Page 68 of Dangerous Beginnings

I try the door; it opens with a silent click. I stand in the opening, debating my choice, but not long after I step inside. My eyes squint towards the bed with the black silky sheets, reminders of the night we spent here come back to me like adistant memory.

His bedroom is dark and minimalist, my eyes dwell on his office. The lights are off and the door is open, no lock, nothing. That’s because this is his safe space—his home—and I’m invading it right now.

I slowly walk towards the office, scared I’m going to be met with the man I have both feared and felt attracted to for the past months. But as I open the door fully, he isn’t there, of course. Still, a sigh escapes my lips. I turn on a dim light and walk over to his desk. The place smells like him: cigarettes, cologne, and vodka.

I get to his desk and open the drawer; a couple of files meet my sight. But they don’t attract my attention, a box hidden behind them does.

I sit on the floor, taking the box out. As I sift through the contents of the drawer, my breath catches in my throat as I uncover a small key nestled at the bottom. With slightly trembling hands, I retrieve it, my heart pounding with anticipation as I approach the ornate lock that adorns the mysterious box. With a soft click, the key turned in the lock, and I lifted the lid, revealing a collection of photographs that send a chill down my spine.

The images depict scenes of horror and brutality, each one more chilling than the last. There, in the grainy black-and-white photographs, isAslanov, a shadow of the man I know, his face contorted in pain and anguish.

My eyes widened in shock as I realized the extent of the atrocities he had endured. In one photo, he is shackled in a small cage, covered in mud and blood, his eyes hollow with despair. In another, he is bound and gagged, his body battered and bruised. My hands tremble as I reach for another photograph, my stomach churning with nausea at the sight before me. I can hardly bear to look, but something compels me to continue, tobear witness to the horrors that had been inflicted upon him. What the hell happened to him? My eyebrows raise as I can’t believe the images in front of me.

As I sit there, grappling with the weight of what I have uncovered, my mind races with questions.How had Aslanov endured such unimaginable torment? Who were the perpetrators of these heinous acts, and why had they targeted him?

But amidst the chaos of my thoughts, one image stands out with haunting clarity—a photograph tucked away in the corner of the box, obscured by the others. I reach for it, my heart pounds with a mixture of dread and anticipation.

As I turn over the photograph, my breath gets caught in my throat at the sight before me—aWoman, her features softened by the passage of time, embracing Aslanov in a tender embrace. There was a warmth in her gaze, a sense of love and compassion that seemed to radiate from the faded image. A sight that I never thought to see of him, embracing someone. Can’t deny a little jealousy fills me. But as I study the photograph more closely, a pang of sorrow pierces my heart at the realization that she is no longer with us. In the corner of the photograph, a date is scribbled in faded ink—a date that marks the end of her life. She passed away.

Tears well in my eyes as I trace the outline of her face, my heart aching for the pain that Aslanov must have felt at her loss. I know what that feels like. Somehow, I never thought he would have been the one to go through something like this; I’d always expected him to be the one to inflict it.

The date is 11 years ago. My mind wanders back to the conversation with Sasha and at work- he has not been seen with any woman for over ten years. I now understand why. But why is there a picture of her in this box?

As I delve deeper into the contents of the box, my eyesfall upon a faded document—a report detailing the events surrounding the woman in the photograph. As I read through the words, my heart sinks with each passing sentence.

The woman, it seemed, had been used as a pawn in a twisted game orchestrated by his enemies. They had targeted her, knowing Aslanov’s affection for her, and had subjected her to unspeakable horrors in an attempt to break him. After these horrible events, she couldn’t bear it anymore and committedsuicide. My heart sinks.

My hands tremble as I read about the atrocities she had endured, the pain and suffering inflicted upon her in the name of revenge. It was a sickening revelation, a stark reminder of the cruelty that lurked in the shadows of Aslanov’s world.

As the truth washes over me, a wave of sadness engulfs my heart. I understand now why he had been so guarded, so closed off from the world.

The picture of him in a dog cage covered in blood and mud sickens me. It’s an awful picture; he’s unconscious, and only wearing boxers. There are several cuts on his back. The image is weird; I’ve never imagined Aslanov any different than a powerful dominant man. I’d understand his hate for the world, it doesn’t justify anything, but it certainly explains.

Suddenly a light appears from the corner of the room, my phone. As my phone screen lights up in the dimly lit room, my heart skips a beat. Aslanov’s name is drawn over the screen. My fingers tremble as I unlock the screen, anticipation and dread swirling in my stomach. The message is short, demanding, and cold. There was none of the warmth or affection that I had hoped for, only a stark reminder of the power he held over me. No nickname either, just a simple and short message. Somehow, I’d expected nothing less. I’d hoped for something else. Something about it feels off.

Aslanov:

Tomorrow I’m back. Put the dress on that’s seated in my closet. Sweet dreams Isabella.

Chapter 41

Everything Falls Down

Isabella

He’s here.

I haven’t slept the rest of the night, the images and revelations from earlier still clinging to the walls of my mind like a thick fog I can’t shake. The house has been steadily filling with people since 8 p.m.—mostly men, their voices and movements echoing from downstairs. The noise is a constant hum, a reminder that something significant is happening, something I’m likely not meant to understand. I have no idea what the honor of this meeting is, but I know enough to stay hidden in the part of the house where I’m locked away. This area is off-limits to the guests, a sanctuary or perhaps a prison, depending on how you look at it. No one comes here. They’re all confined to the conference room connected to a luxurious living room, far away from me.

My eyes fall on the red dress laid out on the bed—a long, revealing gown that clings to every curve. It’s not something I would ever choose for myself, but I don’t have a choice. I put it on, feeling the fabric slide against my skin, accentuating every line of my body. I stare at myself in the mirror, barely recognizing the reflection. The dress hugs me in all the right places, a far cry from the scars that have almost completely healed on my face. The physical damage may be gone, but the mental wounds remain, festering beneath the surface.

I pull my hair out of its ponytail, letting it fall loose around my face. The bright red strands frame my features, giving me a look of fierce vulnerability. I don’t bother with much makeup—a swipe of mascara and a bold red lip is all I can manage. It’s enough.

The clock ticks closer to 8:30 p.m., and I realize no one is coming to fetch me. I’ll have to walk down myself. My legs feel like jelly as I navigate the dimly lit hallway, the weight of my anxiety pressing down on me with every step. My hands are clammy, and my heart pounds erratically in my chest. I have no idea how to behave, what to say, or what he will say. We haven’t spoken, and the silence has only fueled my doubts.

The discoveries from last night haunt me, secrets I can’t confront him about without revealing I’ve been snooping. The last time I went through his things, it didn’t end well.

The once-quiet house is now filled with the murmur of multiple voices as I make my way through the doors that lead to the stairs. The sound of chatter grows louder, mingling with the heat radiating from the fireplace, making my cheeks flush. The click of my heels against the tile floor echoes through the space, a sharp reminder of my presence.

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