ARSHILA POV
The outhouse always feels different from the main mansion.
Quieter.
Not the peaceful quiet people write poems about. The weird kind of quiet where every small sound suddenly feels suspicious.
My footsteps echo on the polished floor like they are reporting my location to the entire building.
The staff wing downstairs is empty. Every room I passed on the way in had open doors and silent beds. No voices, no clattering dishes, no TV murmuring somewhere in the background.
Everyone is in the mansion tonight.
Which means this place is mine for a few minutes.
My heart is already beating like it drank three energy drinks and decided to do parkour in my chest.
I keep telling myself this is stupid.
Breaking into the private penthouse of the most terrifying man in the house while my husband and his human lie detector bodyguard are literally a few hundred meters away is probably not the smartest life decision.
But curiosity is a bitch.
And apparently she owns me.
The elevator hums softly as it climbs.
Each floor number lights up slowly.
Second floor.
Third.
Fourth.
My palms are slightly sweaty and I wipe them on my jeans like that is going to magically remove the feeling that I am about to step into something I cannot step back from.
The elevator stops.
The doors slide open.
Izar's floor.
The top level of the outhouse is nothing like the staff floors below. The hallway is darker, quieter, the lighting low and expensive like the mansion itself. No cheap furniture. No laundry carts. Just clean walls and heavy doors.
One door.
His door.
I step out slowly and glance around out of pure instinct even though I know no one is here.
Still, my brain whispers: cameras.
Zayan's mansion runs on surveillance the way normal houses run on electricity. I would not be surprised if the damn ceiling fan has a microphone hidden in it.
The door to the penthouse isn't locked.
Of course it isn't.
These people trust locks the same way sharks trust floaties.
I push it open slowly.
The space inside is large but minimal. Clean lines. Dark furniture. Floor-to-ceiling windows showing the quiet garden below. The place smells faintly like leather and something sharp, like expensive cologne that refuses to apologize.
I step inside and close the door carefully behind me.
My brain instantly switches into thief mode.
Okay.
Quick search.
No touching unnecessary things.
No leaving evidence.
No panicking.
Which means I panic immediately.
My eyes move through the space quickly until they land on the door I remember from months ago.
His bedroom.
The memory flashes before I can stop it.
The first time I snuck here.
The stupid accident where I saw the massive scar running down his back like someone tried to split him in half and failed.
That scar was not from a kitchen accident.
That was war-level damage.
My stomach tightens slightly.
I walk to the bedroom door and push it open.
The room is even darker than the living space. Black sheets. Dark wood furniture. No clutter. Everything placed like a man who lives alone and likes control.
My heart is thumping harder now.
I move toward the dresser first and start opening drawers carefully.
Clothes.
More clothes.
Perfectly folded shirts.
The man irons his own clothes apparently or hires someone who fears death enough to make every line perfect.
Next drawer.
My hand pauses.
A gun.
Of course there is a gun.
It sits there like it belongs in a movie scene, heavy and black and very real. I stare at it for a second before quietly sliding the drawer shut again because I have no intention of touching murder equipment today.
Next drawer.
Candies.
I blink.
Actual fucking candy bars.
Chocolate. Gummies. Some imported stuff I cannot even pronounce.
The contrast makes me almost laugh.
Terrifying bodyguard of a billionaire psychopath secretly hiding a sugar addiction in his bedroom drawer like a teenager.
Then I notice the boxes next to them.
Condoms.
A whole damn stack.
I stare at them like they personally offended me.
"What the hell," I whisper under my breath.
Why does he need condoms here?
Who exactly is he planning to have a romantic moment with in the staff building penthouse while Zayan is probably committing corporate crimes two hundred meters away?
My brain tries to imagine it and immediately regrets it.
Nope.
Absolutely not opening those.
I close the drawer quickly like the condoms might judge me.
I move to the cabinet next.
Inside are more clothes, some books, a couple of thick folders stacked neatly like he actually reads boring adult documents for fun.
I pull one out.
A file.
My fingers flip it open quickly.
Pages of documents stare back at me but I do not have time to read every word. Instead I grab my phone and start snapping pictures as fast as possible.
Page.
Click.
Next page.
Click.
My heart jumps every time the tiny camera sound plays even though the phone is on silent.
While flipping the pages something slips out and falls to the floor.
A photograph.
I crouch and pick it up.
The photo shows a young boy standing outside what looks like an old building. Maybe ten years old. Maybe younger.
Dark hair.
Sharp eyes.
But something feels off.
I study the boy's face carefully.
"Is that Izar?" I whisper to myself.
Then I shake my head.
No.
Not quite.
Izar is… prettier.
Which sounds ridiculous because I am comparing grown men like beauty contestants but it is true. Izar has that sharp controlled look like someone carved his face with a knife and then decided it looked too intimidating and softened it slightly.
The boy in the photo looks different.
Similar.
But not him.
A relative maybe.
Except Izar is supposed to be an orphan.
My curiosity spikes again.
I take a photo of the photograph too and slide it back into the folder before placing everything exactly where it was.
My eyes move lower.
Something catches my attention beneath the cabinet.
A narrow seam in the wood.
A hidden panel.
Of course.
Nothing in this damn world is ever simple with these people.
I crouch and push gently.
The panel slides open.
Behind it is a small hidden compartment packed with things.
Files.
Stacks of papers.
Several flash drives.
My pulse jumps again.
Okay.
This is either the jackpot or the beginning of the moment where my life choices officially become stupid.
I grab one of the pendrives and slide it into my pocket.
Just one.
No need to get greedy.
Then I pull out a random file.
The first page makes me frown.
An orphanage.
Funding records.
My eyes scan quickly.
The location catches my attention.
Switzerland.
My eyebrows lift slightly.
Did the Tavarian empire secretly fund orphanages?
That would be weirdly wholesome for a family that looks like they could overthrow a government before breakfast.
I scan the sender information.
No address.
No clear name.
Just coded entries.
Great.
Secret charity with mysterious donors.
Nothing suspicious about that at all.
I snap photos of a few pages quickly.
Then my hand reaches for another file.
I open it casually.
Then I freeze.
The name on the cover punches the air out of my lungs.
Alexander Reed.
My heart drops straight to my stomach.
Alexander Reed.
The CEO of Star Group.
The man who was killed months ago by the mysterious vigilante everyone has been whispering about.
Why the hell is there a file about him in Izar's bedroom?
My hands suddenly feel cold.
Every instinct in my body screams the same thing.
You need to run.
You are standing inside a puzzle that was never meant for you.
Common sense is screaming at me to leave.
Because if Izar has files about a man the vigilante killed…
Then maybe…
Maybe the thing I have been suspecting about Zayan is not crazy after all.
The thought slides into my mind slowly.
Heavy.
Dangerous.
I stare at the folder in my hands and feel the truth creeping closer like a shadow behind my back.
And for the first time since this insane investigation started, a new thought appears.
Maybe I am not uncovering a secret.
Maybe I am walking straight toward something that will not let me leave.
I pull another file from the hidden compartment.
Then another.
Then another.
The panel is deeper than it first looked, packed tight with documents that clearly were never meant to see daylight. My phone is already in my hand again before I even think about it.
Page after page flashes under the camera.
Click.
Names. Companies. Accounts.
Click.
Photographs. Transaction sheets. Maps.
Click.
The flash drives sitting beside the files go straight into my pocket one by one before I change my mind. My hands move faster now, controlled but urgent, like some quiet instinct has decided time is suddenly a very limited resource.
Click.
Another page.
Click.
Another.
The phone screen glows faintly in the dark bedroom while I work, the only light besides the dim strip lighting along the ceiling.
A list of names appears on one page.
Some of them I recognize from the news.
Some of them I definitely should not recognize at all.
Click.
The sound feels too loud even though it isn't.
I slide the file back into place and reach deeper into the compartment, fingers brushing against another stack—
A creak.
Not loud.
Just enough.
My heart launches so violently into my throat I almost black out.
For one horrifying second I think it came from under my feet.
Then logic punches through the panic.
This floor is solid marble.
There are no creaky floorboards here.
The sound came from the other room.
My head snaps toward the bedroom door.
The living area outside is darker than before.
Someone must have turned off the hallway lights.
Shit.
"Fuck," I breathe under my breath.
My hands move fast now, shoving the last file back inside the compartment. The hidden panel slides shut with a soft click that feels like a gunshot in the silence.
Another sound.
A door closing somewhere in the penthouse.
Slow.
Deliberate.
I curse myself again under my breath and move before my brain can catch up.
The floor-to-ceiling curtains beside the window are thick, heavy, almost theatrical. I slip behind them and press myself into the corner where the wall meets the glass.
The fabric swallows the light.
From outside, no silhouette.
Just darkness.
My breathing is too loud. I force it slower. Quieter.
Footsteps.
Slow.
Measured.
Predatory.
They move across the living room floor with the calm rhythm of someone who isn't searching.
Someone who already knows exactly what they're looking for.
They stop outside the bedroom.
The door handle turns.
The door opens slowly.
Footsteps again.
Closer now.
Inside the room.
Heavy enough to echo slightly against the marble.
They stop somewhere in the middle of the bedroom.
Silence stretches thick in the dark.
Then another step.
Closer to the window.
Closer to the curtains.
I press back against the cold glass, every muscle locked.
My pulse is so loud it feels like it might punch straight through my ribs and announce my location to the entire planet.
The footsteps stop.
Right in front of the curtains.
A pause.
Long.
Still.
Like whoever it is is standing there… listening.
My stomach drops straight to hell.
I'm fucked up.