The Silence That Bites
The door barely clicked shut behind Tammy Veraga, but the sound lingered like a gunshot that no one reacted to.
Amaiyla didn't move.
Her fingers were still curled around Xander's hand, knuckles faintly white, as if letting go would confirm something irreversible had just happened. The sitting room glowed in soft gold—intentional lighting, curated warmth, the kind of space meant to signal safety and permanence.
Nothing about it felt safe.
"They know," Amaiyla whispered again.
Her voice wasn't shaking—but it was thin, stretched tight by the effort it took not to panic.
Xander didn't answer immediately.
He stood in front of her, shoulders squared, expression unreadable. When he finally spoke, it was calm in the way men learned to be when panic would cost them everything.
"Yes," he said. "They know."
Amaiyla's breath stuttered. "How do you say that like it's nothing?"
A faint exhale left him. Not a sigh. Something closer to restraint. "I'm not calm," he said. "I'm controlled."
She let out a brittle laugh. "That's worse."
"No," he said quietly. "It's survivable."
She pulled her hand free, pacing once before stopping short, arms wrapping around herself like she could hold herself together by force. "So what happens now?"
Xander's gaze slid past her, toward the long hallway that led deeper into the estate. Toward rooms that had heard worse conversations than this one.
"Now," he said slowly, "your father reacts."
Amaiyla swallowed. "He punishes."
Xander's jaw tightened. "He corrects."
Her head snapped toward him. "That's the same thing."
"Not to him."
The chill that moved through her wasn't fear alone—it was recognition. She had grown up with that difference. Correction meant intention. Punishment meant emotion.
"And your father?" she asked, already bracing herself.
Xander's eyes darkened. "Harold doesn't correct," he said. "He removes variables."
Her stomach dropped. "I'm the variable."
He stepped closer. Just enough that she could feel his presence like pressure. Like gravity.
"Not anymore."
The words landed heavy.
Amaiyla looked up. "What does that mean?"
"It means," he said, voice low and unyielding, "that if anyone tries to move you—politically, strategically, or otherwise—they move through me first."
Her chest tightened. "Xander—"
"No." His tone softened, but his resolve didn't. "Don't be brave in the wrong direction."
She searched his face, heart hammering. "And what does that cost you?"
For the first time, something sharp flickered in his eyes.
"Everything they think they own," he said.
The words scared her.
They should have scared her more.
Instead, they settled somewhere dangerous inside her—too close to relief.
Then Xander's phone vibrated.
Once.
Precise. Controlled.
He glanced at the screen, and the temperature in the room dropped.
"What?" Amaiyla asked.
"John," he said.
Her pulse spiked. "He's calling you."
"He's summoning us."
Xander answered without breaking eye contact, setting the phone on speaker.
"John."
Her father's voice filled the room—smooth, measured, terrifying in its composure.
"Xander," John Hollingsworth said. "Put Amaiyla on."
Amaiyla felt her blood turn cold.
"She's here," Xander said. "She can hear you."
A pause.
Then: "Good."
Amaiyla stepped forward. "Dad—"
"Don't," John interrupted gently. "Don't try to soften this. You're past that stage."
Her throat tightened. "What stage?"
"The one where you pretend you don't understand consequences."
Xander's jaw flexed. "If you're calling to threaten her—"
"I'm calling to remind you both of reality," John replied. "Paris ends tomorrow. Amaiyla returns to England immediately."
"No," Amaiyla said. "We're—"
"We're what?" John asked mildly. "Bonding? Rewriting rules you don't understand?"
Xander's voice turned sharp. "Careful."
John chuckled softly. "Your role is to maintain stability. Not encourage delusion."
Amaiyla's hands shook. "I'm not an object."
"You're my daughter," John replied. "And you're making a mistake."
Xander stepped in. "You're pushing."
"And you're slipping," John said. "Which is why I'm intervening."
Amaiyla's voice broke. "Why are you doing this?"
A pause.
Then: "Because ten years ago, I learned what happens when emotion outruns strategy."
Xander went still.
Amaiyla felt it. The shift. The weight behind the words.
"Tomorrow," John finished. "No delays."
The call ended.
Silence fell hard.
Amaiyla stared at the phone. "He mentioned ten years ago."
"Yes," Xander said.
"What happened?"
He didn't answer.
And that told her everything.
Beat Two — Connor Doesn't Stay Quiet
Across the Channel, Connor Jackson stood in a conference room that wasn't his.
Glass walls. Polished wood. A man across from him who smiled like he'd already won.
"They're leveraging your past," the lawyer said calmly.
Connor's hands clenched. "This is about Amaiyla."
"Of course it is."
Connor leaned forward. "I want to speak to John Hollingsworth."
The lawyer paused. "You don't."
"I do."
"Because you want to save her," the lawyer said. "Or because you want to fight him?"
Connor's jaw tightened. "I won't let them take her."
The lawyer slid a phone forward. "Then don't become what you hate."
Connor stared at the screen.
Typed anyway.
I'm coming to Paris.
And just like that, the war stopped pretending to be civil.
Beat Three — Defiance Has a Shape
"She didn't want this," Amaiyla whispered.
"I know."
"Then why does it feel like everyone expects me to accept it?"
Xander stepped closer. "Because they trained you to."
"And you?" she asked. "What did they train you to do?"
His answer was quiet. "Win."
"At what cost?"
He hesitated.
"I don't know anymore."
Her breath caught. "You said you choose me."
"I do."
"Then prove it."
Danger flashed across his face.
He sent a message.
Security. Full lockdown.
"We're not going back tomorrow," he said.
Amaiyla's heart raced. "Xander—"
"Your father thinks you're still movable," he said. "That ends tonight."
Beat Four — Tammy Moves the Board
The knock came sharp.
Tammy stood in the doorway again.
"You're about to make this worse," she said.
"Leave," Xander replied.
Tammy looked at Amaiyla. "If you run, he punishes someone else."
"Connor," Amaiyla whispered.
Tammy nodded. "Stop asking permission," she said. "It's the only power you still have."
She left.
And Paris watched.
Closing Beat — The Trap Isn't Tomorrow
Connor was coming.
Her father was moving.
Xander stood too close.
"Who do I belong to?" Amaiyla asked.
His voice was low. "That's the wrong question."
Her breath hitched.
"I belong to myself."
"Then prove it," he murmured. "Tonight."
And in the charged silence between them, Amaiyla understood:
Tomorrow wasn't the deadline.
Tonight was the reckoning.