The remnants of a peaceful evening lingered in the air – the soft glow of the bedside lamp, the comfortable silence punctuated by the gentle rhythm of their breathing.
Heather had been idly scrolling through old messages on her phone, a nostalgic journey through earlier, simpler times, when her thumb hovered over a familiar, yet unsettling, notification she had received a few days prior.
The memory of it, initially dismissed as just another piece of online garbage in the post-concert deluge, now prickled at the back of her neck with a renewed sense of unease. A cold knot tightened in her stomach.
She held the phone out to Rhys, her hand trembling slightly despite her attempt to appear composed. "I almost forgot that I received this message..." her voice barely above a whisper, the cheerful tone of a few moments ago completely vanished.
Rhys took the phone, his brow furrowing as he focused on the stark message.
You don't deserve him. I'll make sure he sees the truth.
His eyes then flicked to the attached photo – a candid shot of Heather leaving the hotel after the Peridot Arena concert.
The casual angle, the unsuspecting look on her face, sent a jolt of icy dread through him. The memory of Heather initially shrugging it off as just another hateful comment now felt like a dangerous oversight.
A low growl rumbled in his chest. Before Heather could even register his escalating anger, a primal protectiveness surged within him, eclipsing his usual calm.
With a sudden, violent movement, his hand clenched around the phone, and he hurled it against the wall. The sharp crack of plastic against plaster shattered the quiet intimacy of the room, the pieces scattering across the floor like tangible shards of their disrupted peace.
Heather recoiled, her breath catching in her throat. She stared at the broken remnants of her phone, the screen now a spiderweb of cracks, then up at Rhys, his face a mask of deep, raw rage.
His knuckles were white, his jaw tight, and the air around him crackled with a barely contained fury she had never witnessed before, not even in the most heated arguments about his demanding schedule or the suffocating constraints of his fame.
"That's it," he ground out, his voice low and dangerous. "That's absolutely it. You're getting security. Starting tomorrow. No arguments."
She crossed her arms, a stubborn defiance rising to combat the fear that now gripped her anew. "Security? Really, Rhys? What am I supposed to do, walk around with a couple of burly guys in sunglasses following me everywhere? What am I, some rich heiress who needs constant protection? I have managed perfectly fine on my own for more than twenty years!"
"Not anymore, Heather!" His voice cracked, the raw emotion breaking through his anger. He took a step towards her, his hands reaching out, then clenching into fists at his sides.
"Don't you understand? This wasn't just some random hate comment. This person knows your routine. They took a picture of you that day. This is real. This is a threat."
The sheer, evident fear in his eyes, the tremor in his voice, stunned her into silence. This wasn't the controlled intensity he exuded on stage, the confident swagger of an idol. This was a primal, gut-wrenching fear for her safety, a vulnerability she had never glimpsed beneath his superstar façade.
Heather's anger dissolved, replaced by a wave of concern. She took a step towards him, her hands reaching out to cup his face, her thumbs gently stroking his tense jawline.
"Hey," she said softly, her voice a soothing balm in the charged atmosphere. "Hey, look at me. I'm okay. I'm not fragile, Rhys. I can handle myself."
Rhys leaned into her touch, his large hands covering hers, his forehead pressing against hers. His breath hitched, a shudder running through his body.
"I know," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "God, I know you're strong, Heather. You're the strongest person I know. But… you're everything to me. Everything. And the thought of anything… anything at all… happening to you…"
The words caught in his throat, the unspoken fear hanging heavy between them. In that moment, the idol bravado melted away, leaving only a man terrified of losing the woman he loved.
Two days later, the fragile bubble of their carefully constructed normalcy shattered with terrifying force.
The morning at the Black Star Cafe had begun with its usual comforting rhythm – the whir of the espresso machine, the murmur of early customers, the comforting scent of freshly baked pastries.
Then, the delivery arrived.
A nondescript cardboard box, addressed in stark, blocky handwriting directly to Heather.
Marjorie, ever cautious, had eyed it with suspicion, her years of dealing with odd deliveries for the neighboring businesses making her wary.
Heather, her initial curiosity tinged with a flicker of unease, had taken the package in the back room, away from the prying eyes of the few lingering customers. As she sliced through the packing tape, a metallic tang, sharp and unsettling, wafted out.
Inside, nestled amongst crumpled brown paper, was a shredded Lux tour shirt – the very design from Rhys's current world tour, the familiar logo torn to ribbons. But it wasn't the destruction that made her gasp. It was the sickening crimson that saturated the fabric, a viscous, horrifying imitation of blood, still damp to the touch.
Beneath the gruesome contents lay a single, folded sheet of cheap, lined paper. The message, scrawled in the same crude block letters as the address, sent a wave of icy terror crashing through her:
YOU'RE NEXT
The simplicity of the threat, the directness of the malice, was far more chilling than any of the anonymous online criticism. This wasn't just words on a screen; this was tangible, visceral.
Her breath hitched, and the box slipped from her numb fingers, the grotesque contents spilling onto the worn linoleum floor.
────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────
The sterile scent of disinfectant still clung to the air in the back room of the café, a stark contrast to the usual aroma of roasted beans and cinnamon. Heather sat huddled in the corner booth, Marjorie's arm a solid, comforting weight around her shoulders. Her gaze was fixed on the yellow police tape crisscrossing the doorway.
Rhys knelt beside her, his hand gently covering hers, his touch a silent reassurance. His face, usually alight with energy and a playful smirk, was now etched with a grim determination, his eyes dark with a protective fury that simmered just beneath the surface.
"They're taking it seriously," he said, his voice low and rough, laced with a barely controlled tremor. "Forensics is all over the package. They're checking for fingerprints, DNA… anything."
Heather nodded mutely, unable to find her voice. The image of the shredded, bloodied shirt kept flashing behind her eyelids, a horrifying tableau that had replaced the comforting scenes of her daily life.
Marjorie squeezed her shoulder. "Don't you worry, darling. The police here are good. They'll find whoever did this." But even her usually unwavering optimism sounded strained.
Rhys's manager, his face a mask of tightly controlled panic, hovered in the doorway, his phone pressed to his ear. "Yes, Julian, I understand the severity. But cancelling a live, prime-time interview? The sponsors are furious… Yes, I've told him… No, he's… he's dealing with the situation."
He shot Rhys a worried glance, a silent plea for some kind of reassurance that this wouldn't completely derail their carefully laid plans.
Rhys ignored him, his focus entirely on Heather. "Don't go to work for now, baby," he said, his voice firm. "I'm getting you a round-the-clock security, starting tonight. You won't be alone, Heather. Ever."
A small, rebellious spark flickered in Heather's eyes, even through the fear. "Rhys, I don't want to live in a fortress. I don't want my life to be dictated by some… some lunatic."
"I know you don't," he said, his voice softening, his thumb gently stroking the back of her hand. "But this isn't about what we want right now, Heather. This is about your safety. My priority is you. Always."
Later that night, the silence of their home felt less like a sanctuary and more like a gilded cage. The newly hired security guards, their presence both reassuring and unsettling, moved with quiet efficiency in the background.
Heather sat on the balcony. Rhys sat beside her, his arm a constant, protective weight around her shoulders.
"Do you think they'll catch whoever sent it?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper.
Rhys tightened his grip. "They have to. They will. We'll cooperate with the police in any way we can. We'll look at any security footage from the café… we'll find them." His voice was firm with a conviction he hoped he truly felt.
A long silence stretched between them. Finally, Heather stirred, turning to face him, her eyes filled with a raw vulnerability that pierced his heart.
"Rhys," she began, her voice trembling slightly. "You said you don't regret telling the world about us... But what if it was a mistake? Because… because look at what's happening. My life… it's not mine anymore. I'm scared all the time. And now… now someone is actually threatening me. Is this what our love is going to be? Constant fear? Constant danger?"
The question hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. Rhys looked into her eyes, seeing the genuine anguish and terror reflected there, and for the first time, a sliver of doubt, sharp and cold, pierced through his unwavering certainty.
He had wanted to share his world with her, but had he inadvertently dragged her into its darkest corners? Was the intense, all-consuming love they shared truly worth this terrifying price? The vibrant future they had tentatively begun to build now felt fragile, overshadowed by the menacing shadow of an unknown stalker.