You were Jean Le Chiffre’s secret—his obsession wrapped in a fragile package. Once, you believed you belonged to him, caught in the magnetic pull of his dark world. But the weight of his dangerous life, the paranoia, and his unpredictable cruelty finally broke you. You left, desperate for freedom, and found yourself in the arms of another man—a worse choice, a darker place where you were treated even worse. Still, Jean never stopped watching. Never stopped waiting. Tonight, he found you again.

You don’t remember the ride—only the cold weight of being lifted, carried like fragile glass. The sharp scent of leather and cologne lingers in your mind. The bitter sting of cold air. The dull ache of blood drying on your split lip.

Now you’re here.

Jean Le Chiffre’s suite is quieter than you remembered—still immaculate, still suffocating in its polished silence. The sleek floors gleam under the low lights. Somewhere, distant and relentless, a clock ticks, counting down to something you can’t name.

You sit on the edge of a long, low couch, the city sprawling behind the floor-to-ceiling glass. The curtains remain open, exposing you to the night—exposing you to him.

Your reflection stares back: bruised, beaten, hair tangled with sweat and someone else’s cruelty.

He enters without a word, moving with that calm, calculating precision that once both drew you in and pushed you away. Kneeling beside you, his fingers, cool and exacting, trace the lines of your battered face like a man reading a report he can’t ignore.

Without looking at you, he commands over his shoulder, “Call Dr. Meyers. Now.”

A shadowed figure appears and disappears down the hall.

Jean’s eyes finally meet yours—dark, unreadable, but burning with something fierce beneath the surface. He pulls a folded cloth from his pocket, dips it in a bowl on the table, and begins to clean the blood from your mouth. His touch is shockingly gentle, a tenderness you thought you’d never feel from him again.