Chapter 312: Break the Fucking Door

Meanwhile, Durnik was on the floor of his office, cursing so hard his voice had gone rough.

He had been cursing since the second Gracie left him tied to that chair. At first the insults had come out sharp and loud. Then they got breathless. Then they got personal. By the time he finally forced himself upright, he was shaking like a man who had lost a fight with furniture and pride at the same time.

His wrists were still bound. His trousers were across the room. All he had left below the waist were boxers that had somehow twisted during the struggle and now sat on him in a way no grown man should ever have to experience. Every movement reminded him of the belt marks, the locked door, and the fact that the woman who did this to him was already gone.

"That bitch," he snarled. "That absolute bitch."

He shoved his body toward the desk. The only good news in the entire disaster was that the desk was heavy. Solid. Expensive. It did not slide away when his useless weight crashed against it. If the thing had been one of those cheap decorative tables, he would have gone straight back down and probably cried about it.

He leaned hard, chest against the wood, bare legs braced awkwardly underneath him. His arms were still tied behind the chair, which meant every bit of progress had to come from sheer stubborn rage and bad balance. He dragged himself closer inch by inch until the phone was finally within reach of his face.

His hands were useless.

So he used his mouth.

He clamped his teeth around the receiver, yanked it off the base with all the grace of a furious raccoon, and somehow managed to jam his chin against the buttons until the call went through to security.

The line connected.

Durnik did not say hello.

"Get your asses to my office right fucking now and break my door!"

On the other end, the head of security froze for half a second. The chairman did not usually sound like a man being held hostage by office furniture.

Still, the shout was enough.

"Move," the security head snapped at the others. "Chairman’s office. Now."

They ran.

What none of them clearly caught in the panic was the most important part of the sentence.

Break the door.

They heard office.

They heard now.

They heard the tone of a man who could fire them into unemployment before lunch.

So they sprinted down the corridor like the building was on fire, stopped in front of Durnik’s door, and knocked hard.

"Sir, we’re here!"

Inside, Durnik nearly lost what remained of his mind.

"Are you bastards fucking kidding me?!" he roared. "Break the fucking door!"

Outside, the security team exchanged looks.

One of them whispered, "Did he say break it?"

Another whispered back, "I think he’s just yelling."

A third knocked again, louder, because in corporate life some people genuinely believed volume could solve architecture.

That did it.

"I said break the fucking door!" Durnik screamed. "Destroy it! Kick it! Put a hole in it! Stop standing there like decorative plants and open this shit!"

Only then did the message fully land.

There was a short, chaotic pause while grown men in security uniforms realized they were about to commit property damage on direct executive orders. Then they scattered, rushed downstairs, and came back with whatever heavy tools they could grab the fastest.

Five minutes later, the hallway sounded like a construction site.

Bang.

Bang.

Crack.

The door frame shuddered. Someone hit it again. Wood splintered. The lock gave up its career with a final ugly snap, and the door burst inward in a shower of broken pieces and pure workplace failure.

Then the security team saw him.

And the room went very quiet.

There was Durnik.

Chairman of the company.

Important man.

Feared man.

Currently red-faced, sweaty, tied to an office chair, trousers on the other side of the room, long shirt barely doing charity work, and boxers twisted around him in a way that made them look less like underwear and more like a tragic skirt that had lost the will to live.

No one spoke.

One of the younger guards made the mistake of letting his face show exactly what his soul was feeling.

Disgust.

Confusion.

Spiritual damage.

Durnik saw the looks and detonated.

"You’re all fired!" he screamed. "Every single one of you! Untie me! What the hell are you standing there for?!"

They snapped out of it and rushed forward. Hands went to the silk tie binding his wrists. Someone tried not to look below the chairman’s waist and failed. Another man accidentally made eye contact with the abandoned trousers on the floor and immediately looked at the ceiling like the answer to his career problems might be written there.

The moment Durnik’s hands were free, he lunged for his trousers with the desperation of a man reclaiming the last piece of his dignity from a house fire. He yanked them on so fast he nearly tripped, still cursing under his breath, still shaking from fury and leftover helplessness.

The security men remained standing there.

Waiting.

Because in their heads, this was the part where a normal boss explained the hostage situation, the intruder, the emergency, the reason a door had just died for the company.

Durnik stared at them like they had personally invented humiliation.

"Are you fucking useless?" he barked. "Can’t you see I’m changing? Get your asses out of here!"

Nobody moved fast enough for his taste.

"Out!"

They scrambled for the ruined doorway, tools still in hand, faces carefully blank, all of them silently agreeing that whatever they had just witnessed would never be discussed near a microphone, a wife, or a group chat.

The broken door hung open behind them like a crime scene.

Alone again, Durnik dragged a hand down his face and turned to his computer.

His mind was not settled. Not even close. The files. The chair. The locked door. The way she had walked out. All of it kept slamming around his skull while he checked the screen with shaking focus, hunting for the damage, hunting for proof, hunting for anything that would tell him how badly he had been robbed.

Then he grabbed his phone.

His thumb jammed the screen hard enough to punish it.

Somebody was going to answer for this.

And this time, Durnik was far past the point of caring how loud, ugly, or insane he sounded.