Chapter 3
Viola closed the front door with a soft click, pressing her back against it like she could block out the world with her spine.
She was exhausted—mentally, emotionally, all of it. The day had drained her, and Mack's uninvited appearances hadn't helped. He wasn't just flirtation and power. He was a disruption—the kind that lingered long after he left, like smoke in the lungs.
She tossed her bag on the couch, went to the kitchen, poured a glass of water, and froze.
Something glinted near the door. An envelope. No stamp.
Her heartbeat slowed.
She hadn't heard the mail come.
She picked it up carefully, fingers brushing the thick cardstock inside. Her name gleamed in gold script. Beneath it, in bold ink:
"I don't need to follow you. You leave trails too tempting to ignore.—M"
She exhaled through her nose, more irritated at her reaction than the gesture. Her fingers trembled—not from fear, but from the thrill.
This man was impossible.
The next day, Viola got to the café early. She needed to write, to focus, to breathe without shadow.
With Samantha off and the café quieter than usual, she ordered her usual and settled into her favourite corner—the one with a view of the river. The slow rhythm of the water usually helped her clear her mind.
She made it exactly three paragraphs before a shadow stretched across her table.
She didn't look up. "You're blocking my light."
"You blocked my number. I had to return the favour."
Mack.
He held something in his hand—her printed manuscript. Fresh from the local copy shop.
"What the—? How?"
"I have sources." He placed it gently on the table, then slid into the seat across from her like it was his right. "Also, you left it at the shop. Your friend said you'd want it back."
"You read it?"
"I skimmed." A small smirk tugged at his mouth. "You're bolder on paper. But you play safe in person."
"I'm safe because men like you don't know where to stop."
He leaned forward, elbows on the table. As he shifted, the outline of his Glock peeked out beneath his jacket—intentional, no doubt.
"And yet, here I am. Not touching. Not demanding. Just… watching the sparks."
She narrowed her eyes. "Why me?"
He didn't answer right away. His gaze drifted out the window, then back to her. A flicker of softness—so brief it barely registered.
"Because you don't pretend. You're raw. Angry. Real. And still… here you are. Rebuilding yourself like the world didn't already burn you down. That kind of fire"—he tapped the table once—"doesn't come around twice."
She bit the inside of her cheek. "That sounds a lot like obsession."
"Maybe. But obsession builds empires."
"And ruins women."
The silence between them thickened, smoke-heavy and electric.
Viola stood and gathered her pages. "If you're trying to get under my skin, congratulations. You're halfway there."
"Good." He rose slowly, towering, his presence wrapping around her like heat. "That means I'm close enough to touch the rest of you."
She didn't move. Didn't flinch.
"I'm not some prize you win just because you're persistent," she said.
"I don't want a prize." His hand lifted—not to touch, just to hover near hers. The air between them crackled. "I want a war. And I want you to be the battlefield."
Her grip tightened on the manuscript. Her jaw set. But her body… didn't step back.
"And what if I burn you down in the process?"
He smiled—slow and lethal. "Then I'll light the match for you."
She turned and walked away without another word. But her shoulders were too straight. Her steps are too fast. And the swing of her hips? Unintentional. Devastating.
Mack watched her go.
She wore no tight dress, no designer heels, no war paint. Just jeans, a loose white blouse, and hair pulled into a messy knot. Effortless. Unbothered.
But she had more gravity than any woman he'd met.
The Glock under his jacket dug into his ribs—a reminder of the armour he wore for the world. Usually, it made him feel untouchable.
Right now, it felt like dead weight.
Hyde walked up, fresh from wherever he disappeared. "She put you in your place?"
Mack didn't respond.
"You're serious about her," Hyde said, more careful now.
"I don't chase," Mack murmured, eyes still on the door she'd walked through. "But I'd burn down my own rules if it meant seeing what makes that woman come undone."
Hyde gave a low whistle. "Boss, women like that? They're either your peace or your poison."
"She might be both."
Across the city...
Viola pressed the elevator button, heart still thrumming a steady war drum.
Why him?
She'd faced charming men. Dangerous ones. Liars wrapped in good intentions. But Mack was something else. He was calm like a predator in tall grass—quiet, patient, watching for the perfect moment to pounce.
And he'd shown her the Glock. Made sure she saw it.
It wasn't a threat. It was a message. A warning.
He walked around with power on his hip and danger in his smile. But that wasn't what shook her most.
It was his eyes.
The way he looked at her was like he already owned the ending to their story.
No man writes my ending. Not again.
As the elevator doors slid shut, she leaned against the wall and let out a slow, shaky breath.
Then she smiled.