The first thing Amaiyla learned about power was that it rarely announced itself.
It didn't slam doors or raise its voice. It didn't need to.
Power waited.
She realized this as she stood in the quiet salon of the Paris estate, sunlight slanting through tall windows, dust motes drifting like they had nowhere urgent to be. Her father sat across from her, perfectly at ease, hands folded, posture relaxed in a way that suggested nothing in this room could surprise him.
John Hollingsworth had always looked like this when he was about to win.
"You asked to see me," he said mildly. "That usually means you're upset."
Amaiyla didn't sit.
"No," she replied. "It means I'm done being confused."
That earned her a pause. A fractional one—but she saw it.
Interesting.
John gestured to the chair opposite him. "Sit."
She didn't.
"Ask me instead," she said quietly.
His brow furrowed. "Ask you what?"
"Whatever you think I'm about to beg you for," she answered. "Because I'm not going to."
Silence thickened.
John studied her the way he studied contracts—looking for weaknesses, loopholes, points of leverage. She met his gaze without blinking, heart pounding but steady.
"You're under a lot of stress," he said finally. "France has been… intense."
"That's one word for it."
"Amaiyla—"
"Why now?" she interrupted.
His expression tightened. "Excuse me?"
"The engagement," she said. "The timing. Why now?"
John leaned back slightly. "You know the answer."
"No," she said. "I know the version you've given me. That's not the same thing."
He smiled faintly. "This is about stability."
She shook her head. "No. This is about urgency."
The word landed.
John's smile didn't fade—but something behind it hardened.
"You're imagining threats that don't exist."
"Then say it," she replied evenly. "Say nothing would happen if I said no."
Another pause. Longer this time.
Xander's voice echoed faintly in her memory: If I tell you everything, you'll hate me.
She wondered if her father knew how close he was to earning that.
"What would happen," Amaiyla continued, "if I walked away?"
John exhaled slowly. "That's not a productive line of thinking."
"So something would happen."
"Amaiyla—"
"Who benefits if I disappear emotionally?" she pressed. "If I stop resisting. If I stop asking questions."
His eyes sharpened.
"You've been spending too much time with people who enjoy stirring doubt."
Tammy.
Amaiyla felt the shape of that realization settle in her chest.
"No," she said. "I've been paying attention."
John stood.
"You don't understand the forces at play."
"Then explain them," she challenged. "Or admit you don't want to."
He stepped closer, voice lowering. "This isn't about what you want."
"And that," Amaiyla said softly, "is the problem."
The air between them snapped.
"You think you're ready to negotiate," John said. "You're not."
"Then why am I the one asking the questions you can't answer?"
He stopped.
For the first time, truly stopped.
Outside the room, unseen, Xander Reyes had gone very still.
He hadn't meant to overhear. He never meant to. But he had learned long ago that rooms like this leaked truth through walls, through silences, through the smallest changes in tone.
Amaiyla's voice was calm.
Too calm.
That scared him more than if she'd been shouting.
John Hollingsworth had underestimated her.
So had Xander.
He felt it then—sharp and unwelcome—the twist in his chest that had nothing to do with strategy. This wasn't risk assessment. This wasn't control.
This was fear.
If Amaiyla walked away from her father, she wouldn't run to Xander.
She would stand alone.
And Xander didn't know how to protect someone who refused to be managed.
Inside the room, John spoke again, carefully.
"You want autonomy," he said. "You don't realize what it costs."
Amaiyla finally sat.
Not because he told her to—but because she chose to.
"Then let me pay it," she said. "Ask me instead of deciding for me."
John's jaw tightened.
"Everything I've done," he said quietly, "has been to keep you safe."
She met his eyes. "Then stop lying to yourself about what safety looks like."
The room felt smaller.
John turned away first.
That was when Amaiyla knew.
Not everything—but enough.
Later that afternoon, Tammy Veraga found Amaiyla on the terrace, staring out at the city like she was trying to memorize it.
"You did something interesting," Tammy said lightly, approaching with a glass of water.
Amaiyla didn't turn. "Did I?"
"You asked a man used to obedience for consent," Tammy replied. "They never like that."
Amaiyla's lips curved faintly. "You came here for breakfast. Not commentary."
Tammy handed her the glass anyway. "I came here because you're at the point where women either disappear—or decide."
Amaiyla accepted the water. "You don't know me."
"I know patterns," Tammy said. "And I know what happens to women who let powerful men finish sentences for them."
Amaiyla studied her. "What do you want?"
Tammy smiled—not warmly, but honestly. "I want you to survive long enough to choose something real."
"And you think pushing me toward conflict helps?"
"I think comfort is more dangerous than truth," Tammy replied. "Especially when it's borrowed."
Amaiyla's throat tightened. "Borrowed from whom?"
Tammy's gaze flicked, briefly, toward the interior.
Xander.
"He's good at playing protector," Tammy said carefully. "But protection without permission is still possession."
Amaiyla looked away. "He doesn't control me."
"Not consciously," Tammy agreed. "That's what makes it dangerous."
When Tammy left, Amaiyla stayed where she was.
Xander found her there an hour later.
"You shouldn't let her inside your head," he said quietly.
She didn't look at him. "You keep saying that."
"Because it's true."
"Or because you're afraid she's right."
That made him stop.
"What did my father say to you?" she asked.
Xander hesitated.
She turned then, eyes sharp. "If you lie, I walk."
The line was clear.
He exhaled. "He said you were becoming unpredictable."
"And you?" she asked.
"I said that was the point."
Her breath caught.
"You openly defied Harold," she said. "I felt it."
"Yes."
"Why?"
His jaw tightened. "Because he crossed a line."
"With me," she realized.
"With you," he confirmed. "And because I'm done pretending this is still theoretical."
She stepped closer. "Then stop deciding what I can handle."
"I'm trying to keep you alive."
"I'm trying to live," she shot back.
The words hung between them—sharp, necessary.
Xander looked at her like he was seeing her for the first time.
Not as leverage. Not as responsibility.
As risk.
"I don't know how to do this without losing control," he admitted quietly.
"Then don't control it," Amaiyla said. "Stand beside it."
Silence.
Then, slowly, Xander nodded.
"Okay," he said. "But understand this."
"What?"
"If you step forward," he said, voice low, "there is no version of this where I remain neutral."
Her heart pounded.
"Good," she replied. "I'm done being handled gently."
That night, alone in her room, Amaiyla understood the shift.
Connor had made his deal.
Her father had blinked.
Tammy had chosen her.
Xander had crossed a line he couldn't uncross.
This wasn't safety anymore.
It was escalation.
And for the first time, Amaiyla wasn't waiting for permission to exist inside it.
She was ready to ask the next question.
And watch who flinched.