Amaiyla learned that the hardest part of rebellion wasn't the fight.
It was the quiet afterward—when adrenaline faded and reality sank its claws in.
She had confronted her father.She had drawn a line with Xander.She had let Tammy into the edges of her orbit.
And still… the estate remained.
Lavender fields. Stone walls. Emergency lines only.
A cage with a view.
By nightfall, the air in the house felt different—charged, expectant, like the building itself knew something was about to break.
Amaiyla stood in the bathroom for too long, staring at her own reflection as if she might find the version of herself from before all of this.
Before the clause.Before the headlines.Before Connor's name became a weapon.
Her phone buzzed on the counter.
One message.
From Connor.
Connor: Don't answer if you can't. Just… know I'm trying to fix it. For you.
Her throat tightened.
Fix it.
The lie was almost tender.
Because she knew now—deep down—that some things couldn't be fixed.
Only traded.
She set the phone face-down like it could burn her.
When she stepped back into the bedroom, Xander was there.
Not waiting in the soft, romantic sense.
Waiting like someone guarding a perimeter.
He'd changed into a dark shirt, sleeves rolled, collar open. His hair was slightly damp, as if he'd rinsed his hands under water too many times.
He looked up as she entered, and his gaze sharpened in that way that always made her feel seen—and cornered—at the same time.
"You were in there a while," he said.
Amaiyla folded her arms. "I didn't know we were tracking each other's bathroom schedules now."
Xander's mouth twitched. "We've been tracked since the moment your father signed the contract."
She flinched at how casually he said it.
Amaiyla walked past him toward the window, needing space. The night outside was ink-dark, the lavender fields turned into shadowed waves.
"I got a message from Connor," she said quietly.
Xander's posture changed instantly—not outwardly dramatic, but the air around him tightened.
"What did he say?"
"That he's trying to fix it."
Xander's laugh was short and humorless. "He already fixed it."
Amaiyla turned. "What does that mean?"
Xander held her gaze. "It means he's doing what desperate men always do."
"And what's that?" Amaiyla's voice trembled despite her attempt at control.
"Making deals," Xander said, calm and merciless. "Calling it love."
Amaiyla's heartbeat spiked. "You don't know that."
Xander's eyes darkened. "I do."
That certainty—cold, flawless—hit her like a slap.
"You keep telling me not to be controlled," Amaiyla snapped. "Then stop controlling the information."
Xander's jaw flexed. "You want the truth?"
Amaiyla didn't hesitate. "Yes."
Xander took one step closer.
Then another.
He didn't touch her yet, but his presence filled the space between them like heat.
"Connor met with your father today," he said.
Amaiyla went still. "How do you know?"
"I have eyes," Xander replied. "Unlike your father, I don't pretend I don't."
Amaiyla swallowed hard. "And what did my father do?"
Xander's voice dropped. "He offered Connor a choice. The kind that isn't a choice."
Amaiyla's chest felt tight, breath shallow. "And Connor…?"
Xander held her gaze with something that looked dangerously like regret.
"He took it," he said.
Amaiyla's knees almost buckled.
"No," she whispered. "He wouldn't—"
"He would," Xander cut in gently. "Because he believes suffering makes him noble."
Amaiyla's vision blurred. "What did he agree to?"
Xander hesitated.
Amaiyla's eyes flashed. "Don't."
Xander exhaled slowly. "Distance."
Amaiyla's throat tightened.
"And silence," he added.
The room tilted.
Amaiyla laughed once, sharp and broken. "So he's surrendering."
Xander's expression was unreadable. "He's calling it protection."
Amaiyla's fingers curled into fists. "He didn't even ask me."
Xander's gaze locked onto hers. "Exactly."
The silence that followed was brutal.
Because it wasn't just about Connor.
It was about what Amaiyla had demanded from Xander—
Ask me instead.
And Connor had done the opposite.
Amaiyla turned away quickly, swallowing the burn in her throat. "I can't breathe in this house."
Xander's voice softened, barely. "Then we leave."
Amaiyla snapped her head around. "We can't."
Xander's eyes were steady. "We can."
Her heart pounded. "The clause—"
"Let it watch," Xander said, voice low, dangerous. "I'm done letting it decide where you're allowed to exist."
Amaiyla stared at him. "You're serious."
Xander stepped closer again, close enough now that she could smell him—clean, faintly cedar, the kind of calm that hid violence.
"I told you," he said. "If you step forward, I stop being neutral."
Amaiyla's pulse thundered.
"What are you doing?" she whispered.
Xander's gaze dropped briefly—to her mouth—then back to her eyes.
"Removing variables," he murmured.
Something in her chest snapped.
"Tammy said protection without permission is possession," Amaiyla blurted, as if she needed to test him.
Xander's expression hardened. "Tammy likes clever lines."
Amaiyla forced herself not to look away. "Is she wrong?"
Xander didn't answer immediately.
Instead, he reached into his pocket and set his phone on the dresser—face down.
Then he took a step back.
It wasn't dramatic.
It was deliberate.
"Tell me what you want," he said quietly.
Amaiyla's breath caught. "Xander—"
"No," he said, voice calm but tight. "Ask me instead."
The words hit her like lightning.
For a second, she couldn't move.
Then she whispered, "I want to stop feeling like everyone else gets to decide what happens to me."
Xander nodded once.
"I want," Amaiyla continued, voice trembling, "to stop being punished for being loyal."
Xander's eyes darkened. "You shouldn't be punished at all."
"I want," she said, swallowing hard, "to forget Connor's message for one minute without feeling like I'm a monster."
Xander's jaw tightened. His voice dropped.
"You're not a monster."
Amaiyla took a shaky breath. "And I want—"
She stopped.
Xander's gaze stayed steady. Patient.
Dangerous.
Amaiyla's voice became barely audible.
"I want you to kiss me like you're not afraid of what it means."
For a moment, Xander didn't move.
It was the kind of stillness that came before impact.
Then he stepped forward—slowly, like he was giving her every chance to take it back.
He lifted a hand and brushed his knuckles along her cheek, feather-light.
"You're asking for the one thing I can't do safely," he murmured.
Amaiyla's eyes burned. "I didn't ask for safe."
Xander exhaled, like something in him finally gave.
He leaned in—not rushed, not wild.
Controlled.
But the moment his mouth met hers, the control turned into something else.
A promise.
A confession.
A surrender he didn't know he was capable of.
Amaiyla's hands fisted in his shirt as if she could anchor herself to him. Xander's arm slid around her waist, pulling her closer—not rough, but inevitable.
The kiss deepened—still precise, still restrained—yet it carried all the weeks of tension, all the unspoken rage, all the fear neither of them had admitted out loud.
Amaiyla broke away first, breath shaking.
"This is wrong," she whispered.
Xander's forehead rested against hers. His voice was low and hoarse.
"Yes."
Her heart twisted. "Then why—"
"Because you asked," he said. "And for once… someone deserves to be answered."
Amaiyla's throat tightened.
She kissed him again.
This time she initiated it—claiming her own choice.
Xander's breath hitched, his fingers tightening slightly at her waist, and Amaiyla felt the tremor he tried to hide.
He was losing control.
And it terrified him.
It thrilled her.
They moved without speaking, as if the house had narrowed to one corridor of heat and breath and consequence.
Xander's mouth traced the corner of her jaw, her temple, her cheekbone—slow, reverent, like he was trying to memorize the version of her that had finally stopped asking for permission.
Amaiyla's hands slid up his shoulders, and she felt the tension in him—contained power fraying at the edges.
"Tell me to stop," Xander whispered, voice strained.
Amaiyla swallowed, eyes shining. "Don't."
That was all it took.
Xander lifted her into his arms with a precision that felt like surrender disguised as control. Amaiyla wrapped her arms around his neck, pulse racing, the world narrowing into breath and warmth and the terrifying relief of being held without being owned.
He laid her down gently, as if she were something fragile and dangerous.
Like she could break him.
Maybe she could.
Xander hovered over her for a moment, eyes locked with hers.
"This changes things," he said quietly.
Amaiyla's voice trembled. "Everything already changed."
He kissed her again—slower, deeper—then paused, breathing hard.
"Amaiyla," he murmured, "if we do this—"
"We're already doing it," she whispered.
And because the clause could watch all it wanted—because the fathers could calculate all they wanted—because Connor could make deals in the dark—
Amaiyla chose herself anyway.
The rest of the night blurred into heat and silence and the kind of closeness that didn't feel like victory.
It felt like rebellion.
...
Near dawn, Amaiyla lay awake against Xander's chest, listening to his heartbeat.
Steady.
Controlled again.
But different.
Xander stared at the ceiling, jaw tight, like he was already calculating the consequences of what he had allowed.
"What happens now?" Amaiyla whispered.
Xander's arm tightened around her—just slightly.
"Now," he said quietly, "Harold realizes I'm no longer playing his game."
Amaiyla's chest tightened. "And my father?"
Xander's voice turned colder.
"John will punish whoever he thinks you still care about."
Amaiyla swallowed, guilt rising like poison.
"Connor," she whispered.
Xander didn't deny it.
And somewhere across the channel, a message appeared on Connor's phone—short, clean, devastating.
John Hollingsworth: Good. Now prove you meant it.Disappear.
Amaiyla didn't know that yet.
But she felt it anyway.
Because the cage didn't break when you found love inside it.
It tightened.
And this time, it tightened around choice.