Fury at the Gate

The mansion no longer felt like a home. It felt like a fortress under siege, every wall pressed in by the weight of invisible enemies. After the delivery of the rose and the bullet, silence had wrapped itself around me tighter than ever. I could not walk the halls without feeling eyes on me, though I knew logically no one was there. I could not sit by the window without scanning the grounds for shadows, for movements that weren’t supposed to be there.

Alexander said little. That frightened me more than his words. He moved through the house like a storm barely held at bay, jaw tight, shoulders tense, his phone glued to his hand as he snapped orders to men scattered across the city. I overheard fragments when I dared to linger near his study. Streets. Names. Retaliation. The undercurrent in his tone promised blood. His silence toward me was worse than anger—it was distance, and in that distance I felt my fear multiply.

The mansion’s security tightened until I could barely take a step without someone trailing behind. Marcus shadowed me most often, and though his presence was meant to reassure, it made me feel trapped. Guards rotated at the gates, at the doors, even outside my bedroom. But none of it changed the fact that someone had already bypassed all of them once before. A black card had found its way onto my nightstand. A glass box had been left at the gates. These men could patrol until their feet bled, but the tru...

By the second night after the rose, I could not eat. I could not sleep. My body trembled with the effort of pretending normalcy. I sat in the library, staring blankly at pages I never read, my eyes flicking up at every creak of the old house. My imagination betrayed me. I swore I saw shadows slipping through the doorway. I swore I heard faint whispers in the hall. My fear was no longer limited to what was real. The rival’s message had rooted itself in my mind, twisting everything into a warning.

That was when I realized I had begun to pace the mansion like a prisoner. Not free. Not safe. Caged.

Alexander, meanwhile, grew colder. At first, I thought it was because he blamed himself for leaving me vulnerable. But no—it wasn’t guilt that hollowed him out. It was fury. He was holding it back, burying it deep under calculation and command. Each day his restraint looked thinner. Each night his eyes looked darker. When he did look at me, I saw it—the war building in him, coiling tighter with every reminder that his rival had dared to touch me with threats.

The breaking point came on the third morning.

I woke before dawn, restless, unable to lie still in the massive bed. I wandered the hallway, drawn toward the faint murmur of voices downstairs. By the time I reached the grand staircase, I realized the murmurs weren’t from inside. They came from the gates.

A commotion stirred outside. Guards’ voices, low and tense. I froze halfway down the stairs, my heart hammering. Moments later, Alexander’s footsteps echoed behind me, sharp and fast. He brushed past without a word, and instinct drove me to follow.

When we stepped into the foyer, Marcus was already there, face grim. He held a flashlight in his hand, though the early morning light had begun to creep over the horizon. Alexander didn’t pause. He strode to the front doors and threw them open. Cold air rushed in.

And there it was.

Carved deep into the iron of the gates were words that froze my blood.

“She is ours.”

The letters gouged into the metal were jagged, raw, fresh. The cuts still gleamed silver where the paint had been torn away. Whoever had done this had stood at our gates, close enough to touch, bold enough to take their time defacing Alexander’s fortress. My breath caught, my chest tightening until I could hardly inhale.

The guards kept their eyes lowered, shame burning in their silence. Alexander’s back was rigid, his fists clenched at his sides. For a long moment, no one moved. The only sound was the soft moan of the wind through the carved iron. Then, slowly, Alexander reached out and traced one of the letters with his fingertips. His hand shook, not with fear—but with fury.

I took a step back. The sight of him like that—so still, so controlled, yet on the edge of something violent—terrified me more than the words themselves. He was going to break.

“Who was on watch?” His voice was low, deadly. The kind of quiet that came before an explosion.

Two guards stepped forward, bowing their heads. One opened his mouth, but no words came. Alexander turned on them, his eyes blazing. “Who?” he demanded again, louder this time. The sheer force in his tone made me flinch.

“Sir, we—we patrolled—” one stammered.

“Patrolled?” Alexander’s voice snapped like a whip. “And yet this”—he gestured violently at the gates—“happened under your watch.”

No one spoke. The silence was damning.

And then it happened. The restraint Alexander had been clinging to for days finally shattered. He strode forward, grabbed the nearest guard by the collar, and slammed him against the stone wall with such force that the man’s breath left him in a gasp. The other men froze, eyes wide, no one daring to intervene.

“You let them stand at my gates!” Alexander roared, his voice echoing across the courtyard. “You let them write this—this claim—while you slept at your post!” His fist drove into the wall inches from the guard’s head, stone cracking under the blow. The guard trembled, his face pale.

I stood rooted to the steps, my heart racing. This wasn’t the polished billionaire I’d met. This wasn’t even the cold strategist I’d grown used to. This was raw fury, violent and unchecked, spilling out of him like fire. The man I loved had become someone else—someone terrifying.

Alexander released the guard with a shove so hard the man stumbled to the ground. He turned to the rest of his men, his chest heaving, his voice thunderous. “Find them. Tear this city apart if you have to, but find them. I want every street watched, every alley searched. If you fail me again—” He broke off, his glare sharp as a blade. “—you won’t live to regret it.”

His men scattered instantly, their footsteps a frantic storm. Marcus lingered, his eyes flicking to me for the briefest second before following the others.

Alexander remained by the gates, fists still clenched, breathing like a man trying to master the beast inside him. His gaze lingered on the carved words, and for the first time I realized something that chilled me deeper than fear: he wasn’t just angry. He was declaring war. And in war, there were always casualties.

I wrapped my arms around myself, a shiver cutting through me. Because if this was how Alexander reacted now, I couldn’t begin to imagine what he’d become when he finally faced the rival who had done this.

And I wasn’t sure if I’d recognize him when that day came.