Chapter 3
1243 Words
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 in the corners of her thoughts long after he left.
She tossed her bag on the couch, headed straight for the kitchen, poured herself a glass of water, and caught the glint of something unusual at her front door.
A small envelope. No stamp.
Her heart slowed.
She hadn’t heard the mail come.
Tentatively, she opened it. Inside was a thick, custom-printed card with her name in gold script. Beneath it:
“I don't need to follow you. You leave trails too tempting to ignore.—M”
She closed the card and exhaled through her nose, more irritated at her reaction than the gesture. Her fingers trembled—not from fear, but from the subtle thrill that crawled through her.
This man was impossible.
The next day, she arrived at the café early. She needed to write, focus—and breathe without shadow.
Samantha wasn’t working today, and Viola was glad for the quiet. She ordered her usual and settled into her favourite corner spot, overlooking the river, where the soft movement of the water usually helped calm her racing thoughts. She made it exactly three paragraphs before a shadow fell across her table. She didn’t look up.
“You’re blocking my light,” she muttered.
“You’re blocking my number.” His voice was like a smooth storm.
Viola looked up. Mack stood there, holding out her manuscript—her printed pages from the local copy shop.
“What the—? How?”
“I have sources.” He laid it on the table and slid into the seat across from her like he’d done it a thousand times. “Also, you left it at the shop yesterday. Your friend said you’d want it back.”
She stared at him, blinking. “You read it?”
“I skimmed.” He gave a small smirk. “You’re bold on paper. But you play safe in person.”
“I’m safe because men like you don’t know where to stop.”
He leaned forward, his elbows on the table, his Glock visible under his shirt as he shifted. “And yet, here I am. Sitting across from you. Not touching. Not demanding. Just... watching the sparks.”
Viola narrowed her eyes. “Why me?”
Mack didn’t answer right away. He looked out for a moment, then back at her. Something in his face softened—not much, but just enough for her to notice.
“Because you don’t pretend. You’re raw. Angry. Real. And still… You sit here trying to rebuild yourself like the world didn’t already burn you down. That kind of fire,” he said, tapping the table lightly, “doesn’t come around twice.”
She bit the inside of her cheek. “That sounds a lot like obsession, Mack.”
He smiled. “Maybe. But obsession builds empires.”
“And ruins women.”
Silence passed between them, thick as smoke. Then Viola stood, grabbed her pages, and looked down at him.
“If you're trying to get under my skin, congratulations. You’re halfway there.”
“Good,” he replied. “That means I’m close enough to touch the rest of you.” She didn’t move, just stood there, her pulse beating so hard she could hear it in her ears. Mack rose from his chair slowly, deliberately, his towering form closing the distance between them. His cologne—earthy, dark, masculine—wrapped around her before his voice did.
“I’m not here to play it safe, Viola. I want to know what your silence hides, what your nights sound like when no one’s listening. I want to know what it looks like when that mouth stops spitting fire and starts whispering my name.”
Her breath hitched, barely noticeable, but he saw it. The flicker of awareness. The crack in her armour.
“I’m not some prize you get to win because you’re persistent,” she whispered.
“I don’t want a prize.” His hand lifted, not to touch her—yet—but hovered just close enough to feel the static spark between them. “I want a war. And I want you to be the battlefield.”
Viola’s fingers clenched around her manuscript, eyes narrowing—but her body betrayed her. She didn’t step back. She didn’t turn away.
“And what if I burn you down in the process?” she asked.
He grinned, slow and dangerous. “Then I’ll light the match for you.” Mack watched her walk away, the sway of her hips unintentional but devastating. She didn’t dress to impress—not in the traditional sense. No tight dress, no heels, no over-the-top makeup. Just jeans, a loose white blouse, and her hair pulled back in a messy knot. Effortless.
But somehow, she still had more gravity than any woman he’d met. And he’d met plenty.
He sat back down, his Glock still snug in its holster under his jacket, pressed against his ribs like a second spine. Normally, it was a comfort. Power. Protection.
Right now, it just reminded him of the wall he used to keep the world out—and how she was managing to crawl over it, brick by brick, without even trying.
Hyde returned with a grin. “She put you in your place?”
Mack didn’t answer, just stared at the doorway she’d exited through.
“You’re serious about her,” Hyde said, his voice more cautious now.
“I don’t chase,” Mack said finally, eyes still locked on the glass. “But I’d burn down my own rules if it meant seeing what makes that woman come undone.”
Hyde gave a low whistle and leaned on the table. “Boss, women like that? They’re either your peace or your poison.”
“She might be both,” Mack said.
He tapped his phone. Viola’s name and number were right there. He could text her. He could send a car. He could send a hundred men to her front door if he wanted to. But he wouldn’t. Not yet.
She deserved more than control.
She deserved to choose.
Across the City...
Viola pressed the elevator button to her apartment, her heart still pounding like a drumbeat in her throat.
Why did he get to her?
She’d met charming men before. Confident ones. Dangerous ones. But Mack was something else. He was calm like a predator in tall grass—watchful, quiet, and always ready to pounce.
She’d seen the bulge under his coat. The Glock.
He wanted her to see it.
It was a move—a message. A man who wanted her to know exactly what kind of power he walked around with. But it wasn’t just the weapon that unsettled her. It was his eyes. The way they looked at her was like he already owned the ending of their story.
No man gets to write my ending, she thought. Not again.
As the elevator doors closed, she leaned back against the wall and let out a shaky breath. Then she smiled to herself.
- Writer
