The water barely rippled.
Jaxon sat at the edge of the pool, forearms resting on his knees, eyes fixed on the mirrored surface like it might split open and confess something—about her, about him, about the mess he was sinking into. The air was damp, quiet, heavy with chlorine and thoughts he couldn't scrub clean.
Behind him, the penthouse loomed in silence. No music. No distraction. Just the distant hum of Manhattan through floor-to-ceiling windows, cold blue light slicing through the room like judgment. He hadn't turned on a single lamp. Didn't want the warmth. Didn't need it.
The pool was supposed to be for rehab. His therapist's idea. Some half-hopeful bullshit about water helping to regulate nervous system responses. Isolation, she'd said, can be softened in motion. He'd nodded. Booked the sessions. Built the pool.
Tonight, it felt like a mirror he was drowning beneath.
The phone buzzed once on the table beside him.
He didn't move at first. Let it vibrate against the wood. Another second passed. Then another. Finally, he reached over, thumb slow, jaw tight.
> ARIA LANGFORD CAUGHT ON CAMERA: LATE-NIGHT MAKEOUT WITH A FORMER CLASSMATE
There was a grainy image attached. A parking lot. A guy leaning in close. Aria's face mostly hidden. But her posture—head tilted, hands braced lightly against his chest—read like intimacy.
He blinked.
Stared harder.
The screen dimmed. He tapped it. Opened the image again. Zoomed in. It wasn't even clear if it was her. The photo quality was garbage. But the caption was doing the damage. Headlines didn't need evidence. They needed blood.
He stood.
Abrupt. Rigid. The sound of water lapping softly against the tile as his shadow moved across it.
He paced once. Twice. Fingers flexing.
"Fuck."
The word slipped out like breath squeezed from somewhere deep—more anger than volume. He ran a hand through his hair, breath shallow now, pacing tighter circles. The headline looped in his head.
Making out?
She was just with him. Hours ago. Furious, yes. But electric. Intimate in that quiet, simmering way she always was when she was keeping herself from unraveling. And now this?
No. It didn't track.
Not with her.
Not with what he knew of her. And he knew her now—better than she realized.
He grabbed his phone again, thumbs flying over the screen.
Where were the security reports? What was her detail doing, letting this happen—if it happened? How the hell did paparazzi get that close without someone flagging it?
Sloppy. Or intentional.
Either way, it didn't feel like an accident.
His phone buzzed again. A follow-up.
> Media outlet received the photo anonymously. No timestamp. No location metadata. Fabricated?
Sabotage. Political pressure.
He could feel it now—the edges of something bigger clawing into the picture. Someone wanted Aria publicly compromised. Maybe it was to weaken the Langford brand. Maybe to kill the marriage agreement before it could be signed.
Maybe it was about him.
He turned sharply, his breath fogged briefly in the cold air. The pool reflected back a version of him he didn't recognize. Shoulders hunched. Jaw wired shut. A man coming undone from the inside out.
This wasn't the plan.
He was supposed to keep distance. To observe. To secure the asset. But Aria wasn't an asset. Not anymore. Not to him. She was—God, she was the one person he looked at and thought maybe.
Maybe he wasn't broken beyond repair.
And now someone was trying to use her against him.
"Not happening," he muttered.
He needed to get ahead of this. He needed to...
The thought dropped off.
Not as a bodyguard. Not anymore.
He sat again, elbows on knees, phone resting between his hands.
He didn't want to protect her.
He wanted to know her.
Really know her. Beyond the guarded smiles and barbed sarcasm. Beyond the contract that chained them together. If she was going to walk away—if she was going to choose—then damn it, he wanted her to know what she was choosing.
And who.
Maybe it wasn't too late.
***
Back at the Langford Estate
Aria sat cross-legged on the cold marble floor of her father's study, papers scattered all around her like wreckage. Legal folders, contracts, stamped documents—most of them unread, many still sealed—lay cracked open now, their polished legal language unraveling in the soft pool of light from the desk lamp above.
The room was quiet. Too quiet.
Behind her, the massive oak desk loomed like a monument—solid, unyielding. Everything about the space felt intentional. Heavy furniture. Dark wood. Cold surfaces. Her father's world didn't make room for comfort. Just control.
She hadn't meant to dig. Not tonight. But once she started reading, she couldn't stop. A few lines in a memo had caught her eye earlier in the evening—something vague about stipulations, an agreement linked to her trust fund, a reference code she didn't recognize. And that had been enough.
Now she was here.
Pages were everywhere. She flipped through one binder, then another, chasing a thread that kept slipping just out of reach.
Then she found it.
Page seven. File marked Langford-Vale Holdings: Future Entitlements.
It didn't scream. It didn't threaten. It was worse than that—it was calm. Clinical. It sat quietly on the page, waiting for her to read it.
She did.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
> "In the event that Aria Langford does not proceed with the arranged marital union with Jaxon Vale by the date of her 21st birthday, all pre-inheritance assets will be frozen. Any public statement made in opposition to said union will be considered a breach of contract and grounds for defamation settlement."
She didn't speak. Couldn't.
Her fingers curled into the paper's edge. She read it again, slower this time, as if understanding it at a crawl might make it less real.
All of it was conditional.
Her future. Her money. Her voice.
Then her eyes caught a second line, deeper in the fine print. It didn't stand out. It wasn't bolded. But it was sharp enough to slice through her.
> "Amendment 3B: Subject to clause is no longer under joint custody of Amelia Langford due to deceased party's removal from final arbitration."
Her stomach dropped.
She whispered aloud, voice barely audible: "Deceased party?"
Her mother.
She grabbed the attached page. It wasn't a legal form. Just a printed email. One line stood out like a slap.
> Per your request, Amelia Langford has been removed from all references moving forward. Estate decisions will default to paternal authority.
That was it.
No ceremony. No apology. Just deletion.
Erased like she never existed. Like her mother hadn't fought. Like she hadn't warned her, over and over again, that the Langford name was more prison than privilege.
Aria didn't cry.
She didn't scream.
She sat very still, her hands flat against the marble, breathing slowly, like she was trying not to fracture under her own ribs.
This was never about tradition. Never about legacy.
It was about control.
Her father hadn't just arranged a marriage. He'd buried every escape hatch. Silenced her mother. Turned her trust fund into a leash.
And now he expected her to step quietly into the future he designed.
Aria reached for her phone.
Her thumb hovered for a second. Then she scrolled to the name she needed.
Not Jaxon.
Not tonight.
The one person who could help her navigate this without emotion clouding the strategy.
She tapped.
The line picked up after two rings.
"Lin?"
A voice on the other end, groggy but alert. "Aria? It's late."
"I know." Her tone was different now—low, calm, with an edge that had never quite been there before. "I need a favor."
"What kind?"
"I need you to review a contract. And I need to know if my father had my mother declared mentally unfit before she died."
A pause. Long. Weighted.
Then Lin said, quietly, "Send everything. I'm on my way."
Aria hung up.
She looked around the study—the towering bookshelves, the closed glass cabinets, the stiff chair where her father liked to sit and talk down to people like they owed him something just for breathing.
For the first time, she saw it all clearly.
Not as a home.
But as a fortress she was never meant to escape.
And now?
Now she was going to burn the doors off.