By noon, Paris felt hostile.
Not openly—no sirens, no raised voices—but in the way bright places could be dangerous when you were no longer anonymous. The city gleamed too cleanly, sunlight bouncing off stone and glass like it wanted to expose everything it touched.
Amaiyla felt it the moment she stepped outside.
Eyes tracked them.
Not admiration. Assessment.
Xander Reyes moved beside her like a man used to pressure. His stride was unhurried, his expression neutral, but his awareness radiated outward—counting reflections in windows, registering angles, noting the pause of a man too still near the curb.
"Don't look around," he said quietly, not turning his head. "Walk."
Her pulse spiked. "Why?"
"Because someone wants you to notice them."
That was enough.
They reached the car. Xander opened the door and waited—eyes still scanning—until she was inside before sliding in opposite her. The door shut with a heavy, final sound.
Only then did he exhale.
The driver pulled away from the curb.
Amaiyla's hands curled in her lap. "Is this normal?"
"For Paris?" Xander asked. "No. For visibility? Yes."
She frowned. "Visibility?"
"You've crossed from private to observable," he said. "Different rules."
She studied him—tailored suit, calm posture, control stitched into every movement. If anyone looked dangerous, it was him.
"You're acting like I'm radioactive."
"I'm acting like you're valuable."
That wasn't comforting.
The car merged into traffic. Silence settled—not calm, but tight, like breath held too long.
"You didn't touch me once," Amaiyla said finally.
Xander's eyes flicked to her, then away. "I noticed."
"Good," she snapped. "Because it felt intentional."
"It was."
Her chest tightened. "So what—last night disappears because daylight exists?"
His jaw flexed. "Last night exists precisely because daylight doesn't."
She leaned forward. "That's not an answer."
"It is," he said evenly. "Just not one you want."
Before she could respond, the car slowed.
"Gallery," the driver announced.
Xander straightened instantly. Armor back in place.
"Rules," he said under his breath. "You stay half a step to my right. You don't answer questions that aren't asked directly. If anyone touches you, you move toward me, not away."
Her stomach dropped. "Touches me?"
"It's a possibility."
The car door opened.
Sound rushed in—voices, cameras clicking somewhere distant, the hum of moneyed conversation. Xander stepped out first, scanning, then offered his hand.
Not holding.
Guiding.
They moved together into the gallery, white walls glowing under sharp lights. Art hung like statements rather than decoration. The crowd parted subtly as they entered.
Amaiyla felt it—the shift.
They weren't just attendees.
They were an event.
A man approached almost immediately. "Mr. Reyes. Amaiyla. A pleasure."
Xander nodded. Amaiyla smiled. The exchange was brief, efficient.
Another followed. Then another.
Questions brushed close to intimacy without crossing it. Compliments slid dangerously near implications.
Xander stayed perfectly calibrated—present, attentive, distant.
And cold.
Until the temperature changed.
Amaiyla felt it before she saw her.
Tammy Veraga entered like a disruption in physics.
The air adjusted around her. Conversations softened, then resumed with new energy. Tammy wore ivory—dangerous in a room like this. Her smile was effortless, her posture relaxed, her gaze already calculating trajectories.
She didn't hurry.
She let the room come to her.
Then her eyes locked onto Amaiyla.
"There you are," Tammy said warmly, as if they'd been searching for each other.
Xander's body shifted—a fractional step closer to Amaiyla, instinctive.
Tammy noticed.
"Amaiyla Hollingsworth," she continued, extending her hand. "We've danced around each other long enough."
Amaiyla took it. Tammy's grip was firm, deliberate.
"Tammy Veraga," Amaiyla replied.
Tammy's smile deepened. "Oh good. Composure."
Xander intervened smoothly. "Tammy. I wasn't aware this was on your itinerary."
Tammy glanced at him. "It wasn't. Neither was you."
A subtle jab.
They stood there—three points forming a triangle that felt like a trap.
Tammy gestured toward a painting. "Shall we walk? I dislike interrogations when standing still."
Interrogations.
Amaiyla shot Xander a look.
He didn't stop it.
They moved through the gallery together. Tammy asked questions that appeared benign—education, travel, impressions—but each one pressed closer to the bone.
"And how are you finding the engagement?" Tammy asked lightly, pausing before a violent slash of red and black on canvas.
Amaiyla inhaled. "Transformative."
Tammy laughed softly. "Careful. That word invites scrutiny."
Xander cut in. "We're enjoying Paris."
Tammy didn't look at him. "I didn't ask you."
Silence sharpened.
Amaiyla met Tammy's gaze. "I'm capable of answering."
Tammy's eyes gleamed. "Excellent."
A man brushed too close behind Amaiyla. Xander's hand came up instantly—blocking, not touching her, but unmistakably territorial.
"Excuse us," he said coolly.
The man retreated.
Tammy watched it all with interest.
"Protective," she murmured. "In public, no less."
Xander ignored her.
"Tell me," Tammy continued, "do you believe protection requires distance?"
Amaiyla hesitated. "I think it depends on who's defining it."
Tammy smiled approvingly. "Insightful."
A camera shutter clicked—too close.
Xander stiffened. He leaned toward Amaiyla, voice low. "Don't turn."
Too late.
Tammy pivoted slightly, blocking the angle with her body like it was accidental.
"Careful," she said mildly. "That photographer isn't invited."
Xander's eyes darkened. "You brought press."
"I brought inevitability," Tammy corrected.
Amaiyla's pulse thundered.
They moved again, faster now. The crowd thickened. The air felt tighter.
"Why are you doing this?" Amaiyla asked Tammy under her breath.
Tammy didn't hesitate. "Because your father underestimates you."
That startled her.
"And Xander," Tammy added, "overestimates his ability to contain outcomes."
Xander stopped walking. "Enough."
Tammy turned. "Is it?"
She leaned closer to Amaiyla. "Do you know what happens when men disagree about ownership?"
Amaiyla's voice was steady despite the fear climbing her spine. "I'm not owned."
Tammy's smile sharpened. "Exactly."
Another camera click.
Closer.
Xander moved—fast. He stepped directly in front of Amaiyla, back to the crowd, shielding her fully now.
"That's enough," he said coldly.
Tammy raised her hands. "Relax. You're attracting attention."
"Leave," Xander snapped.
Tammy studied him, then nodded. "Soon."
She turned to Amaiyla one last time. "Think carefully about which version of safety you accept. Some performances never end."
Then she disappeared into the crowd.
The tension didn't leave with her.
It intensified.
Xander grabbed Amaiyla's wrist—not painfully, but firmly—and steered her toward the exit.
"Hey," she protested. "What are you—"
"Changing variables," he said. "Move."
They pushed through the doors into sudden daylight.
The sound hit them—voices, shutters, someone calling Xander's name.
A reporter stepped forward.
"Mr. Reyes—are you confirming an early engagement ceremony?"
Xander stopped dead.
Amaiyla felt his grip tighten.
"No comment," he said sharply.
Another voice. "Amaiyla—how are you adjusting to the transition?"
Xander moved again, placing her behind him.
"We're done," he said.
The driver appeared, door open.
They got inside just as another camera flashed.
The car lurched forward.
Only once they were moving did Xander release her.
Amaiyla's heart was racing. "You didn't tell me it was this bad."
"I didn't expect acceleration," he admitted.
"Because of Tammy?"
"Because of you."
She stared at him. "What does that mean?"
"It means," he said quietly, "that you're no longer theoretical."
The estate felt too quiet when they returned.
Amaiyla walked ahead, heels striking marble, anger replacing fear.
"You used me," she said, spinning around. "You let her test me."
Xander closed the distance. "You held your ground."
"That wasn't the point!"
His restraint cracked—just enough to show strain beneath it.
"You think I enjoy this?" he demanded. "Watching every move you make become leverage?"
"Then stop pretending you're protecting me," she shot back. "You're curating me."
Silence snapped between them.
"If I let them see what I want," he said slowly, "they'll destroy it."
"And what about what I want?" she whispered.
That stopped him.
For a moment, the mask slipped.
"I don't know how to protect both," he admitted.
Her breath hitched.
Outside, Paris moved on—indifferent.
Inside, the balance shifted.
This wasn't about safety anymore.
It was about exposure.
And neither of them was ready for what came next.