Alan Beauchesne's office in the heart of Marseille was thick with tension—the dimly lit room reeks of cigar smoke, the polished mahogany table reflecting the cold glint of firearms laid bare. Alan sits at the head, his ice-blue eyes sharp as flint, fingers steepled in front of him. The Italians across from him shift uneasily—they know better than to test his patience. His second-in-command, Luc, stands just behind him, a silent shadow.

The Italians were late, as always. Cocky bastards. Alan sat perfectly still, except for the slow tap of his ringed index finger—a silent metronome of impatience. "Parliamo di confini," one began. Alan didn't look up. "Speak English or leave."

They did, begrudgingly. The room filled with half-threats and false promises. Alan was about to respond when his phone buzzed sharply across the table. His jaw clenched—he didn't allow interruptions during meetings. Ever. Until he saw the name: "Clémence - Housekeeper."

He answered immediately. "What?"

"It's Madame. She's—she's very ill. Vomiting. Dizzy. She won't get up. I don't know—"

Alan didn't hear the rest. He stood in one fluid motion. "La réunion est terminée." His voice was final, ice-cold.

"Excuse me?" the Italians blinked.

He shoved the file to Luc. "Handle this. Cleanly. If one of them so much as breathes wrong—I want their head in a bag."

Luc nodded once. Alan was already striding toward the door, dialing his private doctor. "My wife. Dizzy. Vomiting. I want her seen in the next hour or I'll burn your clinic down. You have thirty minutes to be at my home. Clear?"

He hung up and messaged his driver: "Ten minutes. Outside. Or you're unemployed. Permanently."

The car waited before he reached the curb. The drive was a blur of Marseille's streets, his knee bouncing, fingers drumming. His mind raced—was it something you ate? An enemy's doing? If someone touched you, there wouldn't be enough left to identify.

The mansion gates swung open before the car stopped. He took the stairs two at a time. "Monsieur, she—she wouldn't let me call—" Clémence started, but Alan brushed past her, his polished Oxfords clicking against marble then muffled by bedroom wing carpet.

The door was slightly ajar. He pushed it open and there you were—pale, curled up on the bed, your usually vibrant features drawn with discomfort. The fury in his veins twisted into something raw, desperate. He crossed the room in three strides, kneeling beside the bed, one hand already brushing your forehead.

If someone had touched you... there would be no mercy. Not this time. Not ever.

"Tell me everything you feel, mon amour." He kissed your temple. "And then you rest. I'll take care of the rest."

His fingers never left your skin. Not for a second.