Theodore peered into the room, his eyes lingering on the wreckage. Charles Sawyer lay on the floor, a broken, bloody mess, barely clinging to the edge of consciousness. He looked back at Oscar, who was currently a wall of solid muscle shielding Hannah. Oscar had wrapped her so tightly in his own suit jacket that not an inch of skin was visible.

Theodore realized now why Oscar had ordered him to stay by the door. It wasn't to spare him the sight of the violence—Theodore had seen Oscar break men before—it was to ensure no other man laid eyes on Hannah’s disarray.

Since when did Oscar Wells care about modesty? Theodore wondered. Then he looked at the way Oscar held her, and he had his answer. It wasn't about modesty. It was about her.

“Okay,” Theodore murmured, retreating. He knew better than to argue when Oscar’s eyes were that dark.

Oscar didn't say a word as he carried Hannah down to the car. She clung to him, her fingers knotting into his shirt, a silent, desperate dependency that she hated but couldn't help. When they reached the car, he settled her into the passenger seat and turned to the driver.

“Get out,” Oscar commanded.

“Yes, sir.” The driver vanished into the night without a second glance.

The drive back to the villa was suffocatingly quiet. Oscar’s profile was a silhouette of granite, his jaw set so tight it looked painful. Hannah watched the city lights blur past, her mind a chaotic storm of trauma and simmering rage. The memory of Charles’s touch felt like a layer of filth she couldn't scrape off.

One day, she promised herself, her eyes hardening into shards of ice. I will make him pay for every second of this.

When they arrived at the manor, the atmosphere was no lighter. Max was in the hall, still tidying up. “Master Oscar, you’re—” He stopped mid-sentence the moment he saw Oscar’s face. He looked at Hannah, searching for a clue, but she walked past him in a silent, ghostly trance.

She reached her bedroom and tried to close the door, but a heavy hand caught the frame. Oscar pushed his way in, his presence filling the room with an agitated, electric energy.

“Go take a shower,” he said, his voice a low growl. He strode into her bathroom and turned the water on, the roar of the spray echoing against the tiles.

Hannah didn't argue. She felt sick. She retreated into the bathroom and shed Oscar’s black suit. Beneath it, her dress was a tattered rag, her dignity hanging by a thread. She stepped under the scalding water and scrubbed until her skin was raw and crimson, desperate to wash away the phantom sensation of Charles’s lips.

When she finally emerged, wrapped in a thick white bathrobe, Oscar was still there. He was sitting on her sofa, staring at her with an intensity that made her skin prickle. Her hair was still dripping, dampening the collar of her robe.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice trembling slightly. “I’m fine now. You should go back to your room.”

“I’m not,” Oscar said, each word hitting like a stone.

Hannah frowned. “What? Did you get hurt? Your hand?”

She took a step toward him, confused, but Oscar met her halfway. Before she could react, he crashed his lips against hers. It wasn't the gentle, magnetic kiss from the nightclub; it was a desperate, territorial claim.

Panic flared in Hannah’s chest. The trauma of the evening surged back, and she began to struggle, her hands pushing against his chest. Men are all the same, a voice screamed in her head. Escape one predator only to be cornered by another.

He pinned her to the bed, his kiss trailing down to her throat.

“No!” Hannah cried out, the sound sharp and broken. “Not now! Please, not now!”

She had reconciled herself to the idea of sleeping with him as part of their deal, but at this moment, she couldn't differentiate his touch from the nightmare she’d just escaped.

The room went cold. Oscar froze.

He looked down and saw the tears streaming into her hair, her eyes wide and full of a heartbreak he hadn't expected. His throat twitched. The red haze of jealousy—the maddening thought of Charles touching what was his—suddenly evaporated, replaced by a crushing guilt.

He pulled back, sitting up and drawing her bathrobe closed around her as if to shield her from himself. He reached out with a long, slender finger and wiped a tear away.

“Why didn't you cry when he did it?” he asked, his voice cracking with a strange, vulnerable hurt.

Hannah looked at him through a blur of salt and water. The lust was gone from his eyes, replaced by a raw, clumsy tenderness. She bit her lip to keep from sobbing. When Charles had touched her, she had felt only hatred—a cold, hard desire for revenge. But when Oscar had forced her, it felt like a betrayal of the one person she had started to trust.

“Don’t cry,” Oscar whispered.

But the floodgates were open. Hannah, who had promised herself after her rebirth that she would never be weak again, was weeping like a child because of this bastard.

“Good girl,” Oscar murmured, his hand hovering near her cheek, afraid to touch her again. “I promise... it won't happen like that again. Please, Hannah.”

She turned her head away, her shoulders shaking. “Liar.”

“It was my fault. I’m sorry.” The apology was stiff, unpracticed. Oscar Wells had never yielded to a woman in his life; he had never had to care if a heart broke in his wake. Seeing him now, struggling to find the words to mend what he’d almost shattered, Hannah realized that for all his playboy bravado, he was just as lost as she was.