Morning arrives without mercy.
The storm has passed, but the sky remains dull and gray, like the world itself is still waking from something unpleasant.
Pale light slips through the tall glass walls of the hall and spills across the marble floor, turning everything cold and colorless.
I stand near the glass wall with my arms folded tightly across my chest, staring outside as if the garden might offer answers it clearly doesn't have.
The house is quiet.
Too quiet.
The kind of silence that makes every thought inside my head louder than it should be.
From here I can see the outhouse clearly. The modern structure sits slightly apart from the main building, tall and sharp against the misty morning air.
The top floor catches my attention immediately because that is where the penthouse is, the one with the long glass balcony that faces directly toward this side of the property.
My gaze stays fixed there longer than necessary.
My mind keeps circling the same question again and again like a predator refusing to give up its prey.
Why the hell would someone hide a pendrive filled with child trafficking records inside that room?
The thought makes my jaw tighten.
It doesn't make sense.
Nothing about those files makes sense.
They definitely aren't Zayan's. I know that much with complete certainty. When he was ten to fourteen years old, he wasn't even in this country.
He was locked away in some ridiculously expensive Swiss boarding school while the rest of the world learned to survive normally.
So if those files aren't his…
Then whose are they?
And why hide them here?
My fingers press harder against my arms as the thought spirals deeper.
Trusting Zayan completely would be the most foolish mistake I could possibly make.
I know exactly what he is. He may protect me, he may share a bed with me, but beneath all that polished control he is still a monster raised in a world where power means everything and morality means nothing.
Men like him don't grow up normal.
They grow up dangerous.
Which means if I want the truth about this mess, I cannot rely on him.
Unfortunately, there is also no such thing as a normal person inside this ridiculous billionaire maze of a house.
Everyone here is strange in their own way.
Everyone is hiding something.
That is exactly why I called Eshan thirty minutes ago.
Not because he is trustworthy in the traditional sense. He absolutely isn't. But he is the one person in this circus who doesn't treat me like I'm fragile glass or a political asset. He simply tolerates my nonsense with a surprising amount of patience.
And right now that is enough.
A low engine sound suddenly breaks the silence outside.
My eyes shift toward the driveway just in time to see a black car roll smoothly through the gates and stop beneath the foyer entrance.
Right on time.
The driver's door swings open and Eshan steps out with the casual confidence of someone who acts like this house belongs to him too.
His messy hair is still slightly damp like he barely bothered drying it before leaving home, and his dark jacket hangs loosely over his shoulders as he strolls inside.
I hear the front door slam moments later.
Then his voice echoes through the hallway.
"Bitch, where are you?"
I close my eyes briefly and rub my temple.
A slow smirk spreads across my face despite the chaos in my head.
For all his idiotic behavior, the man brings an atmosphere with him that somehow makes the house feel less suffocating.
Heavy footsteps approach quickly .
"Found you—"
Before I can react, his arm hooks around my neck and pulls me into a sudden headlock.
The movement knocks the air out of me instantly.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" I choke out while trying to pry his arm away.
He tightens the hold just enough to be annoying.
"Why did you drag me here this early?"
"First of all," I gasp while struggling, "let me breathe."
"Answer the question."
"Leave me, idiot!"
Instead of listening, he tightens the lock even more.
That is his mistake.
I drive my elbow backward hard enough to hit his stomach.
The reaction is immediate.
He releases me and stumbles back with a sharp groan, clutching his ribs like he just got stabbed.
I straighten my shirt calmly while glaring at him.
"Next time I'm aiming lower," I say sweetly. "Your balls won't survive."
He slowly lifts his head, eyes narrowing with an amused smirk.
"You wouldn't dare."
"Try me."
He studies my face for a moment before sighing dramatically.
"So why exactly did you summon me here?"
I shrug casually.
"I was bored."
His eyebrows lift slowly.
"Oh really?"
"Yes."
"So what am I now?" he asks dryly. "Your personal entertainer?"
Instead of answering, I grab his wrist and start dragging him toward the north wing balcony.
"Come with me."
He immediately pulls back.
"If Zayan sees you holding my hand like this, I'm going to experience hell tonight."
I roll my eyes.
"He won't."
"That is exactly what people say before they die."
Ignoring him completely, I pull him out onto the north balcony where the view opens toward the other side of the estate.
From here the entire penthouse structure is visible across the courtyard, its dark windows reflecting the dull morning sky.
Eshan drops into one of the chairs lazily while stretching his legs across the railing.
"So," he says suspiciously, "what is this interrogation about?"
"It isn't an interrogation."
"That sounded like a lie."
I lean against the railing beside him and begin talking about random nonsense just to ease the tension.
We complain about the weather, argue about terrible movies, and mock the ridiculousness of billionaire security systems for several minutes until the conversation begins to feel natural again.
Then I slip the question in casually.
"By the way," I say while pretending to examine my nails, "where was Zayan studying when he was around ten or twelve?"
Eshan frowns slightly as he thinks.
"In Switzerland," he answers after a moment. "A boarding school."
My eyes narrow slightly.
"You were there too?"
"Of course," he replies with a grin. "All of us were. We've been stuck together since kindergarten."
I shake my head slowly.
"That explains a lot."
"Explains what?"
"Why all of you turned into a bunch of idiots."
He bursts into laughter.
"Wow. That is rude."
The conversation drifts again for a moment before I carefully push further.
"What about Izar?" I ask casually. "Was he around back then?"
Eshan immediately shakes his head.
"No. He joined much later."
"When exactly?"
"A few years ago," he replies while stretching his arms behind his head. "I remember the first time I saw him here. Zayan introduced him like he was presenting a new weapon."
He suddenly straightens and deepens his voice dramatically.
"'This is my new bodyguard,'" he mimics smoothly.
I can't help laughing at the exaggerated impression.
Eshan smirks proudly.
"No lie though," he continues, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "That guy is a solid ten."
I blink at him.
"You're rating my husband's bodyguard?"
"Objectively speaking," he says calmly, "the man is extremely good looking."
I glance toward the penthouse again instinctively.
"You mean Izar?"
"Yes."
He leans forward slightly.
"That guy has a dark vibe though. Like he has seen things that would traumatize normal people."
I nod slowly.
"Yeah. I noticed that too."
Eshan suddenly points a warning finger at me.
"Don't develop a crush on him."
I scoff.
"Relax."
"Because if Zayan even suspects something like that," he continues, "Izar will disappear mysteriously."
"My crush is my husband," I reply dryly.
Eshan rolls his eyes so dramatically it almost looks painful.
"Sure."
We continue talking for a while longer about meaningless topics until the tension that dragged him here slowly dissolves into normal conversation. Eventually he checks the time and groans loudly before standing up.
"I have work, you psychopath."
"Thanks for coming."
"Next time try not to threaten my reproductive organs."
"No promises."
He shakes his head while heading toward the door.
A few minutes later the sound of his car fades down the long driveway, leaving the estate quiet once again.
I remain standing on the balcony.
My eyes slowly drift back toward the penthouse across the courtyard.
The same thought curls through my mind like a shadow.
If those files belong to Izar…
Then the man living in that quiet glass tower is hiding something far darker than anyone here realizes.
I push away from the railing with a quiet breath and step back inside the room. The house feels strangely empty now that Eshan has left, the long hallways stretching out in complete silence as I walk through them.
The marble floor beneath my feet feels colder than usual.
My thoughts move faster with every step.
By the time I reach the kitchen, the decision has already settled in my chest like something solid.
I open the refrigerator and grab the first bottle of cold coffee I see. The chilled glass presses against my palm while I twist the cap open and take a long drink without even tasting it.
Then I close the fridge and head straight upstairs.
My pace quickens as I reach my room.
The door shuts behind me with a quiet click before I turn the lock firmly into place. The sound echoes slightly in the empty space, sealing the room off from the rest of the house.
For a moment I simply stand there.
Then I walk to the desk.
The laptop is exactly where I left it the night before, sitting closed on the polished surface like it has been waiting patiently for my return. I set the coffee bottle beside it and pull out the chair before sitting down.
My fingers move automatically.
The screen lights up.
A cold blue glow fills the dim room as the system loads. I reach into the drawer, pull out the small pendrive, and slide it into the port again.
The folder appears instantly.
The same files.
The same quiet horror waiting inside them.
This time I force myself to stay calm.
The first thing I do is create a new folder on the desktop and begin moving the files I have already opened into it. The process is slow but necessary. The last thing I want is to keep opening the same documents again and again while trying to understand this mess.
Organization feels like the only control I have right now.
Once the new folder is finished, I take another sip of the cold coffee and return my attention to the remaining files.
One of them opens with a simple double click.
The document fills the screen immediately.
Rows of information appear again, structured neatly in the same clean formatting as before. At first it looks identical to the other records I already saw, but something about it begins to feel different the longer I stare.
My eyes move slowly across the page.
Then the detail finally clicks into place.
These children are not listed under names.
They are listed under numbers.
Each entry carries a coded sequence instead of an identity, as if the people behind this operation deliberately erased anything human about them. The numbers sit there coldly beside the information like product labels on a warehouse inventory list.
The realization makes my stomach tighten.
Numbers are easier to sell than names.
Numbers are easier to forget.
I open another file.
This one is labeled Four-Seven-Five.
My fingers hesitate for half a second before clicking it open.
The screen loads slowly this time.
When the document finally appears, the first thing I notice is the attached photograph sitting beneath the identification number.
The image is slightly blurred, taken in poor lighting, but the face inside it is still visible enough to recognize certain details.
My breath catches sharply in my throat.
The child in the photograph looks younger than the other pictures I saw last night.
The shadows around him make the image grainy and unclear, but the eyes remain unmistakable.
Dark.
Sharp.
Familiar.
My hand begins to shake slightly on the trackpad.
Because no matter how unclear the picture is, I know exactly who I am looking at.
Izar.
I scroll down slowly, my pulse starting to beat harder inside my chest.
More information appears beneath the photograph.
Medical reports.
Training notes.
Transfer logs.
Then finally another document attached at the bottom.
The title reads Auction Report.
My fingers hesitate again before opening it.
The report loads instantly.
The page contains a clean summary of a completed transaction, formatted in the same precise style as everything else in this nightmare collection.
My eyes move down the document carefully.
Item number.
Age.
Condition.
Final price.
Then they reach the final line.
The buyer's name.
For a moment my brain refuses to process what I am seeing.
Then the words settle into place.
My lungs suddenly forget how to breathe.
A small gasp escapes my mouth as my eyes lock onto the screen.
Buyer Name: Kamal Rashid Tavarian.