The late-night meeting in Milan should have had his full attention.
It didn't.
Xavier sat at the head of the long table, his associates discussing shipment schedules and territorial disputes, while his laptop sat open beside him, the security feed from his estate playing silently in the corner of the screen.
It wasn't the fact that she was outside.
It was the way she was outside.
Barefoot in the garden again.
Hair down.
Leaning toward one of the guards like she didn't know, or didn't care, that every inch of her posture screamed intimacy.
He paused mid-sentence, the voices in the room faltering.
A man beside him cleared his throat. "Signore, the figures—"
Xavier raised a hand, silencing him without a glance. His eyes stayed locked on the feed. The guard was shifting awkwardly, backing away, but Jemma didn't stop. She tilted her head, smiling in that soft, unguarded way she never gave him.
Something burned sharp and ugly in his chest.
Not fear. Not exactly.
It was closer to the feeling of watching someone try to take something that was his.
The Milan job was supposed to keep him busy for ten days.
By day four, Xavier was barely hearing the reports coming in from his men.
Every night, after the meetings and the dinner negotiations, he found himself in his hotel suite, lights low, laptop open, eyes fixed on her.
The footage always started innocently enough.
Clip one – The kitchen
She leaned across the counter toward Marco, the chef. It wasn't what she said, the feed had no sound, it was how she said it, her lips quirking in a grin, her hair falling over one eye. Marco laughed, actually laughed, while slicing herbs.
Xavier's knuckles whitened on the armrest. He'd told her before, no one in his house laughed like that with her except him.
Clip two – The library
She stood on the top rung of a ladder, reaching for a book she clearly didn't need in the library, she had rearranged his library just to spite him. She swayed slightly, just enough for one of the guards to step in, steadying the ladder. She smiled down at him, slow, deliberate, before climbing down and walking away without taking anything.
It wasn't an accident.
It was bait.
Clip three – The terrace
She'd found the one blind spot in the garden camera sweep… or so she thought. He watched as she leaned against the railing, head tilted back to the sun, humming to herself. The hum was almost visible in her body language, relaxed, unguarded, beautiful. A young guard came by to check on her; she didn't move away. She looked at him.
It wasn't long, maybe a ten-second interaction. But it was long enough to twist something hot and sour in Xavier's gut.
Clip four – The dining room
She dragged her fingertip along the edge of his crystal glass before dinner, then replaced it in a different spot at the table. She wasn't touching her own place setting — only his. It was a tiny, intimate trespass, one he was certain she knew would needle him.
By day seven, it wasn't just irritation anymore.
It was pressure. A constant weight in his chest that felt too much like something he refused to name.
He had told himself after the asthma incident that he needed her close so she couldn't scare him like that again.
But now… she was doing it in a different way.
Not by almost dying.
By making him want to drop everything and get on the next flight home just to remind her, and everyone else, exactly who she belonged to.
That night, he called his second-in-command.
"Push the rest of the meetings," he said, voice low.
"But, signore, we—"
"Do it," Xavier cut in, his tone brooking no argument.
The laptop sat open beside him again, paused on a frame of Jemma laughing at something the gardener had said. The sight burned into him, sharp enough to make the decision easy.
It was time to go home.
The wheels of the jet touched down just after dawn, but Xavier didn't wait for his luggage.
He went straight from the tarmac to the convoy, the tight set of his jaw enough to keep his men silent.
By the time they pulled into the estate, the sky was bleeding gold over the gardens. He didn't head to his office or his bedroom. He went looking for her.
He found her in the garden.
Exactly there — the same garden where she'd been smiling at the gardener in the footage.
She was perched on the edge of the fountain, the hem of her dress brushing the stone, fingers trailing lazily through the water as if she didn't have a care in the world.
When she heard footsteps, she glanced up.
The surprise flickered in her eyes for only a second before it was gone, replaced by that infuriating calm she wore like armour.
"You're back early," she said.
Not welcome back. Not I missed you.
Just… you're back early.
"I saw you," Xavier said. His voice was low, but it carried.
Her brows lifted just enough to feign confusion. "Saw me what?"
He stepped closer, closing the distance between them until her knees almost brushed his legs. "With him."
His gaze flicked deliberately toward where the gardener's shed sat in the distance. "Laughing. Talking. Like you didn't have a single thought about who owns this place. Who owns you."
Jemma's chin tipped up. "I wasn't aware laughing was a crime."
Her tone was cool, but her pulse, he could see it in her throat, had quickened.
Xavier's fingers curled at his sides. "Do you think I don't know what you're doing?" he asked. "Pushing. Testing. Seeing how far you can go before I…"
He stopped himself. Before he what? Lost control? Showed too much?
Her lips curved, almost taunting. "Before you what? Lock me in my room? Punish me? You haven't done that in a while."
It was a challenge, a dare, and she knew it.
He crouched suddenly, catching her jaw in his hand, forcing her to meet his eyes. "You think this is a game, piccola ribelle?" (, meaning: little rebel)
Her mouth curved despite the grip on her face. "Maybe it is. You seem to be playing, too."
For a long moment, they just stared at each other, his anger grinding against her defiance, both of them unwilling to look away.
When he finally released her, it was only to take a slow step back. "Come inside."
"No," she said, standing but not moving toward the house. "You went away for a week and now you want to order me around like nothing happened?"
The muscles in his jaw tightened, his restraint wearing thin. "You don't want me to repeat myself."
She took a deliberate step toward him, close enough for her voice to be a whisper only he could hear. "Or maybe I do."
Something in him coiled tight, not just jealousy now, but a fierce, possessive heat that made the edges of his vision sharpen.
He turned without another word, but his stride toward the house was hard and fast, and he knew she would follow.
If she didn't…
Well, he'd just come back from Milan early.
He had plenty of energy to drag her there himself.