Amaiyla didn't sleep.
Not because the townhouse was loud—London was quieter than Paris in the wrong way. The silence here wasn't peace. It was surveillance without footsteps. It was a room that listened.
She lay on her back, staring at the ceiling, replaying every message, every threat, every look her father had thrown like a blade.
Corrective statement. Compliance. Connor. Visibility cuts both ways.
At 4:11 a.m., she finally sat up and swung her feet to the floor.
Xander was awake too.
He sat in the chair by the window, elbows on knees, hands clasped, gaze fixed on the street below like he could see the next attack forming in the fog.
"You're going to give yourself away," she murmured.
Xander didn't turn. "You're already given away. That's the problem."
Amaiyla rubbed her temples. "Tammy said I have to move first."
Xander's jaw tightened. "Tammy says a lot of things."
"She's not wrong."
He finally looked at her—eyes clear, expression controlled, the kind of calm that came from preparing to take a hit.
"Are you asking my permission?" he asked.
Amaiyla swallowed. "No."
"Then what are you asking?"
She stood, walking toward him slowly, stopping just short of where his knees nearly touched hers.
"I'm asking," she said, voice steady despite her pulse, "if you'll stand beside me when I do it."
Xander's gaze flicked to her mouth, then back to her eyes like he hated his own instincts.
"If you make the wrong move," he said quietly, "your father will punish the nearest person he can reach."
Amaiyla's chest tightened. "Connor."
Xander's expression didn't soften, but his voice lowered. "Yes."
Amaiyla nodded once, accepting it like a weight.
"Then I need to make a move that makes punishment costlier than control," she said.
Xander stared at her for a long moment, as if recalculating her in real time.
"That's not emotion," he murmured. "That's strategy."
Amaiyla didn't smile. "I'm learning."
Xander rose—smooth, deliberate—until they were standing face-to-face.
"Tell me what you're planning," he said.
Amaiyla's throat tightened, but she didn't look away.
"I'm going to speak again," she said. "But this time I'm not clarifying. I'm changing the terms."
Xander's eyes sharpened. "How public?"
Amaiyla exhaled. "Public enough that my father can't erase it quietly."
Xander's jaw flexed.
"You know what that means," he said.
"It means," she replied, "I stop being a rumor."
The sunrise hadn't even warmed the edges of the city when Amaiyla's phone buzzed.
Tammy.
One line.
Tammy: If you're doing it, do it before they're ready. 10:00. Reyes Foundation steps. Don't be late.
Amaiyla stared at the screen.
Xander watched her read it.
"The Reyes Foundation?" he asked.
Amaiyla nodded. "Visible. Confirmed location. Cameras already there."
Xander's expression turned lethal. "Harold will hate that."
"Good," Amaiyla whispered. "Let him."
Xander leaned in slightly. "Amaiyla."
She met his gaze.
"If you do this," he said softly, "there's no walking it back."
Amaiyla's breath shook. "That's the point."
By 9:42 a.m., the city felt like it had shifted.
Amaiyla could feel eyes on her the moment she stepped out of the car. Not just security. Not just staff. The world itself had turned its head.
Cameras waited—already expecting her.
That alone told her something she didn't want to admit:
Her father had anticipated this. Or someone had.
Xander stepped out beside her, posture perfect, face unreadable. The public would see strength.
Amaiyla saw tension.
He wasn't afraid of the cameras.
He was afraid of what the cameras invited.
Tammy was there, standing off to the side like she belonged to the building's shadows. She wore a dark blazer and the calm expression of someone who didn't panic because she'd already accepted disaster as a tool.
She approached Amaiyla with a polite smile, the kind that looked harmless on the outside.
"Are you sure?" Tammy asked quietly.
Amaiyla's heartbeat thundered. "No."
Tammy's smile sharpened faintly. "Good. Certainty is for people who haven't paid for their choices yet."
Xander's gaze cut to Tammy. "What did you set up?"
Tammy met his eyes evenly. "A microphone."
Amaiyla blinked. "What?"
Tammy gestured subtly toward the small podium that hadn't been there last time Amaiyla saw photos of the Foundation entrance.
"Press thinks you're here for a charitable appearance," Tammy said. "Which is perfect."
Xander's voice dropped. "This is a trap."
Tammy replied calmly, "Everything is a trap. At least this one is yours."
Amaiyla stared at the steps leading up to the Foundation doors. There were people. Reporters. Analysts. Even a few well-dressed donors.
And security—too much security.
Xander noticed it too.
He leaned toward Amaiyla, voice low. "If anything feels off—"
Amaiyla cut him off gently. "You promised you wouldn't decide for me."
Xander's jaw tightened. "I promised I wouldn't control you. I didn't promise I'd watch you walk into a blade smiling."
Amaiyla's breath caught. "Then don't watch. Stand with me."
For half a second, something cracked in Xander's eyes.
Not love.
Not softness.
Something worse.
Something like devotion dressed as defiance.
He nodded once.
"Then I'm here," he said. "Right beside you."
Amaiyla stepped onto the first step.
Flash.
Flash.
Flash.
Someone shouted her name.
"Amaiyla! Is the engagement still on?" "Amaiyla, are you leaving Xander Reyes?" "Are you being pressured by your father?" "Did Connor Jackson threaten to expose something?"
That last question hit like a cold slap.
Amaiyla froze for half a beat.
Xander's gaze snapped toward the reporter—sharp, immediate.
Tammy's expression didn't change, but her eyes narrowed slightly.
So someone's already whispering.
Amaiyla inhaled slowly and continued up the steps.
At the podium, she placed her hands on either side like she could anchor herself there.
The noise softened—not because the crowd became respectful, but because they sensed something real was about to happen.
Amaiyla leaned into the microphone.
Her voice came out steadier than she felt.
"Good morning."
Flashes intensified.
Amaiyla continued, "I'm not here to perform today."
A murmur rippled.
"I'm not here to clarify headlines," she said. "And I'm not here to soothe investors."
Xander stood just behind her shoulder, a silent presence. Protective and restrained.
Amaiyla's gaze moved across the crowd.
"Some of you have been told I'm unstable," she said. "Some of you have been told I'm rebellious. Some of you have been told I'm a pawn."
More murmurs.
Amaiyla's voice lowered. "I'm none of those things."
She took a breath.
"I'm a person," she said. "And I'm done letting other people negotiate my life like a deal."
A reporter shouted, "Are you calling off the engagement?"
Amaiyla's heart slammed against her ribs.
This was the moment.
The one she couldn't undo.
She glanced slightly to her right.
Xander's eyes met hers—steady, no demand, no pressure.
Ask me instead.
Amaiyla turned back to the microphones.
"I'm not calling off anything today," she said clearly.
The room reacted—a wave of confusion and disappointment.
But Amaiyla didn't stop.
"I'm doing something harder," she continued. "I'm changing the conditions under which any engagement can exist."
The murmurs sharpened.
Amaiyla lifted a folder she hadn't even realized she'd been clutching until that second. Tammy's folder.
Legal paper.
Official stamps.
"Effective immediately," Amaiyla said, voice clear, "I have filed for an independent counsel and a protective order regarding coercion and surveillance connected to my personal life."
The crowd erupted.
"What?" "A protective order?" "Against who?" "Are you accusing your father?" "Are you accusing the Reyes family?"
Amaiyla held up one hand.
"I'm accusing anyone who believes my consent can be assumed," she said. "Anyone who believes fear is a contract."
She looked dead into the cameras.
"And anyone who believes they can threaten people I care about to control me."
The air turned electric.
Xander's posture shifted. He wasn't smiling.
He was bracing.
Because Amaiyla had just done what powerful families feared most:
She'd dragged private control into public law.
A reporter shouted, "Is Connor Jackson one of the people threatened?"
Amaiyla's throat tightened, but she didn't flinch.
"I will not name him," she said. "Because that's how leverage works. You drag people into light and pretend it's truth when it's actually punishment."
She paused.
"But I will say this: I will not be trained by threats."
The crowd reacted like she'd thrown a match into gasoline.
Amaiyla continued, voice strong now, "From this moment forward, any negotiation involving me will happen with my counsel present. Any attempt to isolate me, pressure me, or harm others to control me will be documented and made public."
Flashes. Voices. Chaos.
Amaiyla stepped back from the microphone, heart pounding, hands slightly trembling.
She had done it.
She had made the first move that couldn't be swallowed by wealth.
Tammy approached, calm as ever, and whispered into Amaiyla's ear, "Irreversible. Well done."
Xander leaned in on the other side, voice low.
"You just declared war on two families."
Amaiyla swallowed. "Good."
Xander's gaze searched her face. "Are you okay?"
Amaiyla laughed—sharp, breathless. "No. But I'm not quiet."
And then it happened.
A hush rippled through the crowd—not from Amaiyla's words this time.
But from movement.
A black car pulled up at the curb.
People recognized it like they recognized danger.
The door opened.
John Hollingsworth stepped out.
Not rushing. Not furious in public.
Just composed.
Smiling slightly.
As if he'd been expecting this exact moment.
Amaiyla's blood ran cold.
Xander's body went still, like a weapon being locked into place.
John walked toward the steps.
Cameras swung to him immediately.
He stopped at the bottom and looked up at Amaiyla like she was a child who'd spilled juice on a rug.
"My daughter," John said warmly into the open air. "Always dramatic."
Amaiyla felt rage rise, but she kept her posture steady.
John raised his hands slightly, a gesture of false humility.
"Before anyone misinterprets what they've just heard," he said, "I'd like to clarify: Amaiyla is under a great deal of stress."
Amaiyla's nails dug into her palm.
John continued, "She's been overwhelmed. And we, as her family, are committed to giving her the support she needs."
Support.
The word was poison.
Amaiyla leaned toward the microphone again, voice steady. "Support isn't control."
John's smile didn't move.
He lifted his gaze to Xander behind her.
"And you," John said mildly, "have made this worse."
Xander's voice was calm. "I made it visible."
John's eyes narrowed slightly.
He looked back at Amaiyla.
"You'll come home," John said softly, like an instruction wrapped in affection. "We'll talk privately."
Amaiyla shook her head. "No."
John's smile thinned.
"Darling," he said, voice still warm, "we don't do family business in front of strangers."
Amaiyla stepped forward, gaze locked with his.
"Then you shouldn't have turned me into business," she said.
The crowd went silent.
John's composure flickered—just for a breath.
Then he nodded slowly.
"Very well," he said quietly. "If you want public…"
His eyes swept the cameras.
"Let's be public."
Amaiyla's heart dropped.
Xander stepped closer to her, voice low and urgent. "He's about to retaliate."
Amaiyla whispered, "How?"
Xander's eyes darkened. "With something you can't undo."
John reached into his coat pocket.
And pulled out his phone.
He tapped once—deliberate, calm.
Amaiyla's own phone buzzed immediately.
A new alert.
A video upload—fresh, trending fast.
Title: AMAIYLA HOLLINGSWORTH—PRIVATE FOOTAGE
Amaiyla's blood turned to ice.
She didn't open it.
She didn't have to.
Because she saw Tammy's expression change for the first time.
Not fear.
Recognition.
Xander's voice dropped to something lethal.
"He had a camera in the townhouse."
Amaiyla's breath caught, lungs refusing to work.
John's smile returned, gentle as a knife.
"Come home," he said softly. "Or I let the world watch you learn what privacy costs."
Amaiyla stood frozen on the steps of the Foundation, the cameras now aimed at her like weapons.
And she realized the terrifying truth:
She'd made her first irreversible move.
But so had her father.
And his move was designed to break her in front of everyone.