It happened on the eighth day after his return.
The house was unusually busy, more guards in the hallways, the kitchen clattering with extra staff, and the large dining room prepared for what Xavier called a "meeting dinner."
Jemma wasn't invited to those.
Correction: she wasn't supposed to be invited.
He had told her to stay in her room, and she'd nodded, quiet and cooperative.
It was almost too easy for him to believe she would listen.
The dining room was already alive with low voices and the muted clink of glass when she slipped in. She didn't sneak — not exactly. She pushed the door open and walked inside like she belonged there, chin lifted, wearing a dress she'd chosen specifically because it wasn't what he'd given her.
Xavier looked up mid-conversation, his words halting. For a heartbeat, the table went silent.
Her eyes found his instantly, and she smiled, not the soft, careful smile she used when she wanted to keep the peace, but something sharper.
"You said you didn't want me to join," she said, sliding into an empty chair without waiting for permission. "So I decided to join."
The man sitting beside her, one of Xavier's lieutenants, glanced between them, clearly uncomfortable. Xavier's gaze didn't leave her.
"Get up," he said quietly.
Jemma leaned back in her chair. "Why? You embarrassed?"
There was a ripple of tension at the table. No one spoke. No one moved.
Xavier's hand curled slowly into a fist on the tablecloth. "Adesso." (meaning:Now)
She tilted her head, pretending to consider it. "Or what? You'll drag me out in front of everyone?"
Her voice was light, but the challenge in her eyes was razor-edged.
The room's air seemed to thin, his men glancing at each other. Xavier stood, his chair scraping against the floor. In two strides, he was at her side.
He didn't grab her, not yet, but his shadow fell over her like a storm cloud.
"You're making a mistake," he said, low enough that only she could hear.
She smiled up at him, almost sweetly. "Maybe. Or maybe I'm just reminding you that I can still breathe without your permission."
For a moment, something flickered in his expression, a dangerous mix of fury and fear, before he caught her wrist and pulled her to her feet. She didn't resist at first, but once they were out of the room, she yanked against his grip.
"What's wrong, Xavier?" she taunted. "Scared your precious men will see you can't control me?"
He stopped so abruptly she nearly collided with him. His hand came up to cup her jaw — not gently.
"You want to play in front of them, piccola ribelle? Don't. I'll keep you close, but I won't let you humiliate me." (meaning: little rebel)
That night, he didn't let her out of his sight.
Even after the tension faded from his voice, even after he'd left her alone in her room, the lock clicked softly behind him.
It wasn't anger that kept him close now.
It was the quiet, choking realization that she could hurt him without ever touching him, just by making him remember how easily she could slip away.
The morning sun spilled into the dining room, casting sharp light across the polished table.
Jemma was already there when Xavier arrived, and she was sitting in his chair.
It wasn't subtle.
It wasn't accidental.
Her hands curled loosely around a mug of coffee, steam rising in slow spirals. She didn't glance up when he entered.
"You're in my seat," he said, his tone low but edged.
"I noticed," she replied, taking a long, deliberate sip.
He came closer, each footstep deliberate, controlled. "Move."
"Why?" she asked, finally meeting his eyes. "Afraid someone will think you've lost your throne?"
His jaw tightened. "Now."
She tilted her head, almost smiling. "No."
That was the moment his patience snapped. His hand gripped the top of the chair and in one swift, forceful motion, he spun it sideways, catching her off balance just enough to make her grip the table.
Before she could recover, his other hand hooked under her arm, not painfully, but with absolute authority, pulling her up and out of the seat.
"Let go!" she snapped, shoving at his chest.
He didn't. Instead, he held her there for a moment, close enough for her to see the anger darkening his eyes.
"You want to play games with me at breakfast?" he asked, voice low and tight. "You don't get to sit where you want. You don't get to pretend you're in charge here. 1 eat when I tell you. You sit where I tell you. You breathe because I let you."
Her chin lifted. "Maybe I don't need your permission for any of that."
His gaze hardened. "You think so?"
Without releasing her, he pulled out¹11 chair at the side of the table, her usual place, and sat her down in it with a firm push to her shoulder. Then he leaned over, bracing hiands on either side of the chair so she couldn't stand again without bumping into him.
"You may try to fight me, you may try to provoke me, but don't forget4 1mf1ent closer, his voice a growl, "—you are mine. Capisci?" (meaning:do you understand?)
Her heartbeat kicked up at the Italian word, but her eyes stayed locked on his, unblinking. "Loud and clear."
Only then did he straighten and return to the head of the table, reclaiming his seat with calm precision, as though nothing had happened.
But the air between them stayed tense, charged and every clink of silverware sounded louder than it should.
The rest of breakfast passed in silence, not the easy kind, but the sharp, brittle sort that made the air feel heavier.
Jemma kept her eyes on her plate, stabbing at her food more than eating it. When she did lift her gaze, it slid right past Xavier as if he weren't there.
He noticed. Of course, he noticed.
When they left the dining room, she walked ahead of him, not bothering to match his pace.
She didn't ask permission to move from one room to another.
She didn't acknowledge his presence when he passed by.
It wasn't open rebellion, not the kind that brought consequences, but it was a deliberate withdrawal, an invisible wall that said you don't get my attention today.
By midday, the cold shoulder was so obvious that even some of the staff kept glancing between them.
When he entered the sitting room, she would leave.
When he spoke, she answered in the shortest words possible — "yes," "no," "fine."
Once, she passed him in the hallway and didn't even slow down, brushing by with the faintest whiff of her perfume.
Xavier's patience stretched thin, but he didn't react. Not yet.
Part of him wanted to grab her, make her face him, force the wall down.
Another part, the quieter, more dangerous part, was content to let her stew, to let her believe her silence could affect him.
But the truth was, it did. Every cool glance, every clipped reply… it irritated him in ways he hated to admit.
By the time evening came, they had spent an entire day circling each other like chess pieces, moving, watching, but never directly colliding.
He poured himself a drink in the library, watching the firelight flicker, and decided that tomorrow, one way or another, the ice between them was going to break.