Everything Falls Down
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.
And then, I see him.
There he is, the tallest man in the room, commanding attention without even trying. The sight of him sends a jolt through me, the memories of last night momentarily fading away. But something is off. My eyes fix on him, noting the familiar outfit, the way his hair is cut shorter, more severe. It’s the same look he had when he held me captive in that cell, the same cold, calculated demeanor.
Nausea swirls in my stomach as I try to reconcile the man before me with the one who once shared his bed with me. He hasn’t noticed me yet, nor has anyone else, and for a moment, I’m grateful. I have a clear view of him from where I stand at the base of the stairs. He’s at the head of the wooden table, surrounded by men who seem to hang on his every word.
But then, something catches my eye—a small, seemingly insignificant detail that sends a shiver down my spine. Wrapped around his wrist, just behind his Rolex, is a red hair elastic. My elastic. The one I left behind in his bedroom after our…encounter.
The tattoos on his neck rise above the collar of his black blouse, his body coiled with tension. I watch as the man who had been staring at me earlier takes his place at the table, his intense blue eyes leaving a lingering unease in their wake.
I shift uncomfortably, every instinct telling me I don’t belong here. Sasha is nowhere to be seen, and I’m certain my presence is not wanted. Aslanov’s head turns toward me, his gaze locking onto mine. I freeze, offering a small, uncertain smile, a timid wave. His response is nothing but a darkening of his eyes, a silent dismissal as he turns back to the table. I feel like a fool.
A wave of anxiety crashes over me, a slow realization that the connection I thought I felt with him was nothing more than a cruel illusion. He sees me as nothing more than a plaything, a pawn in whatever twisted game he’s playing. The memory of our kiss, the one I foolishly believed meant something, now feels like a betrayal. My first kiss—stolen by a man who views me as nothing more than a tool to be used and discarded.
My heart sinks as I take in the room, the sight of several women seated around the table, their heads bowed, their expressions vacant. They’re dressed up, dolled up like prizes to be paraded around, but there’s no life in their eyes, no individuality. It’s as if their beauty has been weaponized against them, a means of control and submission.
And then it hits me—I’m just like them.
The dress, the makeup, the way I’ve been presented to this room full of criminals—it’s all part of the same twisted game. The anger that rises within me is almost as strong as the fear, a burning need to defy the role they’ve cast me in.
The room stills as attention turns toward us, and I realize too late that I’ve underestimated the man at the head of the table. The image of him in the prison, the cold, ruthless killer who could end a life without blinking, is suddenly all too real again.
I’ve played with fire, and now I’m standing in the flames.
If you play with the Devil, you’ll end up in Hell.