The academy didn't call it a trip.
It called it a cultural excursion.
A reward for "excellent adjustment." A structured opportunity to experience the world beyond the mountains in a way that still kept us contained. Our itinerary was printed, color-coded, and approved by people who smiled too much when they said the word freedom.
Paris. One night. Two chaperones. Curfew in bold letters like a threat.
I should've been excited.
Instead, my stomach felt tight the entire train ride, as if my body knew something my mind hadn't admitted yet.
That the world was smaller than I wanted it to be.
And that Aras Atalyas had never truly left it.
I sat by the window as the countryside blurred past, watching fields turn into buildings, snow-dusted hills giving way to city edges. Girls around me giggled and compared outfits and took photos like nothing could touch them.
I didn't join in.
Not because I was above it.
Because the second I let myself relax, something always rose up in my chest—an ache, sharp and unwanted, with Aras's name stitched through it.
I pressed my forehead lightly to the glass and breathed.
Don't look for him.
That was the first rule I made for myself.
The second was simpler.
If you see him, don't break.
We arrived late afternoon, Paris soaked in pale winter light. The air smelled like cold stone and roasted chestnuts, like a city that had never needed permission to be beautiful.
The academy herded us like a polite flock through the streets toward the museum visit, then the pre-approved dinner reservation. Every stop felt staged.
I'd barely touched my food during lunch, but by the time we reached the restaurant, hunger wasn't what made my hands unsteady.
It was the feeling.
That faint pull in my ribs, like a thread tightening.
I tried to ignore it.
I told myself it was nerves, or anger, or the strange excitement of being in Paris.
But when the host led us through the dining room, my gaze flicked up instinctively.
And landed on him.
Aras sat near the back, one arm resting on the table, the other draped casually along the chair like he owned the space without trying. He wore black, of course—tailored, sharp, effortless. His jaw was tense in that familiar way that meant he was controlling too much at once.
He wasn't alone.
A woman sat across from him, laughing softly.
Her hair caught the light like it belonged in it. She leaned forward as she spoke, confidence in her posture, fingers wrapped around her glass like she'd done this kind of dinner with this kind of man before.
My first thought wasn't jealousy.
It was something colder.
So this is what he meant by protection.
I stopped walking.
Not dramatically. Not enough for anyone to notice. Just enough that the girl behind me bumped my shoulder.
"Sorry," she whispered.
I didn't answer.
Because Aras looked up.
And the entire room shifted.
The narrator will tell you later that some people don't need to touch to cause damage. Some people just look at you, and suddenly you remember every version of yourself that existed before the pain.
Aras's gaze locked on mine like a hand around my throat.
His expression didn't change.
But I knew him.
I saw the microscopic flare in his eyes. The brief stillness in his shoulders. The way the air around him seemed to tighten as if he'd forgotten how to breathe.
He stood.
Not fast.
Controlled.
Like instinct had tried to move him and he'd forced it into something deliberate.
"Naiya," he said, voice low.
The woman across from him turned, curiosity sharpening her features as she followed his line of sight.
And then her eyes landed on me.
Assessing. Measuring.
I did not look away.
I didn't smile either.
"You exist," I said calmly, because if I let my anger rise too quickly, it would show the part of me he still had access to.
Aras's mouth tightened slightly. "You're not supposed to be here."
That was the first thing he said.
Not I missed you.Not I'm sorry.Not Are you okay?
Just control.
I let out a breath that sounded almost like a laugh. "And you're still deciding what I'm supposed to do."
His gaze flicked briefly to the girls clustered behind me, to the chaperones near the front, then back to me. He was calculating in real time.
The woman across from him stood too, slow and elegant. "Aras?" she asked lightly. "Who is this?"
Aras didn't look at her when he answered. His eyes stayed on mine.
"Naiya," he repeated, as if that was explanation enough.
It wasn't.
But something in the way he said my name—quiet, weighted—made my chest pinch anyway.
I hated that.
I hated him for still having that effect.
A chaperone called my name from the front. "Miss Hollingsworth?"
I forced my body to move again, stepping closer to Aras's table like I wasn't walking toward a storm I'd been trying to outrun for months.
"I have curfew," I said, glancing at my watch. "So speak fast. If you have anything worth saying."
His jaw flexed.
"You shouldn't talk to me here," he murmured.
"Then why are you standing?" I shot back.
The woman—beautiful, dangerous—watched us like entertainment she hadn't expected.
Aras finally glanced at her. "Give me a minute."
She raised an eyebrow. "I don't like being dismissed."
"I'm not dismissing you," he said, voice cool. "I'm handling something."
Something.
I almost smiled.
He still couldn't say what I was.
Aras turned back to me. "Come outside."
"No," I said immediately. "I'm not following you anywhere like a fool."
His eyes darkened. "Naiya."
I stepped closer anyway—close enough that I could smell him. Clean, expensive, familiar.
"Say it," I whispered, because if he wanted control, I wanted truth. "Say why you left."
His gaze dropped for half a second, then lifted again, sharpened into restraint. "Not here."
"Then never," I snapped softly. "Because I'm done with your half-truths."
His voice lowered. "I left because I love you."
The words hit so hard I almost forgot to breathe.
They were quiet. Controlled. Like a confession forced through clenched teeth.
And still—still—my chest ached like it had been starving.
I swallowed, refusing to let him see what it did to me.
"That's not love," I whispered. "Love doesn't disappear and call it protection."
His eyes flicked over my face, searching. "You don't understand what my father—"
"I don't care about your father," I cut in, a crack in my voice despite my efforts. "I care that you left me alone in a place designed to erase people."
He stilled.
For a moment, he looked like he might reach for me.
He didn't.
Instead, he did the thing he always did when emotion got too close.
He turned it into strategy.
"After dinner," he said, voice firm. "I'll be at the Hôtel Valmont."
My stomach dropped. Luxury. Of course.
"I'm not coming," I said automatically.
He stepped closer, lowering his voice even more. "You will if you want answers."
I stared at him.
Then—because I hated that he was right, hated that my curiosity was a hook in my ribs—I whispered, "You better not lie to me again."
His gaze held mine, intense and steady. "I won't."
Across the table, the woman cleared her throat.
Aras didn't look away from me when he spoke to her. "I have to go."
Her voice stayed sweet. "Because of her?"
His jaw tightened. "Because of me."
She watched him like she didn't believe that.
And maybe she shouldn't.
I returned to my group like nothing had happened.
My hands were cold. My heart wasn't.
Every step back toward the academy's approved life felt like walking away from the only thing that had ever made me feel alive and furious at the same time.
That night, when curfew came, I didn't go back to the hotel with the girls.
I told the chaperone I had a stomach ache.
She frowned, but I'd perfected the look of harmless compliance.
She let me stay behind in the lobby.
The second she turned away, I slipped out.
Paris swallowed me immediately—lights, laughter, streets alive with people who didn't need permission to exist.
I hailed a car with shaking hands and gave the driver the address Aras had spoken like it was a command.
The Hôtel Valmont gleamed when I arrived—glass, gold, velvet.
It felt like stepping into his world.
A place where everything looked soft and still hurt.
The elevator ride to his floor felt endless.
When the doors opened, he was already waiting.
Leaning against the wall like he'd been there the whole time.
Like he'd known I would come.
"You came," he said quietly.
I kept my face blank. "For answers."
He nodded once. "Good."
My throat tightened. "And her? The woman at dinner?"
Something dark flickered in his eyes. "She's nothing."
I laughed, bitter. "Funny. You didn't look like a man with nothing."
He stepped closer, voice low. "I looked like a man who made a mistake inviting her to dinner when I knew you were still under my skin."
My breath caught.
I hated him.
I wanted him.
I wanted to slap him and kiss him and shake him until he stopped using distance as a weapon.
"Don't," I whispered.
"Don't what?" he asked softly.
"Don't say things like that," I said, voice shaking despite me. "Because I can't afford to believe you."
He stared at me for a long moment, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper.
He held it out.
"What is that?" I asked, suspicious.
"Your father's conditions," he said flatly. "The reason you're in Switzerland."
My blood went cold.
I took it with shaking hands, reading quickly.
Terms. Requirements. Threats disguised as opportunity.
And one line, underlined in red:
NO CONTACT WITH ARAS ATALYAS. IMMEDIATE REMOVAL IF VIOLATED.
I looked up slowly.
Aras's gaze was unreadable. "He didn't send you away because of school," he said quietly. "He sent you away because of me."
My chest tightened painfully.
"I didn't know," I whispered.
"I did," he said. "And I still—"
"You still left," I snapped, voice cracking. "You still didn't fight."
His jaw tightened. "I fought in the only way that wouldn't get you hurt."
"By letting me rot?" My eyes burned. "By letting me think you didn't care?"
He stepped closer until I could feel the heat of him. "I cared too much."
I shook my head, tears threatening but not falling. "I hate you."
His voice dropped. "Then hate me. But don't pretend you don't feel it too."
The air between us turned electric.
My pulse hammered.
I couldn't breathe.
"You don't get to touch me," I whispered, though I didn't move away.
"I won't," he said, voice rough. "Not unless you ask."
Silence.
Then my voice, barely there: "And if I ask?"
His gaze held mine—too intense, too honest. "Then I won't be able to stop."
I swallowed hard.
I should have turned around.
I should have walked away.
But months of silence had turned into something sharp and hungry, and I was so tired of being controlled.
So tired of being good.
I stepped closer.
Not touching.
Just close enough that our breaths mixed.
"Ask me," he murmured, voice low.
My hands trembled at my sides.
I didn't know if I was asking for answers.
Or for him.
He didn't pull me into him.
He waited.
That was the cruelest part.
Because waiting meant choice.
And choice meant responsibility.
I lifted my chin, heart pounding like it was trying to warn me.
"Tell me the truth," I whispered.
His eyes darkened. "Which truth?"
"All of it," I said.
He exhaled slowly, like the truth hurt to carry.
"Then sit," he said quietly. "And don't interrupt."
I didn't sit.
I stayed standing, too full of adrenaline.
He looked at me a moment longer—then nodded once.
"Fine," he said. "Then listen."
And that's how the night truly began.
Not with touch.
With truth.
With proximity that felt like a decision.
With the first crack in the silence we'd both been hiding behind.