Page 49 of Dangerous Beginnings

The scent of her perfume lingers in the air, a haunting reminder of the intimacy we have shared. As I fold my shirts and carefully place them in the suitcase, I make mental notes about the private jet I have arranged for my departure to Moscow.

Dressed in a dark gray suit that accentuated my commanding presence. Since I am going back to the heart of my business, I need to make sure I look calm and calculated. However, that’s not how I am feeling. As I pack my stuff, I still don’t know what to do. For the first time, I don’t have a plan or a decision made before I go. I am going to her too often…letting the situation and other external factors influence my decision.

I reach for my gun and secure it in a hidden holster beneath my jacket. My movements are precise, almost mechanical, betraying none of the emotional turmoil that churned beneath the surface in me.

I comb my dark hair back, a ritualistic act that marks the final stages of preparation. My reflection stares back at me—a man hardened by life’s complexities, a man who has made choicesthat now demand resolution. Parking my black Porsche outside of the building I make my way in, taking the elevator to the floor where the apartment is located.

Slowly I open the door, an eerie crack lingering through the room. She didn’t lock it. As I enter the bedroom, the subdued glow from the bedside lamp reveals her buried under the sheets, her shoulders trembling. I frown while looking at my Rolex—it’s not even 8 PM and she’s already in bed? I look in the corner of the room, my tie. Washed and clean. She washed my tie. I tuck it back into my pocket as I debate on how to combat confrontation with her. I slowly make my way over to the chair in the corner. My eyes glance over to the bag thrown in the corner of her room and the mess around it. I can’t see her face, but I notice something is off.

Isabella

The door creaks open, and I know it’s him before he even steps inside. It’s almost amusing how numb I am. Fear is a distant memory; now, it’s just a constant, gnawing ache—both physical and mental. It feels like this pain has become a permanent fixture in my life, an uninvited companion that refuses to leave.

“Rough workday?” His voice slices through the oppressive silence, but it barely registers. I’m lost in the void within, my thoughts a swirling fog of despair and disillusionment. I don’t even turn to face him. Instead, I stare blankly at the wall, the hardness of it mirroring the emptiness inside me. A bitter smile twists my lips, a reflex of the poison that has seeped into my soul.

“Don’t you have better things to do than to torment me?” The words are sharper than intended, laced with a harshness that cuts through my sense of self. His boots echo on the floor as he moves closer, a sound that seems to drag me further into my pit of desolation. The silence between us stretches, pullingout my next comment as if I have no control. “I’m not in the mood either,” I say, turning my head slightly towards the large window. The cityscape beyond is a stark contrast to the turmoil inside me, a cold reminder of a world that continues to spin while I remain trapped in my own suffering.

“For what, solnyshko?” His voice carries an almost indifferent curiosity, as though he’s genuinely interested in my response. A tear, hot and stinging, slips from my red-rimmed eyes and trails down my cheek, mingling with the salt and the pain. It burns against the fresh cut on my lip, a physical manifestation of the emotional torment.

“For you to play with me like I’m your favorite doll.” My voice cracks, the bitterness and sorrow blending into a raw, painful confession. His laughter is small, dark, and unsettling, echoing off the walls of this suffocating room. “How come you think you’re my favorite?”

His answer shouldn’t matter, but it hits me with a force I wasn’t prepared for. It’s another wound on an already fractured heart, adding to the weight of my despair. I bury my face into the white pillow, desperate to hide from the world and the torment that has become my reality. The pillow absorbs the red and black streaks of my smeared makeup, a silent testament to the pain that’s etched into every part of me.

Aslanov

I approach her cautiously, sensing the vulnerability that surrounds her. Isabella doesn’t look up, her face buried far away from mine. Without saying a word, I sit on the edge of her bed, offering a comforting presence. The silence hangs in the room, broken only by the occasional sniffle. There is more going on. Usually, she has a big mouth and enjoys playing with a little fire, but she is extinct. My hand reaches for the bedsheets, but she turns away.

Abloodstainappears.

“What happened?” My voice comes out harsher than I intended. Anger starts to boil in me, a feeling completely different than other anger I have felt before. “Isabella, what happened?” At that moment, as our eyes meet, I feel like I get stabbed with three knives in my chest all at once. Her lip is split, a dark bruise blooming across her cheek, and her nose looks painfully tender, discolored by a deep, angry blue. There’s a small cut near her eyebrow, still fresh, the skin around it puffy and red. Suppressing the surge of anger within me, I take a deep breath as I witness Isabella’s vulnerability. A foreign sensation washes over me—an emotion I haven’t felt in a long time: empathy. Her pain resonates, unlocking a part of me that had been closed off.

A surge of anger, hot and fierce, rises in my chest, but it’s quickly swallowed by something else—something darker, colder. Guilt, maybe, or the bitter taste of regret. Because I wasn’t here. I wasn’t here to stop this, to protect her, and now I’m left standing over the wreckage.

Isabella

I can’t stand him looking at me like that.

“Why are you here?” I crack my voice while burying my face back in the pillow.

I feel his weight lift off the bed, an emptiness embracing me yet again. I slowly sit up as I wipe my face watching him roam around in the living room. He comes back with a first aid kit. He tosses it on the bed before taking off his suit jacket and rolling up his sleeves. Throwing the jacket onto the chair in the corner of the room he finds a position at the edge of the bed again.

He pats the spot in front of him.

“What are you doing?” I ask in a mere whisper. I snuffle while pushing the hair out of my face.

“I am going to show you myfuckingnursing skills.” His tone is angry, but it’s a different anger than usual. When I do not move, he pats the spot next to him again, “Come here.” His tone is gentler, but firm enough to leave no room for refusal. The sharp metallic taste of blood lingers on my lip, and I can’t help but wince as my tongue grazes the cut. Every movement feels heavier than it should. I glance at him, his eyes burning into mine. He’s not here with good intentions, I remind myself. My body wants to recoil, but I am frozen in place, torn between the primal instinct to stay far away from this man and the pull of something softer in his voice.

He pats the spot again, softer this time, as if he is trying harder not to spook me. It’s like he is coaxing me, manipulating my feelings. I don’t move, I can’t. My lip trembles as his hand raises, slowly. He reaches for his gun, unfastening the holster with a sense of calmness. He rises again, his dominating height making my heart race, placing the gun on the table. The sound of it landing on the wood sends a cold chill down my spine.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he says softly, almost cooing. “Just come to me.” He sits down again, the bed shrinking at his weight. I don’t know why, but his tone makes my chest tighten in a way that has nothing to do with fear. Something else is rising in me, spreading like a wildfire.

A part of me knows I should not trust him, not give in. But despite the terror still clinging to me, I find myself inching forward, wrapping the blankets around me like a shielded barricade.

My gaze drifts to the bag on the desk, the tools and gloves that speak of his true purpose. The way he’s dressed, the meticulous care with which he handles everything—it all speaks of a deeper, darker reason for his presence. “It’s not about me, is it? You didn’t come here to help me.” My voice trembles with anguish, a hint of resignation slipping through. He never answers.

His hands move swiftly as he cleans my cut and wraps it up. His hand touches my face, applying a gel-like substance to my bruises. I hiss at the pain. The whole time tears roll down my cheeks, falling into my lap. Once he’s done, he tosses the kit on the nightstand. He takes a seat next to me, eyeing me down.

I drop my gaze, a tear falling in my lap. The sharp sting in my chest is sudden, like a knife twisting beneath my ribs. Every breath sends a jolt of pain up my spine, radiating through my body like fire. My muscles clench involuntarily, and I grip the edge of my seat, trying to brace against the next wave. It’s relentless—a searing, gnawing ache that pulses in time with my racing heartbeat. I try to straighten up, to move, but the pain anchors me, leaving me trapped in its grip, my body trembling under its weight.

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