The flight back to London was too quiet.
Amaiyla noticed it the moment the seatbelt sign flicked off and no one moved. Not Xander. Not the staff hovering at a polite distance. Even the hum of the plane felt subdued, like it knew better than to interrupt.
Xander sat beside her, unreadable, his presence a constant pressure rather than comfort. He hadn't touched her since France. Not a hand. Not a brush of fingers. Not even a glance that lingered too long.
It hurt more than she expected.
"You're doing it again," she said softly.
Xander didn't look at her. "Doing what?"
"Pulling away when things get complicated."
His jaw tightened. "I'm staying focused."
"That's not the same thing."
He finally turned, eyes sharp but tired. "Amaiyla, London isn't Paris. There are cameras. Witnesses. Consequences."
Her pulse quickened. "You think I don't know that?"
"I think," he replied carefully, "you underestimate how quickly your father turns visibility into control."
She folded her arms. "Then let him see me."
Xander exhaled slowly. "That's exactly what he wants."
The plane descended through a blanket of gray, the city emerging like a waiting mouth. Amaiyla felt it then—the shift. France had been tension wrapped in beauty.
London was war dressed as routine.
The car was waiting on the tarmac.
Black. Tinted. Silent.
Amaiyla hesitated before getting in.
"This is it," she said.
Xander nodded. "This is where he tests you."
"And you?"
His gaze flicked to her. "This is where I stop pretending I can shield you."
The city blurred past the windows as they drove. Amaiyla's phone buzzed once.
No name.
JH: Dinner. Tonight. Don't be late.
She swallowed hard. "He's not even pretending this is optional anymore."
Xander's mouth curved into something grim. "Good."
That surprised her. "Good?"
"Yes," he said. "Because men like your father get sloppy when they think they've already won."
The Hollingsworth townhouse was immaculate when they arrived. Lights warm. Curtains drawn. The illusion of normalcy perfectly curated.
Amaiyla stepped inside and felt like she was walking into a courtroom.
John Hollingsworth stood near the fireplace, glass of whiskey in hand, expression neutral.
"Welcome home," he said.
Xander remained silent.
Amaiyla met her father's gaze. "You told Connor to disappear."
John's brow lifted slightly. "I told him to do what was necessary."
"For whom?" she demanded.
"For you."
Her laugh was sharp. "That's not protection. That's erasure."
John's voice cooled. "You're emotional."
"And you're manipulative."
Silence cracked the room.
Xander stepped forward. "We need to talk about boundaries."
John finally looked at him fully. "You've forgotten your place."
Xander didn't flinch. "I know exactly where I'm standing."
John's eyes narrowed. "You cost me leverage."
"I disrupted abuse," Xander replied calmly. "There's a difference."
Amaiyla's breath hitched.
"You think you're her savior," John said coolly. "You're just another man making decisions for her."
Xander glanced at Amaiyla—not possessive, not protective.
Waiting.
She stepped forward herself.
"Stop," she said. "Both of you."
They did.
The power of that moment startled her.
"I didn't agree to Connor being sacrificed," Amaiyla said steadily. "I didn't agree to silence. And I didn't agree to obedience."
John's voice sharpened. "You agreed when you accepted the engagement."
"No," she replied. "I complied. That's not consent."
Xander felt it then—something shifting irreversibly.
Amaiyla wasn't standing beside him.
She was standing alone.
And somehow, that made him want her more than ever.
John took a slow step toward her. "You don't understand what's at stake."
"Then explain it," Amaiyla challenged. "Without threats. Without consequences. Without pretending this is about love."
John's jaw tightened.
"You won't," she continued. "Because if you do, I'll realize how little of this was ever about me."
The room felt smaller.
"Connor made a choice," John said finally.
"Yes," Amaiyla replied. "And you took advantage of it."
John's gaze flicked to Xander. "And you—how long before you make the same mistake?"
Xander's voice was steady. "I already did."
That landed like a blow.
Amaiyla turned to him sharply.
Xander met her eyes. "I chose defiance."
John's expression hardened. "Then you chose consequences."
Amaiyla's phone buzzed in her hand.
A message.
Connor.
Connor: I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to make you smaller.
Her chest tightened painfully.
Amaiyla lifted her head. "You think controlling the men around me controls me."
John didn't respond.
"It doesn't," she continued. "It just teaches me who to walk away from."
The silence that followed was deadly.
John took a sip of whiskey. "You'll regret this."
"Maybe," Amaiyla said quietly. "But at least it will be mine."
She turned and walked out.
Xander followed without hesitation.
Outside, the night air was sharp and unforgiving.
Amaiyla stopped under the streetlight, breath shaking.
"I don't know what I just did," she whispered.
Xander stepped closer. "You took control."
"And Connor?" Her voice broke. "I didn't want this for him."
Xander's expression softened. "Neither did he. But silence doesn't save anyone."
Amaiyla looked at him. "Did you know this would happen?"
"Yes."
"And you still let me walk into it?"
Xander nodded once. "Because you asked me to stop deciding for you."
Her chest tightened.
"That doesn't mean I don't want to," he added quietly.
The honesty in his voice unraveled her.
"Xander… this changes things."
"Yes," he said. "That's why your father is afraid."
She stepped closer, voice barely above a whisper. "What about you?"
His eyes darkened. "I stopped pretending I could want you safely."
Amaiyla's breath caught.
"You're dangerous to me," he said softly. "And I'm done lying about it."
The city moved around them, unaware.
Above them, cameras watched.
Inside them, something irreversible had already begun.
Because the return wasn't about going home.
It was about stepping fully into the war.
And this time—
Amaiyla wasn't a piece on the board.
She was the move no one could undo.