Dangerous Beginnings (The Beginnings Duet #1)

A Certain Sad Life

Chapter 31

A Certain Sad Life

Isabella

He shoves me back into the chair, his voice a cold command, “You’re not going anywhere. You need to apologize to your mother. You left her.” A surge of uncontrollable anger explodes within me, a tempest of raw, bitter fury.

“What the fuck do you mean, I left her? I had my reasons, and you were that reason!”

His hand clenches at his side, and I can feel the shadow of my childhood fears creeping back in. He’s about to lash out, and I know it’s only a matter of time before the storm breaks. I need to get the hell out of here and escape this madness before it consumes me.

I pack my bag, glancing at my mother, still the same—silent, submissive, forever bound to his will. She won’t change; she’ll never stand up to him. She’s his obedient puppet, and she always will be. As I try to leave, his voice cuts through the air like a knife, “Get back here, you ungrateful bitch!” My fist clenches uncontrollably. Anger is a seething, violent force, born from years of abuse, manipulation, and betrayal. He’s scared me in ways that make it hard to relate to anyone else. He’s torn apart my sense of self-worth, my capacity for love, and my childhood innocence. I turn to face him, the rage in my voice barely contained.

“Fuck you! You’re a piece of shit. You’re constantly cheating on her, treating her like dirt, manipulating her. You are the worst excuse for a father I’ve ever known!”

His face contorts with fury, and in a flash, his hand connects with my cheek, a searing blaze of pain. Another blow lands and I try to retaliate, but he’s overpowering, too strong. I’m paralyzed by the trauma response, unable to defend myself as his fists crash into my face. Blood spills from my lips and nose, warm and sticky, mingling with my tears. I don’t know how long it lasts, but then, abruptly, he stops. He looks down at me with a gaze that’s as cold as his voice. “Get the fuck out. Don’t ever come back.”

Tears blur my vision: tears of anger, of helplessness, of the crushing realization that I can’t protect myself. I grab my bag, wrench open the door, and step out into the night, leaving behind my childhood in a single, desperate act. I will never return. I was right, it hasn’t changed, and it never will.

I’m not worth the fight. She prefers him over me, and she always will. My real father—if he ever existed—will never come back.

When I get home, I throw my bag onto the floor and begin emptying its contents. Frantically, I start packing clothes and toiletries, driven by a mind clouded with despair. I don’t think clearly—I just need to leave. I hate this place, and Lexi, my only semblance of solace, is away on vacation. I can visit her elsewhere.

In my frenzied state, things fly through the air, and I collide with a wooden board. The pain on my forehead is a dull, throbbing heat. I look in the mirror, my reflection fractured and bruised. My lips are split, and my nose is swollen and discolored. A broken girl stares back at me—her eyes dull, her spirit shattered.

I collapse into the bed, the sheets cool against my raw skin. With Lexi gone, I have no one to confide in. I kick off my heels, letting them fall to the floor. I wrap myself in the white sheets, pressing a pillow over my head. The familiar sadness envelops me, dragging me back to the six-year-old girl who had no one to talk to and couldn’t articulate her pain.

I recall that night’s agony—how my eyes ached from tears, how my breath was ragged and choked. I remember the struggle to silence my cries, the overwhelming difficulty of that moment. I’ll never forget that pain.

And now, there’s him …the man I gave my most intimate self to, something I wanted to reserve for someone who would truly care. Instead, I handed it to someone who doesn’t care at all. Someone who will eventually end me.

I am perpetually out of place, always the odd one, never fitting in. It’s just me, alone with my drowning thoughts, night after night. An abused child doesn’t stop loving her parents; she stops loving herself. And everything she does is tainted by that self-loathing.

Aslanov

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 choices that 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, pulling out 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.

A bloodstain appears.

“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 my fucking nursing 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.

Aslanov seems to notice as he turns towards me. I can’t hide it anymore, and he sees everything. I don’t have the strength to fight him off as he lifts my shirt higher, exposing more of the bruises that mark my skin. His fingers press down, harder this time, testing, and the agony that shoots through my ribs makes me gasp.

“Fuck.” His voice is a low, harsh growl. I can feel the anger radiating off him, sharp and dangerous. He pulls his hand back, and I can see the way his jaw clenches, his eyes darkening as they trace every mark, every bruise. His breath comes out in short, angry bursts, and I can sense that this isn’t the usual detached rage I’ve seen from him. This is something deeper, something darker.

“Who did this to you?” His voice is ice, controlled but barely. I can hear the fury beneath it, coiled and ready to strike. When I don’t respond, he grabs my wrist, not hard enough to hurt, but with enough force to demand an answer. “Tell me,” he says, his voice lowering to something more dangerous. “Who the fuck touched you?”

I shake my head, the pain too overwhelming to speak. His grip tightens for a second before he curses again, louder this time. “Goddamn it, Isabella.”

His words make my chest tighten even more, but not just from fear. There’s something else in the way he’s acting, something raw and possessive. I’ve seen him angry before, but never like this. It’s as if my pain is fueling a storm inside him, and it’s on the verge of erupting. He’s losing control, and that terrifies me more than anything.

I want to tell him, to give him the name that will satisfy this rage, but I can’t. I don’t have the energy, the words, or even the will to let him know. I pull my wrist free, collapsing back onto the bed, the panic seizing me again. The pain is becoming unbearable, my chest feels like it’s being crushed from the inside. His eyes flicker with something unreadable before he yanks off his tie and tosses it across the room. He rolls up his sleeves, the muscles in his arms flexing as he paces, his boots stomping loudly against the floor. The noise makes me flinch again. His hands rake through his hair, tugging at the roots in frustration.

“Fuck,” he curses again, this time softer, but no less dangerous. He’s shaking now, the tension in him so thick it fills the room. He takes a long breath, trying to calm himself, but it doesn’t work. I can feel him burning with anger, unable to stand the sight of me in this state.

He grabs his phone and starts barking orders in Russian, his voice sharp and commanding. He’s calling someone—a doctor, I think. His words are clipped, fast, but I can hear the urgency in them. As soon as he hangs up, he’s back at my side, his fingers brushing against my face, wiping away the tears that keep falling no matter how much I try to stop them.

Nearly half an hour passes, the weight of the silence thick and oppressive. I can feel the tension in the air, wrapping around me like a suffocating blanket. Aslanov hasn’t moved far from me, his eyes flicking toward the door every few minutes.

There’s an anger simmering beneath his calm facade, one I know will explode the moment someone crosses him.

When the door opens an older man stands on the doorstep, the door swings open with a creak, and he steps inside, already visibly nervous. His hands tremble slightly as he sets down his bag and glances around the room, his eyes darting between Aslanov and me. He’s not a stranger to this world. He knows who Aslanov is—what he’s capable of. His hair is black, but with strands of gray, marking his age. He is carrying a case and wears a white coat, assuming he’s a doctor. I stare at the man with a pleading gaze.

The doctor kneels by the bed, his breath coming in shallow gasps. He examines me quickly, his hands cold against my bruised skin. I can see the fear in his eyes as he works, as though any mistake might cost him everything. His fingers brush lightly over my ribs, and I wince, the pain shooting through me again. Aslanov hasn’t said a word yet.

“She... needs to go to a hospital,” he stammers, his voice barely above a whisper. “This... this is beyond what I can treat here.” He wipes the sweat from his forehead with a shaky hand, glancing nervously at Aslanov, who stands behind him, silent but deadly. The doctor’s hands are shaking more visibly now, fumbling with his instruments. “I—I don’t have the equipment for this. She’s in a lot of pain, internal injuries maybe. Please, she needs real treatment, not just what I can give her.”

Aslanov doesn’t respond right away, and the silence stretches so long it feels like the air is being sucked out of the room. I watch as the doctor looks up, his face pale, his lips quivering. He knows what’s coming before it happens, and so do I. Aslanov moves like a predator, calm and calculated, his hand slipping inside his jacket and pulling out the sleek, deadly form of his gun. The metallic click echoes in the small space, and the doctor’s face drains of color. I only now realize he had gathered the gun from the table again.

The man stumbles backward, his eyes wide with terror as Aslanov raises the gun, pointing it directly at his chest. “What did you just say?” Aslanov’s voice is quiet, but the cold menace behind it chills me to the bone.

The doctor tries to speak, his words faltering. “I-I just meant...I-I can’t... I can’t help her fully here,” he stammers, his breath coming in panicked gasps now. “I’m sorry, but-”

“Your being sorry is enough,” Aslanov cuts him off, his voice low and dangerous, as if he’s savoring the doctor’s fear. The doctor is shaking uncontrollably now, his eyes flicking toward me, then back to the gun. “You will fix her,” Aslanov growls, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper. “Or I will bury you in the same bed you’re standing next to.”

The doctor’s hands shoot up in a pleading gesture. “I-I swear, I’m doing everything I can. But this... it’s beyond me. I’m not equipped for this here, I swear. I’m just a doctor, I-”

Aslanov’s patience snaps, and he presses the barrel of the gun harder against the man’s chest. “You listen to me, now ,” he hisses with a Russian accent, his tone dark, a dangerous calm taking over.

“You fix her here, or I’ll find someone else to do it after I put a bullet through your fucking skull. And don’t think for a second I’m bluffing. I don’t need a hospital. I need you to make her better.”

The doctor’s eyes widen in sheer terror, his breath coming in ragged gasps. “Please...” he whispers, his voice trembling. He tries to move back, but there’s nowhere to go. The gun follows him, unrelenting, unforgiving.

Aslanov’s eyes gleam with something dark, something almost... possessive. “Do you understand me?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper now, the threat as sharp as the steel in his hand.

The doctor nods frantically, tears welling up in his eyes. “I understand, I understand,” he gasps, his voice cracking under the pressure. “I’ll...I’ll do everything I can. Please, just…just don’t…”

Aslanov lowers the gun just an inch, enough to let the doctor breathe again but not enough to make him forget the deadly promise behind it. “Good,” he says coldly. “Now get to work.”

The doctor scrambles, fumbling with his tools, his hands shaking so badly I almost wonder if he’ll be able to do anything at all. But the fear of death sharpens his focus, and he begins treating me, muttering apologies under his breath as he works.

I glance at Aslanov from the corner of my eye, my heart pounding. He watches the doctor with a cold, detached expression, his hand still resting on the gun, ready to end a life if the doctor doesn’t meet his expectations.

I don’t understand why he cares so much.

“Don’t hurt him, Aslanov. He’s trying to help.” My breath quickens, and despite the pain that shoots through me, I manage to push myself up on my elbows, desperation fueling me. I try to get his attention, but Aslanov doesn’t look at me immediately, his gaze still fixed on the doctor, who’s shaking so hard I’m afraid he might collapse. But then, slowly, Aslanov’s eyes flick to mine, cold and unfeeling.

“Isabella,” he says, his tone low and almost condescending.

“This is none of your concern.”

For a moment, there’s nothing but the suffocating silence between us. Then, without warning, Aslanov turns the gun slightly, not away from the doctor, but enough to make me feel the weight of his control. His eyes are sharp as they lock onto mine, and there’s an unsettling calm in his voice when he speaks.

“Be a good girl, Isabella,” he says, almost as if he’s scolding a child. “You don’t want to make this worse for yourself, do you?”

My heart skips a beat. “No…I just-”

“Then stay quiet,” he interrupts, his voice colder now. “Let me handle this.” He steps closer to me, leaning down slightly so his eyes bore into mine, a twisted kind of affection lurking beneath the cruelty. “Don’t make me repeat myself. You’ll be quiet now, won’t you?”

The fear tightens its hold on me, and I feel like I’m shrinking under his gaze. I swallow hard, my throat tight, and manage a small, shaky nod. I can’t fight him. Not now. Not like this. Not ever.

Aslanov straightens, satisfied, before turning his attention back to the doctor. The doctor’s breath is coming in shallow gasps now, his eyes darting between Aslanov and me, pleading silently for some kind of intervention. But I’ve done all I can. I’m powerless to stop him, and the realization hits me like a blow to the chest, robbing me of air. I sink back against the pillow, every movement sending pain shooting through my ribs, but the physical agony is nothing compared to the helplessness swirling in my gut.

Aslanov speaks again, his voice low, dangerous. “Now, you’re going to do what I asked. Fix her.” As the doctor works his ways, with trembling hands, on my chest and face, I stare at Aslanov. He’s observing, in the back, deadly dangerous.

A single question pops up through the pain in my mind; who will protect me from him? The answer is painfully clear: nobody . I take in the chiseled planes of his face, the way his muscles shift beneath his skin, and the shadow of stubble tracing his jawline. His lips, dark and full, make me wonder when he last touched someone in a tender kiss.

He is impossibly handsome, a paradox of unimaginable evil and staggering power. And he has taken an unsettling interest in me. He returns the stare and our eyes lock. I winch as there is pressure applied to my chest, trying to keep the tears at bay. I struggle to suppress the rising emotions threatening to overwhelm me, and then his voice echoes through the room once more.

“You’re a good girl, Isabella. So brave,” he murmurs, his voice a dark caress that wraps around me like a warm blanket. His words ignite another flare of heat inside me. Perhaps it’s a result of growing up with only an absent parent—developing a need for validation, for praise. Whatever he is doing; it’s working.