me."
Xander's gaze followed me, steady. "Connor thinks shields are static."
"And they're not?"
"They're strategic."
I stopped moving. "You didn't reassure him."
"No."
"You didn't deny anything."
"No."
"Why?"
"Because he wasn't asking for answers," Xander said. "He was asking for reassurance."
"And you refused."
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because reassurance would have been dishonest."
The honesty of that chilled me.
"You think he's a threat," I said.
"I think he's emotional."
"And that makes him dangerous," I finished.
"For you," Xander said without hesitation.
The certainty in his voice cracked something open inside my chest.
"You don't get to decide who's dangerous to me," I said.
"No," he agreed. "You do."
"Then stop deciding for me."
He watched me for a long moment, something unreadable passing behind his eyes.
"That's exactly what I'm trying to do," he said.
The knock cut through the air.
Once.
Precise.
Tammy didn't wait.
She entered like the room was already hers—fluid, elegant, dressed in cream silk that reflected light softly enough to seem harmless. Her gaze flicked between us in seconds, cataloging posture, distance, tension.
"Well," she said pleasantly, "this feels… charged."
I didn't bother hiding my irritation. "You weren't invited."
Tammy smiled. "Neither was gravity. Yet here we are."
Xander didn't shift. "Speak."
She laughed softly. "Always so efficient."
Her attention turned to me. "Amaiyla. I hope you're settling in."
"I'm not," I said.
"Good," she replied. "Discomfort accelerates clarity."
She took a step closer—not invasive, just deliberate. "Your father is concerned."
I felt it immediately. The hook. The pull.
"About what," I asked.
"About momentum," Tammy said. "About visibility. About how quickly loyalties appear to be… rearranging."
"That's not your concern," I snapped.
She tilted her head. "It becomes mine when outcomes shift."
Xander's voice cut in. "You're overstepping."
"Am I?" Tammy asked lightly. "Or are you simply unused to someone questioning your pace?"
I turned to him. "Is he trying to slow this down?"
Xander didn't hesitate. "Yes."
My jaw tightened. "By sending you."
"By asking questions," Tammy corrected. "Questions you should be asking yourself."
"Such as?"
She leaned in slightly, voice lowering. "Whether protection feels different when it starts to resemble possession."
Xander stepped closer to me—still not touching, but unmistakably present. A line drawn.
"That's enough," he said.
Tammy smiled at him. "You're very good at creating safety. Less good at explaining its cost."
I met her gaze. "What does he cost?"
She didn't answer immediately. That pause was intentional.
"Control," she said finally. "Influence. Certainty."
My chest tightened.
"And what do I cost?" I asked.
Tammy's smile thinned. "That remains to be seen."
Xander's tone turned lethal. "You're finished."
"For now," she agreed easily, smoothing her sleeve. Her gaze lingered on me. "Be careful, Amaiyla. Men who protect well often forget when to stop."
Then she was gone.
The door closed.
The air felt heavier instantly.
I exhaled sharply. "She enjoys destabilizing things."
"Yes," Xander said. "Which is why she's effective."
I turned on him. "And you?"
His eyes darkened. "What about me."
"You're not innocent in this."
"I never claimed to be."
"You like the tension," I accused. "You like being the axis everything spins around."
"That's not enjoyment," he said lowly. "That's responsibility."
"Those look the same from where I'm standing."
He stepped closer. Too close now. The warmth of him pressed into my awareness, not touching but impossible to ignore.
"I could walk away," he said quietly.
My breath hitched. "Then why don't you?"
"Because you didn't ask me to."
The words landed between us, electric.
"This ends badly," I whispered.
"Yes," he agreed. "If mishandled."
"And if it isn't?"
His gaze dropped—to my mouth, to the space between us, to the distance he was very deliberately not crossing.
"Then it changes the balance," he said.
"And you're comfortable with that?"
"No," he replied honestly.
"Then why stay?"
"Because imbalance reveals truth."
I should have stepped back.
I didn't.
Outside, Paris pulsed—indifferent, alive.
Inside, something irreversible settled into place.
I understood then, with terrifying clarity:
Staying wasn't hesitation.
It was choice.
And choice—real choice—never came without consequence.