Page 22 of Beautiful Scar

And all I’ve done is waste my time?

But no, I won’t think that way. He can be all doom and gloom. Even though I’ve been a shut-in, I still think there’s good in the world. Maybe I’ve been hiding from the bad stuff, but I’ve tried to keep myself open to everything else.

Just in my own ways. Through books, movies, TV, and the internet.

The car pulls up in front of a large, modern house right across the street from the water. It’s enormous and beautiful, in some of the most prime real estate in the entire city.

“Here we are,” he says, getting out of the car.

My jaw drops open. He pops the trunk and grabs my bags, waving off the driver and doing it himself. I scramble out, and the second my feet hit the pavement, I think this has to be some mistake.

“You live here?” I ask when he starts toward the front door.

“You should see the Sarkissian mansion. You’ll like that. Secret passages and lots of blood-stained carpet.” He laughs like that’s somehow a funny joke.

This is my home. A big, black front door waits for me. Tigran wrestles my bags inside, grunting as he goes, and I can’t seem to move.

I know what will happen once I’m in there.

I won’t come back out.

This is the end for me. I know it, and Tigran’s got to know it too. There’s no way I’ll work up the courage to leave the house again once I’m in the safety of this big, beautiful place. Unless I turn and run, I’ll be trapped.

Because I’m going to trap myself.

“Dasha, come inside,” Tigran says from the doorway. He beckons for me and holds out a hand.

I don’t want to. I look away, toward the car, and wonder if I could steal it. But I don’t even know how to drive. I never learned. What was the point?

Now I wish I had done something, anything, these last twelve years.

“Dasha,” he says again, this time a little more insistent.

“Coming.” I hang my head and follow him into the house.

The door shuts behind me.

“I’ll give you a tour later,” he says as I catch glimpses of an upscale home. Dark, gleaming floors, expensive oil paintings on the wall. Tasteful statues, vintage furniture. Big, gold-framedmirrors. A sitting room with a piano, an office that’s clearly his, a gourmet kitchen.

An older man is cooking soup at the stove. “Welcome home, Tigran,” he says, walking slightly stooped. He’s got wispy graying hair and a very kind, gentle smile. “And this must be your wife.”

“Dasha,” I say, introducing myself.

“This is Vito; he runs the house.”

“Lovely to meet you. Technically, I’m Mr. Sarkissian’s valet, but I do most of the cooking and coordinate the staff. If you ever need anything, and I mean that literally, come find me. I’ll help.”

“Thank you,” I say, totally overwhelmed. My father had staff, but they only came around occasionally to clean twice a week.

“I’ll get her bags upstairs,” Tigran grunts. “That smells good, Vito.”

“You’ll enjoy it, I hope. Just a little something I threw together.” The older man’s eyes sparkle and his smile is shockingly calming. “Nothing like nice, warm soup to make you feel at home.”

Tigran heads to a back staircase. He lugs my bags up, muscling them all alone. I hurry after him, and he takes me to a room on the right.

“This is yours,” he says, taking a key down from the top of the doorframe and handing it to me. “Nobody else has one. Only you and me.”

“That’s… good?” I don’t know how to feel as he pushes inside.

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