He… he did?

Awareness returned to Jay not as a gentle dawn, but as a series of brutal, sensory assaults.

First, the smell. Expensive, masculine cologne clinging to the silk sheets, a scent that was now seared into his memory as the aroma of his violator.

Then, the feel. A deep, throbbing ache that seemed to emanate from the very center of his being, a hollowed-out soreness that spoke of a brutal, unwanted invasion.

Finally, the sight. The opulent, unfamiliar ceiling of Rafe’s suite, bathed in the cheery, mocking light of a Milanese morning.

He was alone.

With a groan that was part pain, part fury, Jay pushed himself up onto his elbows. The sheet fell away, and his eyes tracked down his own body. His breath hitched. His wrists were circled with dark, perfect bruises—a testament to being pinned, held down, rendered powerless. More mottled, purplish marks decorated his hips and the sensitive skin of his inner thighs, a map of a possessive, cruel grip.

"Shit," he breathed out, the word raw and ragged. "That fucking bastard."

He had to move. He had to get out of this room, this bed that smelled of him. Gritting his teeth, he swung his legs over the side of the bed. The moment his feet touched the cold marble floor, a wave of dizziness and profound weakness washed over him. His legs, feeling like they were made of straw, buckled instantly. He barely caught himself on the nightstand, his body trembling with the effort and a fresh wave of humiliated rage.

He didn't just take me. He broke me. He made me weak.

The mission. The thought was a cold spike of professionalism piercing the hot haze of his personal anguish. He had to report this. Now.

Stumbling, he found his discarded trousers and fumbled for his encrypted phone. His hands, usually so steady, shook as he dialed Chiara’s number.

She answered on the second ring, her voice crisp and efficient. "Jay. Do you have an update?"

A harsh, choked sound that was supposed to be a laugh escaped him. "An update? Yeah, you could call it that."

"Jay? What happened? Your voice sounds strange."

"That fucker from the room next door," Jay spat, his voice dropping to a low, venomous whisper. "He… he was in my room last night. He fucked me, Chiara." Saying the words aloud made them real, and the reality was a fresh violation. "It wasn't consensual. He knew I wasn't a model. He knows something."

The line went dead silent. For a long moment, there was only the sound of Jay's ragged breathing. Then, a sound that made his blood turn to ice in his veins.

Chiara was laughing.

A soft, incredulous chuckle. "He… he did? Jay, my god. That's… bold. He moved incredibly fast."

Jay’s face went completely blank, all emotion wiped clean by a wave of pure, unadulterated shock. "Chiara," he said, his voice dangerously quiet and flat. "This is not funny. This was an assault. I am here to do a job, but I am not a piece of meat to be thrown to the wolf to get a 'foothold'."

"Of course, of course, I understand it's a violation of protocol," Chiara said, her laughter subsiding but a thread of dark amusement still woven through her words. "But think about it, Jay. This is a direct and intimate form of contact. He's engaged. And for him to be this brazen…" She paused, her tone shifting to one of calculation. "It makes me certain. That man has to be Rafe. Who else would have the audacity?"

The confirmation sent a new kind of chill through him. The cold-eyed stranger from the elevator, the source of the relentless noise, his assailant—it was all the same man. The target.

"Now listen," Chiara continued, her voice turning brisk. "I'm sending Marco. He will act as your personal guard within the hotel. His presence should deter any further… private encounters. But," she emphasized, "this protection does not extend to the gala tonight. In public, you are on your own. You will be charming, you will be alluring, and you will draw him in. Is that clear?"

Jay closed his eyes, the directive feeling like a sentence. To have to face that man again, to smile and pretend… "Crystal," he bit out, his voice thick with disgust.

He ended the call and tossed the phone onto the bed as if it were contaminated. The silence of the room was suffocating. He needed a shower, needed to scrub the memory of Rafe's touch from his skin.

He limped toward the ensuite bathroom, his body protesting every step. As he walked, a sharp, stinging sensation on his upper thigh made him wince. He looked down, his hand moving to the spot.

And he saw it.

There, on the pale, sensitive skin of his inner thigh, perilously close to his groin, was a perfect, dark purple bite mark. It wasn't a love bite; it was a savage, deliberate brand. A claim of ownership in the most degrading and intimate location possible.

The air left his lungs in a furious rush. The controlled anger he had been clinging to shattered, replaced by a blazing, homicidal rage.

He slammed his fist into the wall, the impact jarring up his arm.

"That fucking monster!" he snarled, the vow echoing in the luxurious emptiness. "He tries that again, and I don't care who he is or what the mission is. I will put a bullet in his skull."