The ride home was quiet.
Not the awkward kind.
The dangerous kind.
Aria sat in the backseat, one leg folded under the other, sunglasses still on even though the sun was setting. Her shopping bags took up the third seat like a chaperone. Jaxon sat beside her—because of course he did. He didn't ask. He didn't wait for permission. He just got in.
She hated how close he sat without looking her. How calm he seemed when she wasn't. How silence wasn't uncomfortable for him.
"You know," she said eventually, "most people get tired of me by hour two."
"I've been here longer."
"Right," she muttered. "Like a parasite."
He turned his head. "Parasites take. I haven't taken anything."
"Not yet," she said, eyes still on the window. "But the night's young."
He didn't respond. And for some reason, that felt worse than if he had.
***
When they reached the estate, she didn't wait for him. Just stalked through the front doors, boots echoing across polished floors. Her father wasn't home—he rarely was at this hour—but the house felt like it was watching her anyway.
She passed the security station, the silent maids, the art-dealer-approved walls. Everything pristine. Untouched. Controlled.
Until she hit the stairs.
She climbed two at a time.
She didn't invite Jaxon up.
But when she paused halfway to her room and looked back, there he was. At the base of the stairs. Hands in his pockets. Looking up at her like a man watching a fuse burn.
"I'm not going to run off in the middle of the night, if that's what you're waiting for."
He didn't move. "I know."
"Then why are you still watching?"
A pause.
Then: "Because you're worth watching."
She didn't answer.
Just turned and walked the rest of the way up.
***
Her room was too quiet. She yanked off her boots, threw her phone on the bed, and sat at her vanity, elbows on the marble, chin in her hands.
She stared at her reflection.
The girl in the mirror looked perfect. Glossy hair, perfect lashes, a necklace that cost more than a car. She looked expensive.
She didn't look like someone who could cry.
Aria blinked. Once. Twice.
No tears.
Good.
***
She didn't sleep. Not really.
She lay awake, scrolling through photos of the day on her phone—most of them taken by strangers. She hated how she looked in them. Too bored. Too fierce. Too fake. Her smile didn't reach her eyes in any of them.
The only photo she paused on was a blurry shot from campus.
Her, walking slightly ahead.
Jaxon behind her.
Someone had captioned it: Power walk or power play?
She didn't know which.
She zoomed in on his face. He wasn't even looking at the camera. Just slightly turned, eyes scanning the crowd. Completely unaware. Completely in control.
She closed the app.
And stared at the ceiling.
***
The next morning, she found him in the garden.
Of all places.
She stood in the doorway in a sleep shirt and coffee she hadn't finished, watching as he calmly ran through some kind of martial arts form—controlled, fluid, utterly focused.
It was almost too much.
She cleared her throat.
He didn't stop.
She waited.
Only when he finished the sequence did he turn.
"Morning," he said, barely winded.
"You don't sleep, do you?"
"Not when I'm working."
"And this is work?"
He wiped his hands on a towel, met her gaze.
"Everything is."
She took a sip of her coffee and nodded slowly.
"Then let's give you something to work on."
He raised an eyebrow.
"I'm going to the charity event tonight," she said. "It'll be awful. Wear something that makes girls cry and men insecure."
He smiled. Just slightly.
"Any rules?"
"Don't touch me," she said. "And don't disappear."
A pause.
Then, coolly: "Unless I want you to."
Evening came dressed in gold and white.
The Langford charity event was a ritual—overdressed, overfunded, and underhuman. Every year, it pretended to raise money for something noble while secretly serving as a showroom for power: which families were thriving, which alliances were weakening, who looked most photogenic standing near a cause they didn't care about.
Aria hated it.
But she showed up every year. In heels, in silence, in style.
And tonight would be no different.
Except this time, Jaxon would be there.
Which, of course, ruined everything.
Her dress was slate gray silk with a slit high enough to make her father's PR rep sweat. She paired it with diamonds she didn't buy and a lipstick shade called Revenge. Her hair was pulled back in a sleek, twisted bun she hadn't planned, but something about the tightness of it made her feel braced. Ready.
In control.
Or at least pretending to be.
She came down the stairs slowly this time.
Not because she wanted to be seen.
Because she wanted him to see.
Jaxon was by the entry hall, already in a black-on-black suit with a crisp white shirt and no tie. Tailored. Serious. Lethal.
She caught him mid-conversation with one of her father's assistants, two security guards but his eyes lifted the second her heels touched polished stone.
He looked at her.
Not like the boys at school. Not like the photographers. Not even like the men at the gala would.
Jaxon looked at her like he already knew how she'd break a man's heart—and was still considering stepping closer anyway.
She cleared her throat. "You're overdressed."
"You said to make men insecure."
She raised a brow. "You listen better than most."
"I don't listen to most."
She descended the last step and held out a hand. "Let's get this over with."
Jaxon didn't take her hand.
But he fell in step beside her without missing a beat.
***
The car ride was quiet again.
But not empty.
The space between them pulsed. Words unsaid stacked like cards waiting to be played.
She leaned her head against the tinted window, watching the blur of the city pass.
"Don't talk to anyone unless I tell you to," she said. "Don't correct anything I say. Don't look too interested. And definitely don't smirk at anyone I hate."
"That's a long list."
"You're observant. You'll manage."
"Anything else?"
She hesitated.
"Don't make me look small."
He turned his head toward her. "You never look small."
It wasn't flattery. It was fact.
And that was worse.
She shifted in her seat. "You're going to make this night complicated, aren't you?"
"I'm just standing where I'm told."
"That's a lie."
He didn't deny it.
***
The Event was already buzzing when they arrived.
Gold chandeliers, string quartet, champagne pyramids—the works.
The moment Aria stepped inside, cameras angled. Heads turned.
Then they saw Jaxon behind her.
And turned again.
Whispers chased them through the room like static.
"Is that her new boyfriend?"
"Security? That can't be security."
"He looks like sin in a suit."
"I'd fake a threat just to have him follow me home."
Aria pretended not to hear. Jaxon actually didn't react.
He was behind her. To her left. Always near, but never close enough to cast a shadow.
Someone handed her a glass of wine. She sipped. Smiled. Played her part.
He stayed silent.
Until she leaned back slightly and said, "They're going to think we're sleeping together."
"Would that be a problem?"
She turned her head sharply. "Wouldn't it be for you?"
He met her eyes. "Only if it was a lie."
She nearly choked on the wine.
Instead, she downed the rest of the glass and handed it off to a passing server.
An hour in, she escaped to the outdoor terrace, heels clicking on cold marble.
She leaned against the stone ledge and stared out at the garden lit by tiny fairy lights and the weight of money.
Jaxon followed, but slower.
Gave her space.
She hated that too.
"I'm not this person, you know," she said, voice quiet but not soft. "This polite little dress-up doll. I hate these people. I hate pretending."
"You're not pretending."
She laughed. "You don't know anything about me."
"I know you haven't stopped watching your reflection in the windows all night. Not because you're vain. Because you're afraid someone else might be watching it for you."
She turned, slow and sharp.
"That's the second time today you've called me out."
"No. The first time I warned you."
She stepped toward him.
Two feet away. No more.
"I don't need saving," she said.
"I never said you did."
She tilted her head. "Then what are you doing here, Jaxon?"
He didn't answer at first.
Just took a step closer.
Not enough to touch. But enough for her to feel it.
"The question isn't what I'm doing here," he said, low. "It's why you haven't asked me to leave."
Silence.
Tense. Electric.
Her breath caught.
Then—
"I will," she whispered.
But she didn't move.
And neither did he.