Jaxon hadn't slept.
Again.
Sleep meant letting his guard down, and he couldn't afford that. Not around her. Not when every second near Aria dragged him deeper into something he wasn't supposed to want yet.
He stood at the edge of the garden, shirt clinging to him from the early morning workout he hoped would clear his head. It didn't. Nothing did anymore.
Last night hadn't been part of the plan.
He hadn't planned to get that close. For her to get attached to him. To watch her unravel and rebuild herself in the space of a single drink. To feel the weight of her silence more than her voice.
He hadn't planned to want her.
Not like this.
His phone vibrated on the stone bench beside him.
He already knew who it was.
He ignored the first call.
Answered the second.
"You're quiet," the voice on the line said. Crisp. Older. His father.
"I'm tired."
"You don't get tired, Jaxon. You get distracted. There's a difference."
Jaxon said nothing.
"She's not the goal. The deal is. You remember that, yes?"
"I'm not forgetting anything."
"You were supposed to observe, assess, and decide."
"I am deciding."
"And?"
"She's... complicated."
"That's not a decision. That's hesitation. And you know what hesitation gets you."
"Failure," Jaxon said flatly.
"In business and in war."
His father paused, voice softening just enough. "If this girl makes you lose sight of what we've worked so hard for—what your grandfather started—"
"Then I'll deal with it."
"See that you do."
The line went dead.
He tossed the phone onto the bench and ran a hand through his hair.
Complicated.
That was the problem.
Aria Langford wasn't what he expected. She was fire dressed as control, rebellion hiding inside expensive heels and sarcastic armor.
She didn't know who he really was.
Not yet.
To her, he was just the man in black—silent, composed, always standing a few paces behind. A presence easy to ignore until she caught him watching her like he saw more than he should.
He was the bodyguard. The quiet one. The one who didn't smile.
She thought he was paid to protect her. Nothing more. Nothing personal. Just another hired shadow.
But that couldn't be further from the truth.
Because he wasn't just a man with a job—he was her fiancé.
Not by love. Not by choice.
By contract.
By bloodline.
By the legacy of two powerful men who treated their futures like chess pieces—strategic, cold, and unyielding.
He hadn't told her. Couldn't bring himself to.
How could he, when every moment he spent with her was already borrowed? When he knew that the truth would shatter whatever fragile trust that might start existing between them?
She didn't know she'd been promised to him before she even knew what love was.
Didn't know her name had been signed next to his on a future she never asked for.
And if—when—she found out?
He didn't expect kindness.
He didn't even expect forgiveness.
No, she'd rage.
She'd destroy him with a look, with a word, with the very fire that made her impossible to forget.
And he wouldn't stop her.
Because somewhere along the line, the lie he was supposed to live in had become the only truth he wanted.
Even if it meant losing her the moment she saw him for what he truly was.
He thought about last night. The way she looked on the lounge couch, barefoot and brave and almost breakable.
The way her voice cracked—not from weakness, but from honesty.
The way he almost stayed.
Almost.
He'd stood right in front of her and walked away because staying would've meant crossing a line he couldn't come back from.
Because once he touched her, there'd be no more pretending.
Not for her.
Not for him.
***
Later that morning, he saw her in the sunroom.
She was alone, curled into a wide leather chair, knees up, headphones in. Music loud enough he could hear the beat. Hair messy. Skin clean. No makeup.
God, she was beautiful.
Not the polished kind.
The dangerous kind. Like she didn't need to try to kill you—she just would if you gave her a reason.
She didn't notice him at first.
Or maybe she did and didn't care.
He didn't approach. Just stood in the doorway for a minute longer than he should've.
Watching.
Trying to remember why he came here.
Why he agreed to this.
Why he thought he could stay detached.
He wasn't sure anymore.
He'd come to learn that her way was: pretending not to see the things she couldn't bear to acknowledge. Power through silence. Control through indifference.
But this wasn't control.
Not anymore.
Not for him.
She pulled the headphones off, slowly, like the weight of the music had finally gotten heavy.
Then she looked up—and met his eyes.
There was no startle. No surprise.
Like she knew he'd been there the whole time.
"Are you going to stand there all day," she said, "or do you only move when I'm not looking?"
He took one step in. Just one.
"Didn't want to interrupt."
"You were."
She said it like a fact, not an accusation. But he heard the edge anyway.
He moved to lean against the far wall, arms folded.
She stretched her legs out, toes brushing the end of the chair. "So? What's today's excuse? You tailing me for kicks now or just bored of lurking near stairwells?"
He didn't answer.
Because he didn't have one.
She narrowed her eyes slightly. "You're not good at staying in your lane."
"And you're not good at hiding you're lonely."
The air stilled.
Her lips parted, just barely. Like she might fire back.
But then she shut them again.
And that silence?
That silence said he was right.
She looked away first.
Out the window. Somewhere safer.
He stepped closer.
Not enough to crowd her.
Just enough to be real.
"You don't like being seen," he said quietly.
"No," she replied, voice thin. "Not like this."
He waited.
Then, because he couldn't help himself: "Like what?"
She shrugged, but the motion was all tension.
"Not when I'm not ready."
"And when will you be?"
She looked at him then. Fully. No armor. No shield.
"I don't know," she said softly, eyes searching his. "But something tells me you're not whom you appear to be. What are you hiding Mister Jaxon no-last-Name. If I ever find out you're lying to me..."
She trailed off for a moment, the silence pulling taut between them.
Then her voice lowered, not with anger, but something quieter. Sadder.
"I won't fight. I won't ask why. I'll just walk away—and I won't look back."
His breath caught.
Because it wasn't a warning.
It was heartbreak waiting to happen.
And the worst part?
She didn't even know how much he was already hiding.
***
Later, after she left the room, he stood where she had been sitting.
Looked out the same window. Listened to the faint echo of her music in the cushions.
And wondered how much longer he had until the truth caught fire.
Because Aria wasn't just dangerous as the media poses. She was worse.
And she was close.
Close to figuring him out.
Close to breaking the script.
Close to becoming something no deal could contain.
And when it happened?
He wasn't sure if he was going to run—
—or finally let it happen.