CHAPTER 225: CHAPTER 225

Raymond didn’t step back. His eyes locked on the lead guard with the kind of unshaken focus that made grown men uneasy. The tension in the air had shifted, and everyone could feel it. The guards didn’t know who this man was, but his presence was like a heavy wind before a storm—silent, strong, and suffocating.

"I have something very important to tell him," Raymond said again, his voice calm but deep with urgency. "It concerns the safety of someone... someone who may be inside this mansion right now."

The guards didn’t flinch. One of them, slightly older, turned to the other with narrowed eyes and muttered, "This guy isn’t joking. He really wants in."

But instead of considering it, the other one, younger and more aggressive, shook his head and tightened the grip on his weapon.

"No," he said, stepping forward. "That is not possible. You cannot enter. You cannot see the master. You’re wasting your time."

Raymond didn’t move. He wasn’t looking for a fight, but he wasn’t going to walk away either. Not now. Not when he was this close.

The older guard raised his voice now, making it official.

"You cannot enter without an invitation card. That’s the rule. And since you don’t have your invitation card, please—turn around and leave immediately."

Raymond’s silence was louder than words. He didn’t yell. He didn’t plead. He just stood there, breathing slowly, eyes still focused on them.

That was when all of them felt it—his presence wasn’t just confident, it was commanding. And that made them uncomfortable.

Both guards shifted slightly, exchanging glances again. Their hands, now resting firmly on their holstered guns, began to grip harder. Their fingers tensed.

The way Raymond was standing there, bold and unshaken, refusing to move—refusing to be intimidated—it irritated them. He was calm, but something about his calmness was more threatening than a raised fist.

And they didn’t like it.

Their voices were firm now, and their body language changed. Their feet planted, their posture square, every muscle in their arms tightening beneath the fabric of their uniforms.

"So turn around and walk away, this is going to be your last warning."

At that moment, Raymond’s expression remained calm but dangerously sharp as he stepped a little closer and said in a firmer tone, "Then go ahead. Tell your master that I came all the way here and you both refused to let me in. And when he asks me why I didn’t stay, I’ll simply tell him you sent me away. So if he ends up calling me later—asking why I disappeared—you both better be ready to explain yourselves. Because if I mention that the reason I left was because of his own guards, and worse, if Rebecca finds out, she’s going to be very, very angry."

The moment Raymond said Rebecca, both security guards blinked. Their expressions didn’t just change—they froze.

There was an awkward silence for a few seconds.

The older guard looked at the younger one, and the younger one slowly turned his head to meet his partner’s confused eyes.

Raymond could tell something shifted. He noticed it immediately—the sudden unease, the mental pause, the stiffening in their shoulders. His words had struck something. Rebecca. That was it.

Both of them had been briefed months ago—maybe even warned. Their head of security had told them very clearly: If anyone ever comes here and mentions the name "Rebecca," don’t take that lightly. Don’t mess it up. Inform us first.

But what confused them now was that the man in front of them was Raymond—clearly male—and yet, he mentioned Rebecca not as a third party, not as someone he just knew, but as someone who would be hurt and angry if she found out what they did.

And that was strange. Unsettling, even.

From what they knew, no one had dared bring up that name unless they were very close to the upper circle of the mansion—if not family, then at least trusted. And yet, here was this man, boldly using her name like he knew exactly what it meant to mention her.

The older guard swallowed nervously. He looked at Raymond again, trying to figure him out, but his posture had changed now. Less aggressive. Less confident.

He leaned slightly toward the younger one and whispered under his breath, "What if he’s serious?"

The younger guard didn’t respond at first. He just stared at Raymond like someone trying to solve a puzzle he didn’t have enough pieces for.

Then he finally whispered back, "Boss said anyone who mentions that name—Rebecca—we don’t take it lightly. Even if we don’t know them."

They both stood quietly for a moment, clearly reconsidering their earlier stance. They didn’t know who Raymond really was, but the way he stood, the way he spoke, and most importantly, the name he just dropped—it was enough to stir doubt. And that doubt was dangerous.

Because more than anything, they both knew one truth: they couldn’t afford to lose this job.

Working here, guarding this mansion, had changed their lives. It wasn’t just a job—it was a future. It gave them power, stability, and wealth they had never experienced before.

So losing this over one mistake? That wasn’t something they were willing to gamble.

Reluctant to gamble their lucrative positions, the older guard finally muttered something into his sleeve mic, then gestured for the younger one to cover him. The younger guard’s weapon remained trained squarely on Raymond’s chest—hands tight, finger resting just outside the trigger guard—while the older guard strode back along the gravel drive to the small sentry kiosk beside the wrought-iron gate. Raymond followed him with his eyes, noting every nervous glance the man cast over his shoulder.

Inside the booth, the guard opened a locked steel box that housed a secure landline—one of only two lines that connected directly to the interior security wing of the mansion. He punched in a code, waited for the soft click of encrypted relay, and then spoke in clipped phrases too low for Raymond to hear. After a tense half-minute he hung up, relocked the box, and marched back.

Keeping a cautious distance, he announced, "You’ll stay right where you are. Entry is still prohibited." His voice trembled despite the forced authority. "But the head of the family has been informed and is on his way to the gate. When he arrives, you may state your business to him directly."

Raymond offered the faintest nod. "Fine. If he’s coming, we’ll settle matters face-to-face. He’ll remember me."

The two guards exchanged another uneasy look—clearly torn between protocol and panic—but they held their posts. One remained near the gate controls, the other kept his firearm leveled. A long, heavy silence settled over the tree-lined drive, broken only by the distant chirp of cicadas and the low rumble of Raymond’s still-idling engine.

Neither side moved. The guards refused to lower their weapons; Raymond refused to retreat.