By noon, Paris felt too exposed.
Amaiyla noticed it in the way the city looked back at her—not openly, not rudely, but with a curiosity that lingered a second too long. The streets were bright, unapologetic. Café tables spilled onto sidewalks. Tourists laughed without consequence. Glass storefronts reflected her image back at her again and again, refracted through money and proximity and power.
And always—him.
Xander Reyes did not walk like a man accompanying someone. He walked like a man being observed. Every step measured. Every pause intentional. Even the way he adjusted his cuff before stepping into public view felt rehearsed, as if the world itself were a courtroom.
He knew he was being watched.
And he behaved accordingly.
The car ride into the city was quiet—not the peace of shared comfort, but the kind of silence used to arrange weapons before a negotiation. Xander sat opposite her in the back seat, posture immaculate, one ankle resting casually over his knee. His phone lay dark in his palm, untouched.
He hadn't touched her once.
Not since morning.
No accidental brush. No protective hand at her back. No glance that lingered longer than necessary. Even his eyes seemed disciplined—trained to acknowledge her only when required.
Amaiyla hated that she understood exactly why.
"You don't have to ice me out," she said finally, gaze fixed on the blur of Paris passing the window. "We're allowed to breathe."
Xander didn't look up. "We're allowed to be seen breathing," he replied calmly. "Not touching."
Her jaw tightened. "So now this is damage control?"
"This," he said, unbothered, "is survival."
She turned to him sharply. "You slept with me."
His eyes lifted then—dark, steady, dangerous in their restraint.
"And now," he said quietly, "I'm making sure it doesn't get you hurt."
The words landed heavier than she expected. Not because they were cruel—but because they were sincere.
She folded her arms, pulse stuttering. "By pretending I don't exist?"
"By pretending," he corrected, "that nothing about you can be leveraged."
The car slowed near the gallery entrance. Amaiyla spotted the cameras first—discreet but unmistakable. Long lenses. Intentional angles. The kind that waited for mistakes.
She leaned closer, lowering her voice. "You don't get to rewrite what happened just because it complicates your strategy."
Xander's jaw flexed. "And you don't get to mistake last night for immunity."
That hurt more than she was willing to admit.
The driver opened the door. Sound rushed in—voices, footsteps, traffic, life.
They stepped out together.
The performance began.
Xander moved beside her with precision. His hand hovered near the small of her back—never touching, but close enough to be noticed. His expression was neutral, unreadable. To the outside world, he looked like a man escorting an obligation.
Amaiyla felt the absence like rejection.
Inside the gallery, cool air washed over them. White walls. Stark lighting. Conversations murmured in half-tones—money speaking to money, power recognizing power.
People approached carefully.
"Mr. Reyes."
"Amaiyla."
Each introduction felt like a label being reapplied. Fiancée. Asset. Future.
She smiled when expected. He nodded when required. They stood close enough to be convincing, far enough to remain safe.
Until the temperature shifted.
Tammy Veraga entered the room.
Amaiyla recognized her instantly—not from photos, but from gravity. Tammy moved like someone who never waited for permission. Tall, composed, her presence warm in a way that felt practiced rather than kind.
"Amaiyla Hollingsworth," Tammy said, approaching with a smile that didn't ask consent. "We haven't been properly introduced."
Xander stiffened—not visibly, but internally. Amaiyla felt it in the air like pressure change.
"Tammy Veraga," the woman continued, offering her hand. "Friends of your… extended circle."
Amaiyla accepted the handshake. Tammy's grip was firm, assessing.
"I've heard your name," Amaiyla said.
"I'm sure you have," Tammy replied lightly. "It travels."
Xander joined them, tone polite but edged. "Tammy. I wasn't aware you'd be in Paris."
Tammy glanced at him. "Things evolve."
They stood in a triangle—no one retreating, no one conceding ground.
Tammy's attention returned to Amaiyla. "How are you finding France?"
Amaiyla hesitated. "Beautiful."
Tammy smiled. "Ah. The safest answer."
Something about the way she said it sent a chill through Amaiyla's spine.
They moved through the gallery together, Tammy asking questions that appeared harmless—art preferences, travel impressions, childhood anecdotes—but each one edged closer to something sharper.
"And how are you finding the arrangement?" Tammy asked casually, pausing before a sprawling abstract piece.
Amaiyla blinked. "Arrangement?"
"She's adjusting," Xander answered smoothly.
Tammy didn't look at him. "I wasn't asking you."
Silence tightened.
Amaiyla inhaled. "It's an adjustment," she said carefully. "But I'm managing."
Tammy nodded. "Women like you always do. Until they realize managing isn't the same as choosing."
Amaiyla's pulse spiked. "What do you mean?"
Tammy smiled faintly. "Nothing. Just admiration."
Xander shifted closer to Amaiyla—not touching, but unmistakably present. "We should move on."
Tammy's gaze flicked between them. "Of course. Wouldn't want to disrupt the narrative."
As Tammy drifted away, Amaiyla exhaled shakily.
"Who is she?" she murmured.
Xander's voice was low. "Someone who notices leverage."
"So do you," Amaiyla shot back.
His eyes darkened. "That's different."
They left shortly after. The car ride back was heavier.
"You could have warned me," Amaiyla said.
"You handled it," Xander replied. "That was the point."
She laughed once—sharp, incredulous. "So I'm being tested?"
"Yes."
Her breath caught. "By you?"
"By everyone."
Back at the estate, restraint finally cracked.
Amaiyla walked ahead of him, heels striking marble like punctuation. She turned abruptly, fury flashing.
"You don't get to sleep with me and then parade me like a chess piece."
Xander closed the distance in two strides. "Lower your voice."
"No," she snapped. "You don't get to decide when I exist."
His control wavered—just enough to show the strain beneath it.
"You think this is about control?" he said tightly. "I'm trying to keep you from being crushed."
"By whom?" she demanded. "You? My father? Or yourself?"
That landed.
For a moment, his composure fractured. Not rage—fear.
"You don't understand the forces circling you," he said quietly.
"Then explain them," she shot back. "Or stop pretending you're protecting me."
Silence stretched.
"If I let myself want you publicly," he said at last, "they'll use it. If I deny it, they'll pressure you instead."
Her chest rose and fell rapidly. "So what am I supposed to do?"
He stepped closer—too close.
"You survive," he said. "And you don't force me to choose between strategy and instinct."
Her voice trembled. "What if I already have?"
Something in his eyes broke.
For one terrifying moment, he looked like he might touch her—forget the watchers, the contracts, the consequences.
Instead, he turned away.
"You should rest," he said. "Tonight, we attend the reception."
She watched him retreat, heart pounding.
That night, alone in her room, Amaiyla stared at the ceiling.
She wanted his hands. His steadiness. The way his control slipped only with her.
And she hated that wanting him felt like rebellion.
Down the hall, Xander stood at the window, fists clenched.
This was the danger.
Not desire.
Connection.
And if he didn't find a way to protect her without erasing her, the cost would be unforgivable.
Outside, Paris glittered—beautiful, indifferent, watching.
And somewhere in the city, Tammy Veraga was already planning her next move.