The applause followed Amaiyla down the corridor like an echo she hadn't earned permission to escape.
It wasn't loud anymore—just fragments, murmurs, the kind of admiration that carried questions inside it. She kept her spine straight, her pace even, every step measured as if the floor might tilt if she rushed. Xander walked beside her, close enough to be felt, not close enough to claim.
That, somehow, was worse.
"You were composed," he said quietly once they turned the corner into a private hall. "That's what unsettled them."
"I wasn't trying to unsettle anyone," Amaiyla replied.
He glanced at her. "That's why it worked."
Tammy waited near the exit, phone already in hand, eyes flicking between screens and faces with seamless ease. She didn't smile.
"Your father left early," Tammy said. "So did three donors who never leave early. And Connor—" she paused "—Connor stayed until the end. That matters."
Amaiyla's chest tightened. "In what way?"
Tammy's gaze sharpened. "It means he's deciding whether to burn something down or bargain for it."
Xander stopped walking.
"Which one?" he asked.
Tammy shrugged. "That depends on how desperate he feels."
Amaiyla swallowed. "He's not my enemy."
"No," Tammy agreed softly. "But he's not your ally anymore, either."
The drive back to the estate passed in strained quiet. Paris glimmered beyond the windows—beautiful, indifferent, entirely unaware of the fractures widening behind tinted glass.
When they arrived, Amaiyla went straight to the terrace, needing air, needing distance from walls that felt suddenly too aware of her.
Xander followed minutes later.
"You didn't have to," she said without turning.
"I know," he replied. "But I wanted to."
She folded her arms, staring out over the city lights. "You stepped in with Connor."
"He was escalating."
"So were you."
Xander didn't deny it. "Yes."
Amaiyla finally turned to face him. "You didn't ask me."
"I didn't want him cornering you in public."
"And I didn't want to be shielded like a liability," she shot back.
Something flickered across his expression—not anger. Frustration edged with restraint.
"I'm learning," he said. "You're not fragile. But you are exposed."
She laughed once, bitter. "Welcome to my life."
Silence stretched between them, charged but not hostile.
Xander broke it. "Your father will respond."
"How?"
"Indirectly. He won't confront you—not yet. He'll test your support structure."
Amaiyla frowned. "Meaning?"
"Meaning Connor. Meaning your board. Meaning me."
She exhaled. "You make it sound like chess."
"It is," Xander said quietly. "And you just moved your queen."
Amaiyla shook her head. "I didn't do this to win."
"No," he agreed. "You did it to stop running."
That landed harder than anything else he'd said.
Connor sat alone in his hotel room long after the forum ended.
The city lights reflected off the glass like fractured stars, mocking in their beauty. He replayed Amaiyla's speech again and again—not the words, but the way she'd stood. The certainty. The distance.
She hadn't looked at him.
That was the wound.
His phone buzzed.
John Hollingsworth.
Connor hesitated before answering.
"Connor," John said calmly. "I trust you saw tonight's… performance."
Connor's voice was hoarse. "You let her do that."
John sighed. "I didn't stop her."
"That's not the same thing."
"No," John agreed. "It isn't."
Connor's grip tightened. "She's being influenced."
"By whom?" John asked.
Connor hesitated.
John continued, "You should ask yourself why you feel replaced rather than relieved."
Connor laughed bitterly. "You think this is about ego?"
"I think," John said, voice smooth, "that you're frightened she no longer needs you to mediate her world."
Connor closed his eyes. "She doesn't belong to Reyes."
"She doesn't belong to you either," John replied evenly.
Connor opened his mouth, then stopped.
John pressed gently, "If you truly want to protect her, Connor, you should consider what you're willing to sacrifice."
Connor's jaw clenched. "What are you suggesting?"
"I'm suggesting," John said, "that alliances can be… renegotiated."
The call ended.
Connor stared at the dark screen.
Renegotiated.
He knew what that meant.
Back at the estate, Tammy worked quietly.
She rerouted schedules, delayed confirmations, softened language in three emails that could have hardened into ultimatums. When Amaiyla entered the study, Tammy didn't look up.
"You're becoming a variable," Tammy said casually.
Amaiyla frowned. "That sounds ominous."
"It's a compliment," Tammy replied. "Systems fear variables. People who can't be predicted."
Amaiyla leaned against the doorframe. "My father predicted me just fine for years."
"And now he can't," Tammy said. "That's why he'll test your resolve."
"Through Connor," Amaiyla murmured.
"Yes."
Amaiyla hesitated. "Do you think he'd hurt him?"
Tammy finally looked up. "I think your father believes pain clarifies priorities."
Amaiyla's stomach turned. "That's not protection."
"No," Tammy agreed. "It's leverage."
Xander appeared in the doorway then, presence filling the room without effort.
"We need to assume Connor will act," he said. "Soon."
Amaiyla's voice was quiet. "He's not cruel."
Xander's expression softened just a fraction. "No. But he's cornered. That's worse."
Tammy stood. "I'll monitor communications."
She paused at the door. "Amaiyla—whatever happens next, remember this: you spoke first. That matters."
When Tammy left, silence settled.
Amaiyla turned to Xander. "You're angry."
"No," he said. "I'm… alert."
"That's not the same."
He met her gaze. "I'm angry at the timing. At the risk."
"Not at me?"
A beat.
"No," he said quietly. "Not at you."
Her chest tightened. "Then what are you feeling?"
Xander hesitated—just long enough to be honest.
"Concern," he said. "Because you're no longer invisible."
Amaiyla smiled faintly. "Neither are you."
The next morning brought headlines.
Not accusations—yet. Just language. Emerging voice.A shift in legacy.Hollingsworth heir defines her own terms.
John read them over breakfast, expression unreadable.
"Too soon," he murmured.
His phone rang.
Connor again.
"Tell me you have a plan," Connor said without preamble.
John sipped his coffee. "I do."
Connor's voice tightened. "Because she's slipping away."
"She's asserting herself," John corrected. "There's a difference."
Connor's patience snapped. "You pushed her into this!"
"And you benefited from that push," John replied calmly.
Silence.
John continued, "If you want to remain relevant in her life, Connor, you'll need to decide whether you're willing to stand where she stands."
Connor's voice was low. "And if I can't?"
"Then you'll be standing against her," John said. "And that would be… unfortunate."
The line went dead.
Connor stared at the wall.
He knew then: there were only two ways forward.
Submission.
Or sabotage.
That night, Amaiyla couldn't sleep.
She found Xander in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, staring into nothing.
"You're awake," she said.
"So are you."
She poured herself water, hands steady despite the storm in her chest.
"Connor spoke to my father," she said.
Xander nodded. "I assumed."
"What aren't you telling me?"
Xander looked at her then—really looked.
"That your father doesn't intend to lose," he said. "And Connor doesn't intend to disappear."
Amaiyla swallowed. "And you?"
"I intend to keep you from being traded between them."
She stepped closer. "That sounds like ownership."
"No," he replied. "That sounds like refusal."
She studied him. "You could walk away."
"Yes," he said. "I could."
"But you won't."
"No," he said again. "I won't."
The admission hung between them, heavy and undeniable.
Amaiyla felt the ground shift—not under her feet, but inside her chest.
"Then we're standing on a fault line," she said softly.
Xander's voice was calm. "Fault lines reshape landscapes."
Outside, Paris pulsed—alive, indifferent, waiting.
And somewhere across the city, decisions were being made that would fracture everything that followed.