The doors opened to noise.
Flashbulbs detonated like gunfire, white-hot and relentless, the sound sharp enough to make Amaiyla flinch even though she'd been bracing for it. Voices layered over one another—questions, accusations, names shouted with practiced urgency.
"Amaiyla—over here!"
"Is it true you're filing against your father?"
"Mr. Reyes, are you coercing her?"
The rain had stopped, but the air felt soaked anyway—heavy, electric, alive with hunger.
John Hollingsworth stood just beyond the first row of cameras.
Not rushing. Not shouting.
Waiting.
He wore a dark coat tailored to perfection, his expression carefully composed into something that might pass for concern if you didn't know him. He didn't move until Amaiyla stepped fully into view.
Then he smiled.
It was the smile that had raised her. The one that said I already know how this ends.
"Amaiyla," he said calmly, projecting just enough for the microphones to catch. "You look… distressed."
Her spine stiffened.
Xander shifted beside her—close now, unmistakably present. Not shielding her. Not touching her.
Standing with her.
Tammy hovered a step back, eyes tracking everything—angles, faces, movement.
John's gaze flicked to Xander, then back to Amaiyla.
"This doesn't have to be done like this," John continued, voice smooth. "If you're confused, if you're frightened, we can talk privately."
Amaiyla felt the old reflex twitch—the instinct to smooth, to appease, to step back into the role he'd written for her.
She didn't.
"No," she said.
It wasn't loud.
But it landed.
John's smile tightened just slightly. "Amaiyla—"
"You don't get to reframe this," she said, louder now, steady despite the tremor in her chest. "Not anymore."
The reporters surged closer.
John sighed, the sound carefully curated for sympathy. "My daughter is under extraordinary pressure," he said to the crowd. "I believe certain individuals have taken advantage of that."
Xander's jaw flexed.
Amaiyla turned to the cameras instead.
"I filed today," she said. "Because my private life was used against me without consent. Because silence has been mistaken for obedience for too long."
A ripple moved through the press.
John's eyes sharpened. "You're making accusations you don't fully understand."
"I understand them perfectly," Amaiyla replied. "I lived them."
John stepped closer, lowering his voice as if to spare her. "You're emotional. That happens when people manipulate you."
Xander moved.
Not aggressively. Not dramatically.
He simply stepped forward until he stood shoulder to shoulder with Amaiyla, his presence undeniable.
"That's enough," Xander said calmly.
John finally looked directly at him. "This is a family matter."
Xander's gaze didn't waver. "Then stop weaponizing her in public."
The cameras drank it in.
John's smile faded completely.
"You should be careful," John said quietly. "You're already… compromised."
Xander tilted his head. "Funny. That's what men say when they're losing control."
A murmur rippled through the crowd.
John turned back to Amaiyla, eyes sharp now, no longer pretending. "You're making a mistake."
Amaiyla's pulse roared in her ears.
"Maybe," she said. "But it's mine."
For a split second, something ugly flashed across John's face.
Then it vanished.
He nodded once, slow and deliberate. "Very well," he said. "If this is how you want it."
He turned to the cameras.
"I love my daughter," John announced. "And I will do whatever it takes to bring her home safely."
Tammy muttered under her breath, "There it is."
Xander leaned in slightly, his voice low enough only Amaiyla could hear. "We leave. Now."
Amaiyla nodded.
They moved together through the chaos, Tammy clearing a path with sharp words and sharper elbows. The car door slammed shut behind them, cutting off the noise like a severed wire.
Inside the car, silence crashed down hard.
Amaiyla's hands were shaking now that there was no audience to perform for.
She pressed them together, breathing shallow.
"That went exactly how he wanted," she said hoarsely.
Tammy shook her head. "No. It went exactly how you needed."
Amaiyla looked at her. "He's going to escalate."
"Yes," Tammy agreed. "And now we can prove it."
Xander stared out the window, jaw tight, something dark and furious coiled just beneath his calm.
"I just defied him publicly," Amaiyla said, voice barely above a whisper. "There's no going back."
Xander turned to her.
"No," he said quietly. "There isn't."
The car pulled away.
That night, the estate felt different.
Not safer.
Not calmer.
Sharper.
Amaiyla stood on the balcony, the lights of Paris blurred below, her phone buzzing endlessly on the table behind her. Messages she hadn't opened. Numbers she didn't recognize.
Xander stood inside, jacket discarded, sleeves rolled up, pacing once—twice—before stopping himself.
"You should sleep," he said finally.
Amaiyla laughed softly. "Do you really think I can?"
He hesitated, then stepped onto the balcony with her.
The city hummed below them—alive, uncaring.
"You did something irreversible today," Xander said.
"I know."
"You made yourself a public problem."
She turned to him. "You say that like it's a bad thing."
His gaze held hers. "It's a dangerous thing."
Amaiyla searched his face. "Then why do you look like you're… proud?"
Xander didn't answer immediately.
Because the truth hovered between them, heavy and unspoken.
He had watched her stand in front of cameras and refuse to bend.
Watched her choose herself knowing the cost.
And something inside him had shifted.
"You surprised me," he said finally.
"That's not an answer."
A muscle jumped in his jaw. "It's the only one I have."
Her phone buzzed again.
Amaiyla glanced at the screen.
Connor.
Her stomach twisted.
Xander noticed immediately. "You don't have to—"
"I do," she said quietly.
She stepped away, answering before she could change her mind.
"Connor."
There was a pause. Then his voice—tight, controlled, brittle.
"You didn't tell me," he said.
"I was going to," she replied. "I just—"
"I saw the footage," Connor cut in. "And then I saw the press."
Guilt burned sharp and sudden. "I'm sorry."
Silence stretched.
"You filed against your father," Connor said finally.
"Yes."
"And you did it with him."
Amaiyla closed her eyes. "It wasn't like that."
Connor laughed once, humorless. "It never is."
She turned back toward the balcony railing, gripping it hard. "Connor, I'm trying to survive."
"So am I," he shot back. "And every move you make makes that harder."
Her chest tightened. "I didn't ask for this."
"No," Connor said. "But you chose it."
Amaiyla swallowed. "I chose not to be owned."
Another pause.
Then, softer—dangerously so.
"Do you know what your father will do next?" Connor asked.
Her pulse spiked. "What do you mean?"
"He doesn't lose quietly," Connor said. "And he doesn't forgive defiance."
Amaiyla's voice trembled. "Are you threatening me?"
"No," Connor replied. "I'm warning you."
She glanced back through the glass at Xander, who stood frozen, watching her without listening.
"What aren't you telling me?" she asked Connor.
Connor exhaled slowly. "Nothing. Yet."
The call ended.
Amaiyla lowered the phone, hands shaking.
Xander stepped closer immediately. "What did he say?"
"That my father won't stop," she said quietly.
Xander's expression hardened. "He's right."
Amaiyla looked up at him. "You're not even going to sugarcoat it?"
"No," Xander said. "Because now is when things get ugly."
Her voice cracked. "I don't know how to do this."
He hesitated.
Then he did something unexpected.
He reached out—not to hold her, not to pull her close—but to take her hand.
Just her hand.
Firm. Steady.
"You don't have to know," he said. "You just have to keep choosing."
She stared at their joined hands.
"And if my choices get people hurt?" she whispered.
Xander's voice dropped. "Then I take responsibility for the fallout."
Her breath caught. "That's not fair."
"I didn't say it was," he replied. "I said it was mine."
Something in her chest broke open.
"You keep doing that," she murmured.
"Doing what?"
"Standing where the consequences are."
Xander met her gaze, something raw flickering there before he could hide it. "That's what leadership is."
The words hung between them.
Dangerous.
Intimate.
Amaiyla's pulse raced. "You're not supposed to care this much."
Xander's thumb tightened slightly around her fingers.
"Neither are you," he said quietly. "And yet here we are."
The air shifted.
Charged.
Heavy.
Amaiyla felt it—the pull, the gravity, the truth they were both trying not to name.
She stepped closer without thinking.
"So what happens now?" she asked.
Xander didn't look away. "Now your father tests every boundary."
"And us?"
His gaze dropped to her lips—just for a second.
"Now," he said, voice rougher than before, "we decide if we're strong enough to hold under pressure."
Amaiyla's heart hammered.
"Together?" she asked softly.
Xander hesitated.
Just long enough for her to feel it.
Then—
"Yes."
The word landed like a promise neither of them fully understood yet.
Behind them, in another city, another building, John Hollingsworth watched the footage again—Amaiyla's steady voice, Xander's defiance, the cameras catching everything he hadn't planned for.
His jaw tightened.
"So," he murmured to himself. "You want war."
He reached for his phone.
And dialed a number Amaiyla didn't know he still had.