Command

Simula

“You must be kidding me.”

Ethan’s voice, sharp as cut glass, bounced off the marble walls of the Scaforte estate’s private garden. A glass of champagne hung from his ringed fingers, ice clinking, eyes hidden behind designer shades that probably cost more than Araxie’s whole uniform.

Araxie Gryec did not flinch. She stood in full uniform medals gleaming, boots polished to a mirror shine arms folded behind her back, posture so straight it made the hedge maze behind her look crooked by comparison.

“No,” she said, voice flat, each word precise as a bullet. “Your mother does not kid.”

Ethan’s lips twisted into an infuriating little smirk. “Right. So you’re, what—my new glorified babysitter?”

He circled her like a cat with claws out, nose scrunching in that annoyingly pretty way. “Aw. General Gryec, right? Daddy’s big scary military princess. I’ve heard of you—did you run out of wars to bark at, so you came here to ruin my life?”

Araxie did not move. Didn’t even blink when he flicked a piece of imaginary lint from her lapel.

“I’m not here to ruin anything, Mr. Scaforte,” she said, her tone deceptively calm. “I’m here to ensure you don’t embarrass yourself or your family again.”

His laugh was pure scandal: loud, dramatic, echoing around the roses like gossip. He sipped his champagne, then poured the rest into a flower pot just to be petty.

“Sweetie, no one tells me what to do. You think you can handle me? I’ve fired better assistants than you in my sleep.”

Araxie’s eyes narrowed. Her gloved hands curled behind her back. One twitch, Ethan thought, and she’d probably toss him over the garden wall.

“Mr. Scaforte,” she said, voice like a blade sliding free of its sheath. “I am not your assistant. I am your superior on this assignment. You will report your schedule to me. You will not pick fights in public. You will not throw drinks at reporters. And you will certainly not bring home strangers who post about you online.”

Ethan gasped, one hand on his chest, scandalized. “Are you spying on me already?!”

“I’m observing you,” Araxie corrected, deadpan. “So far, the reports are accurate: no discipline, no discretion, and no sense of survival.”

Ethan stepped closer, their faces nearly touching. He smelled like expensive cologne and trouble the kind that stuck to your uniform no matter how hard you scrubbed. His grin was poisonous sugar.

“Careful, General,” he purred. “Get too close, and you’ll be the next scandal.”

Araxie leaned in, so close that for a second even Ethan forgot to breathe. Her eyes were steel under the summer sun.

“Good. Let them talk,” she murmured, voice deadly soft. “Just remember scandals come and go. I don’t.”

Then she pivoted on her heel, gave him her back which for Araxie was the highest insult and the only warning he’d get and barked over her shoulder:

“Your next shoot is in twenty minutes. Fix your face.”

Ethan stood there, mouth open, hair ruffled by the breeze she left behind. He downed the rest of his drink then threw the glass dramatically into the fountain.

“Fix your face, you iron maiden!” he shouted after her. “And don’t boss me around—I’m the star here! Me!”

She was already gone.

Somewhere in the house, Cleo Valeria smiled into her coffee when she heard the glass shatter. She turned to Arion beside her.

“Five days,” Arion predicted, biting into a macaron, “before he tries to seduce her just to make her quit.”

“Two days,” Cleo corrected calmly, “before he realizes he can’t scare her at all.”

And somewhere deep in the garden, Ethan Aviel Scaforte was already plotting:
Hook or crook? Maybe both.
And General Araxie Gryec? She was already six steps ahead.