Aria didn't come down for breakfast.
She waited until it became late enough to call it "a meal" but early enough to still be a power move.
When she entered the dining room, her father was already there. Sitting at the head of the table, coffee in one hand, phone in the other, reading headlines like they were market reports. Two assistants hovered nearby. Silent. Unnecessary.
She walked in barefoot. Robe open over a tank and shorts. No makeup. No smile.
A silent challenge.
He didn't look up.
"You're late," he said.
"I'm not hungry," she replied, grabbing a coffee cup anyway.
"Then you came here for something else."
She smirked. "What gave it away? My winning energy or lack of mascara?"
He finally looked at her. Not fondly. Not with frustration. Just... like a man measuring weight.
Always measuring.
She poured herself coffee.
"I want to know about him," she said.
Elias didn't blink. "Who?"
She tilted her head. "Don't insult me."
Still no expression. "Your security detail?"
"Jaxon," she said, slow and sharp. "The one who doesn't talk unless he's cutting through people with his eyes."
Elias sipped. "You're safe. Isn't that what matters?"
"Since when do you care if I'm safe?"
He smiled. Brief. Cold. "I care about optics. Same thing."
She set the coffee down a little too hard.
"He's not from your usual pool," she said. "No name on file. No security ID. No background. Your guards don't even know where he trained."
"Perhaps that's intentional."
"Why?"
A pause.
Then, calmly: "Because some assets don't need an audience."
She leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table. "What's he here for?"
"To do his job."
"Which is?"
"Watch you."
"I'm not a threat."
Her father's eyes sharpened. "Aren't you?"
She laughed once. Bitter. "Is that what this is? You think I'll burn the whole empire down if you don't babysit me in a Tom Ford suit?"
"I think you're unpredictable," he said. "And we're in a season where unpredictability is expensive."
She folded her arms. "So he's not just here to protect me."
"No."
She paused.
Waited.
"You're not going to tell me the rest, are you?"
He leaned back.
"No."
"Why?"
"Because I don't owe you truth, Aria. I owe you protection."
"That's not the same thing."
"It never was."
She stood. Fast. Coffee untouched.
"Fine," she said. "Keep your secrets. Just don't be surprised when I stop asking nicely."
He looked up at her. "You've never asked nicely."
She gave him a crooked smile. "That's the only honest thing you've said all morning."
***
Later, in the hallway, she passed Jaxon.
He was heading the other direction, expression unreadable, posture military-clean.
She slowed. Met his eyes.
"Good morning," she said, too sweet.
He nodded once. "Morning."
She walked past him.
But not without muttering just loud enough for him to hear:
"Still guarding secrets, I see. They'll be reveled soon."
She didn't look back.
She didn't need to.
She could feel the weight of his silence chasing her all the way down the hall.
***
The Langford estate stretched beyond the glass and stone Aria usually stalked—beyond the mansion, beyond the manicured gardens, to the private stables tucked behind a grove of imported trees.
She hadn't planned to ride today.
But something about the morning—her father's evasions, Jaxon's silence, her own unsettled thoughts—made her want speed. Distance. A little chaos she could control.
She changed into black riding pants, a sleeveless turtleneck, and her favorite boots. The ones that looked like they came with warnings.
When she stepped into the stable yard, Jaxon was already waiting.
Of course he was.
Black shirt. Leather gloves. Stillness like a statue that knew how to kill.
"I didn't ask you to come," she said.
"You didn't have to."
She narrowed her eyes. "Do you have hobbies, or is brooding just your lifestyle?"
He looked at her. Calm. Patient.
"Watching you count as one?"
She scoffed—but she didn't stop him from walking beside her as they approached the stalls.
The ranch manager saddled her favorite mare—Ash, a sleek gray with a bad attitude and a history of bucking handlers she didn't like.
Aria took the reins without asking.
Mounted without help.
Jaxon didn't say a word.
She trotted her around the pen once before calling out, "You ride?"
He shrugged. "Enough to stay on."
"Prove it."
A moment passed.
Then he mounted the dark gelding like it was second nature. No hesitation. No missteps.
Show-off.
They rode side by side for a while, through narrow trails and quiet meadows. Aria rode fast. Reckless. Testing the edge of speed. She wanted wind in her face and silence behind her.
But Jaxon kept up. Always.
***
Later, after they'd dismounted and handed off the horses, she led him past the old barn.
To the fencing room.
A private training space, tucked between the stables and the staff quarters. Cool, clean, still stocked with swords her father imported from France.
She pulled open the door. Flicked on the lights.
"You fence?" she asked.
He tilted his head. "Do you?"
She didn't answer.
Just stepped inside, kicked off her boots, and strapped into a padded glove. She tossed him the second saber.
"Let's find out."
***
They faced each other.
No armor. No masks.
Just her in black. Him in silence. And two blades that weren't sharp—but carried enough weight to bruise.
She struck first.
Of course.
Fast. Precise. Arrogant.
He parried without flinching.
"You're not bad," he said.
"Didn't ask for compliments."
"Wasn't giving one. That was a warning."
She lunged again.
He sidestepped. Countered. The ring of metal cracked through the still air.
Ten more strikes.
Ten more dodges.
And then—her blade slipped. Just slightly. He caught her wrist with a single hand, firm but careful.
They froze.
Too close. Too still.
She looked up at him, breath sharp, chest rising and falling.
"You always stop just before things get interesting," she said.
"I'm not here to win," he replied.
She arched a brow. "Then why are you here?"
He didn't answer.
And that silence?
It was heavier than any sword.
***
They didn't speak after the match.
Not as they unstrapped the gloves.
Not as they returned the sabers to the wall.
Not as they walked back toward the main house with nothing but gravel crunching beneath their boots.
Aria didn't ask again.
And Jaxon didn't offer.
But the question still sat in the air between them like a fuse waiting for flame.
***
She didn't go to dinner.
Told the staff she wasn't hungry. Lied. Again.
She curled into the corner of her bed, loose hoodie, bare legs, her room dim except for the soft white glow of her laptop screen.
Emails. Tabloid alerts. Useless updates from PR.
Her name popped up again—headline number six this week.
Aria Langford Rides Again: Heiress Spotted in Saddle, Swords, and Scandalous Company.
She stared at the photo.
It was blurry, taken from too far.
But she was in it.
So was Jaxon.
And the way he was watching her—like nothing else in the world mattered—that's what made her stomach twist.
Not because it was inappropriate.
Because it didn't feel like a lie.
And that scared her more than anything.
Her phone buzzed.
A message from a number she didn't have saved. She knew it was her father's assistant.
> "Reminder: Langford-Vale Board Call tomorrow, 10AM. Your presence requested. Confidential agenda."
She stared at the word.
Vale.
Why did that name feel familiar?
Why did it feel... Tristan?
She closed the phone, tossed it aside, and sank deeper into her sheets.
The fencing glove still sat on her dresser.
Unmoved.
Unscuffed.
She remembered the way his hand had caught her wrist. The calm in his grip. The restraint in his face.
He'd let her win. Or lose. Or fall. Whatever she wanted.
But he wouldn't tell her why he was here.
Not yet.
And that meant only one thing.
Jaxon was hiding something real.
And for once in her life... she wasn't sure she wanted to know.