Jemma glanced up to see Xavier, walking toward her with that unhurried, almost lazy stride.
Between his fingers, a cigar smouldered. The scent hit her first, thick, stale, clinging, the kind of smell that lingered in hair and clothes for hours. Her stomach tightened; she took an instinctive step back.
"Don't move," he said. His voice was soft enough to pass for casual, but it sat heavy in the air, making her spine straighten.
She stepped back again.
"I said don't move." This time, there was no softness at all.
"I'm sorry, I—"
"Look at me when you talk."
Her eyes lifted slowly. His were a steady, cool green, fixed on hers without blinking.
"I just can't stand the smell of cigarettes," she said. She tried to make it sound like a reasonable request, but her voice caught slightly at the end.
Xavier didn't respond right away. He closed the distance between them in two deliberate steps, caught her arm, and angled the cigar toward her.
"What am I supposed to do with this?" she asked, tightening her grip on the cloth in her other hand.
"What I was doing on the terrace."
"I'm not doing that."
His fingers tightened around her arm, not painfully, but with an insistence that said the choice wasn't hers. "You don't get to refuse me."
"I have asthma," she said quickly, trying to lean back out of the smoke which was already having an effect on her.
"Then manage it." He pressed the cigar into her palm, guiding it upward. "Do it."
Her pulse was loud in her ears. "I'm not—"
"I'm only going to say it one last time, Jemma."
The warning in his voice was colder than a shout. She was stuck between a rock and a hard place, either she does what he wants or he'll kill her. Her jaw set. She lifted the cigar and inhaled. The smoke scratched down her throat, bitter and dry. She coughed immediately, tears stinging her eyes.
"Keep going."
"I can't," she rasped.
"You can. Continue."
Her chest began to tighten, air slipping out faster than it came in. She dropped the cigar, yanked her arm free, and stumbled toward the terrace, each breath coming shorter than the last.
Behind her, a drawer slammed. Footsteps closed in.
A second later, he was there, her inhaler in hand — the one he'd taken the day he kidnapped her.
"Here." His grip steadied her when she wavered. The inhaler touched her lips. "Seal it. Inhale."
She obeyed, shaky, the medicine biting cold in her throat.
"Hold it… now exhale. Again." His tone was measured, counting out her breaths like a drill.
Slowly, the tightness around her lungs loosened. She pulled in a steady breath, then another.
When she could breathe without thinking about it, he stepped back. "You're done."
She nodded once, not thanks, just acknowledgment and walked away at a calm, deliberate pace. Her hands were trembling, but she kept them at her sides until she was out of his sight.
The next morning, Xavier sat at the long dining table, the newspaper folded beside his plate. Emily poured his coffee.
"Where's Jemma?" he asked.
"Still in her room, Don. She doesn't wake up early."
"She will have to from now on." He went back to his breakfast
When Jemma finally came down, Lucy and Daisy were waiting near the bottom of the stairs.
"What happened last night with Don?" Daisy asked, leaning in.
Jemma kept walking. "Nothing. Unless you count nearly choking to death."
Lucy blinked. "What?"
But Jemma had already brushed past them, her gaze fixed ahead. She had no intention of explaining.
That night, the house was quiet. In the library, a lamp threw a warm circle of light across Xavier's desk. He was typing when the intercom clicked.
"Coffee," he said.
Jemma, folding linen in the laundry, stopped mid-fold. She set the sheet down, made the coffee black, no sugar, no milk, and carried it in.
"You're still up?" he asked without looking up from the screen.
She set the cup down carefully so it didn't make a sound. "Can I leave?"
"No. Sit."
Her mouth tightened, but she crossed to the shelves, pulled down a book, and sat opposite him. The pages blurred under her eyes; she was too aware of his presence, the faint scrape of his chair, the rhythmic tapping of keys.
Two hours passed before he closed the laptop. She'd fallen asleep in the chair, chin tipped forward, the book sliding from her hands.
"You can go," he said.
She left without a word, not looking back.
At dawn, Lucy shook her awake.
"What now?" Jemma muttered.
"Don asked for a glass of water."
"Then take it to him."
"He asked for you."
Dragging herself out of bed, she went to the kitchen, filled a glass, and climbed the stairs.
"Come in," Xavier called when she knocked.
She set the glass on the table. "Done."
"Get me a red T-shirt from the closet."
She crossed to the double doors, opening the first to reveal the bathroom, then stepped into the walk-in closet. The air smelled faintly of cedar. Shirts hung in precise rows, every sleeve aligned.
She went to the red section, pulled a shirt.
"No, not that one," came his voice from the bedroom.
She tried another.
"No."
Another.
"No."
After the tenth rejection, she stopped moving.
Her gaze drifted to a small brass key hanging behind the closet door. Without thinking too much, she stepped back inside, shut the door, turned the lock, and slipped the key into her pocket.
Crossing to the dressing table, she sat down. The surface was smooth and cool under her forearms. She leaned forward, resting her head on them. The quiet wrapped around her, and within minutes, her eyes closed.
In the bedroom, Xavier checked his watch. Too long. He stood, tried the handle. Locked.
His jaw tightened. He left the room, went to his office, and returned with a spare key. The lock clicked.
Inside, he found her asleep at the table, her breathing even.
"You think this is a game?" His voice cut clean through the silence.
She blinked up at him, dazed but not startled.
"I gave you an order. You don't disappear and take a nap," he said, stepping closer.
Jemma sat up slowly, eyes fixed on a point just past his shoulder.
"Up," he said.
She rose, her jaw tight, saying nothing.
"Good. Stay where I can see you," he added before heading into the bathroom.
She stayed rooted in place, the brass key warm in her pocket. Her pulse was steady now, but her mind was already cataloguing which doors in the house might take the same lock. Xavier came out minutes later and gave her instructions to leave.