Dangerous Beginnings (The Beginnings Duet #1)

Unsure

Chapter 40

Unsure

One week later.

Isabella

He hasn’t contacted me for over a week. It has been a whole fucking week, and he hasn’t replied to any of my messages. I’ve even called him a couple of times, but he never answered either. I have no idea what he is up to, but one thing is for sure - he’s not concerned about me or anything that we shared a week ago—the kiss.

I’ve been locked up in the house for over a week, with Sasha coming in to bring me food and that’s it. No one else has been here, not even Dominik. But since he is like his right hand, he probably joined Aslanov wherever. Sasha occasionally comes into my room and has a little chat with me, but it’s short. Something has shifted. I don’t know any codes for any doors, and the guards outside do not look friendly. I’m stuck here. With only the reminder of his touch on my skin.

Doubt started to fill me after two days, but by now, I just have full-blown anxiety about what happened. Was it a mistake? Did he regret it? I sigh as I stare through the big window, sitting in the corner of it. Snow slowly falls to the ground, trees are covered in it too. It must be cold outside. Is he okay?

The thought lingers in my mind. But then again, I don’t even know him well; I know barely anything personal about the man, for all I know, he could live a second life. The hickeys he gave me have almost disappeared by now, just a very light purple mark visible.

I tried to distract myself, to focus on anything other than the absence of his presence. But no matter how hard I tried, his image lingered in my mind, haunting me every waking moment. Was it all just a game to him? A momentary distraction from the chaos of his life? Or have I somehow misunderstood his intentions, reading too much into a fleeting connection?

I bury my face in my hands at the frustrating thought that keeps filling me. I stare at the screen of my phone, ten messages unanswered. Since there is no other contact on the phone than his, I have no one else to talk to. I start to feel like I’m his locked-up play doll rather than someone he could ever care about. I must admit, he has had me manipulated. Now I’m in his house, locked up inside with no contact with the outside world. My anxiety intensified at night mostly. My mind keeps me awake. Since I’m stuck here, I have been committed to cleaning up my room and bathroom every day, keeping the place tidy. I have read multiple books by now, but often my mind wanders off the pages. I even tried to cook something with Sasha; she taught me how to bake something simple and to cook a simple meal. I did have fun for a little while with her, but as I asked her if she knew where he was, she closed off. Nobody knows about our situation, so I can’t casually ask her anything about that.

It’s midnight now, the start of day eight without him in here. I get up from my bed, putting on socks and a bathrobe. I haven’t been snooping around because I wanted to respect him and not get in trouble—again. But I’m bored and hungry for answers. If he doesn’t give me anything, I’ll have to get them myself.

I tiptoe down the hallway, dimly lit just enough for me to see my own shadow. The carpet under me feels cold, the smell of his cologne immediately fills me as I reach his room.

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 a distant 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, is Aslanov , 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, to bear 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—a Woman , 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 eyes fall 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 committed suicide . 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.