FATED LOVE

Two years after the tragic accident that claimed the life of the young master, the Alexandro family had never known peace. His car had been found engulfed in flames along a deserted highway outside the city. By the time authorities arrived, the fire had consumed everything. There was nothing left to recognize. The report had been inconclusive. But no one had survived such an explosion before. And so, the unthinkable was accepted. The heir was dead. At the head of the empire, Master Alexandro continued to rule with unshaken authority. His voice still commanded silence. His decisions still moved shipments across borders. His presence still instilled fear. If grief haunted him, he buried it beneath discipline. But beneath his rule, the family had begun to fracture. At private dinners, cousins debated strength and loyalty. In quiet corridors, uncles calculated alliances. No one dared challenge the Master openly. But everyone was preparing for tomorrow. With the heir gone, the future had become negotiable. And ambition was a dangerous thing in a cartel family. --- Miles away from burning highways and polished boardrooms, life was simple. Dusty roads. Market chatter. The scent of herbs drying in the sun. Mitchell walked slowly along the narrow path leading home. The villagers admired him openly. “He’s different,” some whispered. “He doesn’t belong here,” others said. But he heard none of it. A sharp pain struck the back of his skull. A flash... A long dining table. A chandelier. A voice shouting. Then darkness. He stopped walking. The images slipped away like smoke. Frustration tightened his jaw. Every time he tried to remember, pain answered him. By dusk, he gave up and headed home. Home “Good evening, Grandma,” he said quietly. Grandma Eve looked up from sorting dried leaves. “And where have you wandered to this time?” “The valley.” The word carried weight. Clara, who was grinding herbs nearby, froze. “That place only brings you suffering,” Grandma said gently. “It’s the only place that feels… close,” he replied. Close to what? He didn’t know. As he turned toward his room, he collided with Clara. Her glasses slipped down her nose. “Watch where you’re going,” he muttered. She folded her arms. “You’re the one walking around like the world betrayed you.” His eyes hardened briefly. “You wouldn’t understand.” “Then explain,” she challenged. He didn’t. He walked away. Grandma Eve watched in silence. There was a storm inside him. And storms never stayed hidden forever. --- Two Years Earlier Branches tore against his skin as he ran through the forest. Gunshots cracked behind him. “Don’t let him escape!” a mercenary shouted. Pain exploded through his thigh. He stumbled, nearly collapsing. Boots pounded closer. He dropped to one knee, blood soaking his trousers. “I’ll pay you double,” he rasped desperately. The mercenary pressed a gun against his temple. “This isn’t about money.” Cold dread filled his chest. “Our boss wants you erased.” Before he could react, survival instinct took over. He flung dirt into their eyes and ran blindly. The ground vanished beneath him. He fell into a rocky slope. His head struck stone. Darkness swallowed him whole. Above, the mercenaries stared down at his motionless body. “He’s finished.” Their leader made a call. “It’s done.” Far away, in a quiet study, Aunt Gomez ended the call with a slow smile. Outside the city, flames rose into the night sky. --- That same evening, Grandma Eve and Clara were returning from gathering herbs when Clara stopped abruptly. “Grandma… someone’s there.” A faint groan echoed from the valley. They followed the sound and found him, broken, bleeding, barely alive. “He’s breathing,” Grandma said firmly. Clara turned his body gently to assess the damage. That was when she saw it. “Grandma… look.” Near the torn collar of his expensive shirt, faint gold embroidery shimmered beneath dried blood. Grandma wiped it carefully. Mitchell Al... The remaining letters had been ripped away when the fabric tore during his fall. Clara read it slowly. “Mitchell… Al.” “Perhaps his name,” Grandma murmured. “And the rest?” Only jagged threads remained. “Whatever it was,” Grandma said quietly, “it has been taken from him.” She looked down at the unconscious stranger. They carried him home. For days he burned with fever. Grandma removed the bullet fragment. Treated the head injury. Crushed herbs. Lowered infection. Prayed. On the fifth day, he opened his eyes. “Where… am I?” “You’re safe,” Grandma said gently. He searched his mind. Nothing. Not his family. Not his enemies. Not even his full name. Only darkness. --- A crash sounded from Mitchell’s room. Clara rushed in. He was hunched over, gripping his head. Images flashed violently. A voice screaming his name. “Mitchell!” Clara moved toward him with herbs. “Stop!” he snapped, knocking the bowl from her hands. It shattered. “I’m not sick!” he shouted. “I just need it to stop!” Clara hesitated. Then she stepped behind him and wrapped her arms around him tightly. He froze. Her cheek pressed against his back. “You don’t have to fight alone,” she whispered. His breathing slowed. The chaos in his mind softened. After a long moment, his trembling hands covered hers. He didn’t push her away. From the doorway, Grandma Eve watched quietly. Some wounds required warmth, not medicine. She left them alone. Mitchell turned slowly to face Clara. Her glasses were slightly crooked. Her hair messy from rushing. Her eyes steady. “When you look at me like that,” he murmured, “the noise fades.” “What noise?” she asked softly. He didn’t answer. Instead, he studied her. “You have the most beautiful eyes.” Her face flushed instantly. “Don’t flatter me,” she muttered. “You’re still unbearable.” A faint smile touched his lips. “And you’re still irritating.” But this time, there was warmth behind it. She left quickly, heart racing. Alone, Mitchell opened his drawer. Grandma had kept the torn scrap of his shirt. He traced the stitched letters. Mitchell Al... His head throbbed. Somewhere deep within him, something stirred. A name. A legacy. A betrayal wrapped in fire. And when the rest of those letters returned to him… The war for the Alexandro heir would no longer be a quiet one.