The terrace was colder than she expected.
Or maybe it was her blood cooling. Aria didn't know. She stood there long after she said "I will," and didn't move. Neither did he. Not forward. Not back. Just there. Like a question waiting to be answered.
She hated questions she didn't control.
With a breath she refused to call shaky, she finally turned and walked back inside.
---
The ballroom was louder now.
Louder and drunker.
Her father was still talking business with politicians in suits too shiny to trust. Someone was bidding a stupid amount of money on a bottle of scotch. Cameras flashed. People laughed too hard.
She reentered the chaos and smiled like she hadn't just threatened to fall apart outside.
Jaxon slipped behind her. Always near. Always silent.
And for a few minutes, it worked.
Until he appeared.
Tristan Vale.
Of course.
Slick black tux. Greedy smile. Banking heir with a reputation for "accidental" leaks and strategic scandals. He looked like every boarding school she'd ever been expelled from wrapped in one smug package.
"Aria," he said, glass in hand. "Didn't expect you to show. You clean up... viciously."
She smiled with teeth. "Still talking like you swallowed a mirror?"
Tristan leaned in slightly. "You look tense. Let me guess—the press finally got to you?"
Before she could answer, his eyes slid to Jaxon.
Then back to her.
"Oh. That's why you're glowing," he said, smirking. "Your new security detail comes with abs and death-stares."
"Walk away, Tristan," she said coolly.
"Why? Scared he'll break me in half?" Tristan took a sip. "Actually... that'd be kind of hot."
Jaxon didn't move.
But Aria saw the subtle shift. The way his eyes flicked up. Calculated. Cold.
"Last chance," she said.
Tristan grinned and leaned closer.
Jaxon stepped forward.
Not fast. Not loud.
Just a single step.
It was enough.
Tristan's face twitched. He laughed it off, tossed the rest of his drink in a planter, and strolled away with the confidence of a man who didn't understand how close he'd just come to bleeding on a ballroom floor.
---
"You didn't have to do anything," Aria muttered after a beat.
Jaxon replied, calm and low, "I didn't."
She turned toward him, still rattled. "You have this... thing. This presence. Like you're always one blink from violence."
He said nothing.
"That wasn't a compliment."
"I know."
She studied him.
"You scare people."
"I know."
"Why not me?"
He tilted his head. "Maybe you're smarter than them."
Or maybe she wasn't. Maybe she was just so used to danger, it didn't register anymore unless it was quiet.
---
Later, she escaped again.
This time to the second-floor lounge—smaller, darker, mostly empty. A single couch, a wall of books no one read, and a private bar only a handful of guests knew about.
She poured herself something amber and strong. Kicked off her heels. Curled up on the couch like it belonged to her.
She didn't expect Jaxon to find her.
But he did.
And when he stepped in, closed the door behind him, and looked at her like that again—like the storm she was trying to outrun—she didn't tell him to leave.
"You followed me," she said.
"You left your shadow behind."
"I didn't ask you to come."
"I don't need to be asked."
She raised the glass to her lips. "You always this charming?"
"No. Only when I want to be."
She sipped. Then smirked. "So this is you at your worst?"
"This is me holding back."
A beat.
Then: "Don't."
He moved closer. One step. Then two.
She watched him like a dare.
"I mean it," she whispered.
"I know."
He stopped right in front of her.
Close enough to touch.
Close enough to burn.
But he didn't.
And that? That made it worse.
"You're messing with my head," she said, low and raw.
"You've been in mine since the day I saw you on the headlines."
Silence.
Not soft. Not romantic.
Something more dangerous.
Then he turned.
And walked back out without another word.
Leaving her in a room too full of heat and things she couldn't name.
Aria stayed on the couch long after he left.
She hated how the room still felt like him.
Still. Controlled. Pressurized.
She sipped the rest of her drink slowly, letting the burn sit heavy in her chest. It was the only heat she could stand without flinching. The quiet crept in, and with it came thoughts she didn't want to entertain.
Why didn't you tell him to leave sooner?
Why didn't you want him to?
***
Half an hour later, she returned to the ballroom.
Her heels were back on. Her face fixed. Her walls, freshly painted and bulletproof.
But the noise felt louder this time. The lights sharper. The stares more invasive.
One woman whispered too loudly to her friend as Aria passed:
"She's always so icy. Probably because she knows she'll never be wife material."
Aria smiled sweetly and stepped on the woman's gown as she walked by.
It tore. Not much. Just enough to ruin her evening.
Jaxon appeared by her side seconds later. As if summoned by rage.
"You handled that maturely," he said dryly.
"She's lucky I didn't choke her with her pearls."
"You have a lot of enemies."
"No," she said, sipping fresh champagne. "They're just scared I'm better and younger than them."
He glanced at her then. Really looked. "You are."
The words came so fast. So simple.
They caught her off guard.
She turned her head. "You're not paid to say things like that."
"I'm not paid to lie either."
Later that night, someone cornered her at the bar.
An ex-friend. Olivia.
Once a private school ally. Now a corporate pawn with sharp lips and a sharper need to drag Aria back into petty war.
"I'm shocked you're even allowed out in public," Olivia said, swirling her rosé like it meant something. "Your father used to have better PR instincts."
"I didn't realize you were still using your tongue for anything other than kissing his ass," Aria replied flatly.
Olivia's eyes flicked to Jaxon—who stood a few feet away, silent, stone-like.
"Security?" she asked. "Or your latest distraction?"
Aria didn't answer.
So Olivia leaned closer. "You always did need someone to keep you in line."
That time, Jaxon stepped forward.
Not because he needed to.
Because he wanted to.
Aria raised a hand—stopping him without looking.
"No," she said. "Let her keep pretending she's relevant."
Then, with a turn sharp enough to cut glass, she walked away.
***
They left the gala close to midnight.
In the car, the silence wasn't dangerous.
It was exhausted.
Aria leaned her head against the seat, staring at the ceiling. Her heels were off, legs crossed at the ankle, fingers twitching against her thigh like the aftermath of adrenaline.
Jaxon finally spoke.
"You didn't ask me to stay earlier."
She didn't answer right away.
"You didn't ask if you could."
A pause.
Then she added, softer, "You keep getting on merges, Showing up when I don't want you... and you leave when I finally—"
She stopped herself.
Too late.
She felt him look at her.
But she didn't finish.
Didn't explain.
Didn't take it back.
***
They reached the estate in silence.
Jaxon walked her to the door, as always.
She reached for the handle, then paused. Looked back.
"I don't know what to do with you," she said.
"That's fine," he replied, calm. "I know exactly what to do with you."
She held his gaze for a beat too long.
Then slipped inside and closed the door behind her.
Not softly.
But not slamming either.
And that was the worst kind of goodbye.