The silence fell brutally.
Aïnis remained still for a few seconds, her hand still pressed against her chest, as if trying to steady her own heart.
It was beating too fast.
Not because of fear.
Not because of an external threat.
Because of him.
She stared at the door he had just closed. She almost wished he would come back. That he would say he was wrong. That he would stop talking about boundaries as if they were carved in stone.
But he didn't come back.
Because Blake never went back on a decision.
And that was exactly what made her doubt.
In the hallway
Blake walked down the corridor with controlled steps.
Only once he was out of sight did he allow himself to close his eyes for a second.
Just one.
Mistake.
He saw her expression again.
The way she had said his name.
The way she had stood up—slowly.
He ran a hand over his face.
He had almost crossed the line.
He had felt that dangerous second. The one where he could have reduced the distance. The one where he could have answered differently.
You act as if feeling something is a fault.
She wasn't wrong.
But it wasn't a fault.
It was worse.
It was a weakness.
And a bodyguard has no right to weaknesses.
He straightened his posture again. Impassive. Professional.
Because it was easier to be a function than a man.
The next morning
Aïnis came downstairs earlier than usual.
She knew he would be there. He was always there.
Blake stood near the entrance, dark suit, attentive gaze. Perfectly composed.
As if the night before had never happened.
The contrast hurt.
— Good morning, she said.
— Good morning, miss.
The formal tone.
Again.
She held back a sigh.
Her father briefly looked up from the breakfast table.
— Are you ready for tonight?
Tonight.
Dinner with Raphaël's family.
She nodded mechanically.
Blake didn't react.
Not a muscle.
But she saw his jaw tighten.
If she hadn't known what to look for, she wouldn't have noticed.
Eight years apart.
Eight years of experience.
Eight years of control.
And yet she had learned to read between his silences.
In the car
The ride was heavy with tension.
Aïnis watched the landscape pass by without really seeing it.
— You should rest this afternoon, Blake said in a neutral voice.
— Are you worried about me or about the image I'm supposed to project?
He glanced at her briefly in the rearview mirror.
— The two are connected.
— Not to me.
Silence.
Then, more quietly:
— It's not fair.
He hesitated.
— What isn't?
She finally turned toward him.
— That you decide for me what I'm allowed to feel.
He inhaled slowly.
— I'm not deciding anything.
— Yes, you are. You decide that I'm too young.
He didn't answer right away.
Because she was right.
— Eighteen, Aïnis… that's not nothing.
— Neither is twenty-six.
Their eyes met in the mirror.
Another second too long.
— Exactly, he finally said.
Later
In her room, standing in front of the mirror while her dress was being adjusted for dinner, Aïnis studied her reflection.
She looked older than the night before.
More distant.
She wondered if that was what growing up meant.
Learning to silence what you feel so you don't disturb the established order.
Blake knocked before entering.
Professional.
Always.
— The car is ready.
She nodded.
As she passed him, she stopped for a fraction of a second.
— Do you know what's most unfair?
He remained still.
— It's not the age difference.
His gaze fell on her despite himself.
— It's that you think I'm incapable of understanding what it implies.
He didn't answer.
Because the problem wasn't that she didn't understand.
The problem was that she understood too well.
And that he, at twenty-six, with eight more years and a past she didn't yet know, knew exactly where this kind of feeling could lead.
Not to something simple.
Not to something safe.
And safety was supposed to be his priority.
Always.
Even if it meant becoming the distance she hated.
The car started.
Between them, there was nothing.
Nothing but an invisible line.
Eight years.
A role.
An entire world of consequences.
And a silence that was becoming harder and harder to bear.
The car stopped in front of the Delcourt residence.
Lights on.
Large glass windows.
Everything breathed calculated elegance.
Aïnis took a deep breath before opening the door.
Blake stepped out first.
Always the same.
Always precise.
Always one second ahead of her.
He walked around the vehicle and offered her his hand.
A professional gesture.
But his palm was warmer than she wanted it to be.
She placed her hand in his.
One second.
Two.
He let go immediately.
Distance restored.
Inside, the greetings were polite, measured, almost theatrical.
Raphaël approached her with a studied smile.
— Aïnis, you look beautiful tonight.
She offered a faint smile.
— Thank you.
He placed a light hand at the small of her back to guide her toward the dining room.
Blake watched.
Expressionless.
But his eyes missed nothing.
Not the proximity.
Not the barely disguised possessive gesture.
Not the satisfied look in Raphaël's father's eyes.
Eight years.
Eight years—and yet he suddenly felt terribly young in the face of the jealousy tightening in his chest.
Ridiculous.
He had no right.
At the table
The conversations revolved around alliances, projects, the future.
Aïnis answered when spoken to.
Smiled when necessary.
But under the table, her fingers nervously played with the fabric of her dress.
She could feel Blake's gaze from across the room.
Not constant.
But present.
Always.
At one point, Raphaël leaned closer.
— You're quiet.
— I'm listening.
— You don't seem enthusiastic.
She met his gaze.
— Maybe because they're talking about my life as if I'm not in the room.
He let out a small laugh.
— You're being dramatic.
She looked away.
And searched for Blake.
Bad idea.
He was already looking at her.
Their eyes locked.
A suspended moment.
She wondered what he saw.
A young girl?
A responsibility?
Or a woman he refused to consider?
He looked away first.
As always.
Later – The balcony
The fresh air felt good.
She had slipped out without saying anything.
Too many voices.
Too many decisions made without her.
— You should avoid going out alone.
She didn't even need to turn around.
— Do you follow me everywhere?
— It's my job.
She finally turned.
The indoor light sharply outlined his profile.
— How many times are you going to repeat that?
— As many as necessary.
She stepped closer to the railing.
He remained at a respectable distance.
Still that invisible line.
— Does it bother you? she asked suddenly.
— What?
— Seeing me with him.
Silence fell.
He could have lied.
He should have lied.
— It's not relevant.
— So yes.
He inhaled slowly.
— What bothers me is that you're involved in something you don't control.
— That's not what I asked.
Their eyes met again.
Closer this time.
The air felt thicker.
— Eight years, Blake.
He froze.
— Eight years isn't a chasm.
— At eighteen, it is.
— For you, maybe.
The words slipped out before he could stop them.
She stepped forward.
He didn't step back this time.
Mistake.
— Are you afraid I'll regret it? she murmured.
— I'm afraid you don't measure everything.
— Do you really think I don't understand the difference between an impulsive decision and something real?
He looked at her.
Really looked at her.
And what he saw in her eyes was neither caprice nor naïveté.
It was determination.
And that unsettled him more than anything.
— Aïnis…
His voice was lower now.
More human.
— You don't play with things like this.
— I'm not playing.
A door opened behind them.
They immediately stepped apart.
Distance.
Posture.
Masks back in place.
Raphaël appeared on the balcony.
— Everything alright?
— Very well, Blake answered before she could.
Professional. Impassive.
Aïnis felt a sharp wave of frustration.
Always him deciding when conversations ended.
On the way back
In the car, the silence was heavier than before.
But different.
Charged.
She stared at her hands.
He focused on the road.
At a red light, she spoke without looking at him.
— You didn't answer.
— To what?
— The only important question.
He knew which one.
— What I feel doesn't matter.
She lifted her head.
— Maybe not to you.
The light turned green.
He drove.
But this time, his control felt more fragile.
The invisible line was still there.
But it had narrowed.
And the narrower it became, the more brutal the fall promised to be.