ARSHILA POV
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.
My hand rises automatically to cover my mouth as the shock slams through me with full force.
For several seconds I can only stare at the name, as if the letters might rearrange themselves into something less disturbing if I look long enough.
They don't.
The name stays there, cold and permanent on the document.
My fingers tremble slightly as I drag the cursor downward to read the rest of the report. The scrolling feels slow, painfully slow, like my brain is trying to delay whatever waits at the bottom of the page.
Then the number appears.
The final price.
I freeze again.
The amount listed beside the transaction makes my stomach twist in a way I wasn't prepared for. It isn't some unimaginable fortune or a ridiculous billionaire bidding war.
It's cheap.
Disgustingly cheap.
The number sits there like an insult to human existence, the value of a child reduced to a price that wealthy people probably spend on dinner without even thinking about it.
My chest tightens as I lean back in the chair.
The pieces in my mind begin moving rapidly, connecting themselves whether I want them to or not.
Izar.
A number in a trafficking system.
Raised inside whatever hell created those records.
Trained like the children in that underground pit.
Then sold.
Bought by the richest family in the world.
The realization creeps over my skin like something cold and unpleasant.
I know Izar is an orphan. That part has never been hidden. Everyone here mentions it casually whenever his past comes up, the same way people mention the weather.
But this…
This is something entirely different.
If these records are real, Izar didn't simply grow up without parents.
He grew up inside a human trafficking network.
A system where children are raised, trained, and sold like animals.
My stomach churns again as the next thought crawls into my head.
Kamal Rashid Tavarian.
The patriarch of one of the most powerful families alive.
A man who built an empire on blood, power, and ruthless decisions.
A man who has seen enough violence in his life to destroy entire nations without losing sleep.
But this?
Buying children from a trafficking auction?
The idea sits in my mind like poison.
The image of that underground pit flashes through my memory again. Bruised children fighting each other while grown men screamed for entertainment and money changed hands like it was a casino.
Did Kamal watch those fights?
Did he enjoy them?
My head begins to ache from the weight of the questions.
The worst part is that there is no one in this house I can trust enough to ask directly. Every person here belongs to that same world of power and secrecy. Even the ones who seem friendly carry shadows behind their eyes.
My gaze drifts toward the phone lying beside the laptop.
For a few seconds I simply stare at it.
Then I grab it.
There is only one person I can speak to right now without raising immediate suspicion.
Rania.
Zayan's sister.
I scroll through my contacts and press her name before I can second-guess the decision.
The phone rings once.
Then twice.
On the third ring, her voice answers through the speaker, warm and surprisingly cheerful.
"Well, this is unexpected."
I lean back in the chair and try to sound casual.
"Good morning. Did I wake you up?"
She laughs softly on the other end.
"Please. I've been awake for hours. What are you doing calling me this early?"
"Nothing special," I reply lightly. "Just felt like talking."
The conversation drifts naturally for a few minutes. We talk about random things, the weather, the ridiculousness of early mornings, and the endless chaos that comes with living around people like Zayan.
Eventually I steer the conversation where I need it to go.
"Do you ever miss your brother?" I ask suddenly.
Rania lets out a loud laugh.
"Miss him? Absolutely not."
I grin slightly.
"Not even a little?"
"Well… maybe a tiny bit," she admits. "But don't tell him that. His ego is already unbearable."
The casual tone relaxes me enough to slip in the next question.
"When did you first meet Izar?"
There is a brief pause.
"That is a very random question," she says with amusement.
I shrug even though she can't see me.
"I was just thinking about how strange it is that Zayan acts like they've known each other forever when technically he's just a bodyguard."
Rania hums thoughtfully.
"I think the first time I saw him he was almost an adult already."
My eyebrows lift slightly.
"Really? Where was that?"
"At our grandfather's house," she answers. "Back then he spent a lot of time there while studying."
My fingers tighten slightly around the phone.
"Studying?"
"Yes," she replies easily. "Izar was studying business at the Northern University. Grandfather helped arrange it."
The words surprise me enough that I sit up straighter.
"He went to university?"
"Of course he did," she says casually. "After finishing his degree he stayed around the family and eventually became Zayan's personal bodyguard."
I frown slightly.
"Why become a bodyguard after getting a business degree?"
Rania chuckles softly.
"I think he just preferred fighting over paperwork. Some people enjoy physical combat more than office work."
Her tone remains light and relaxed.
"You seem to know him well," I say carefully.
"Not really," she replies. "I just visited grandfather's house a lot when I was younger. Izar was always there. Grandfather treated him almost like family, like he was one of his own grandsons."
The statement hangs in the air between us.
We continue talking for a little while longer about harmless topics until the conversation naturally winds down. Eventually we say goodbye and I end the call, setting the phone slowly back onto the desk.
The room falls silent again.
For a moment I simply sit there.
Then I open the drawer and pull out my journal.
The pages flip quickly beneath my fingers until I find an empty section. I grab a pen and begin writing down everything Rania just told me.
Izar.
Orphan.
Studied business at Northern University.
Raised around Kamal's household.
Treated well.
Given education.
Given opportunity.
My pen pauses above the paper as the contradiction presses harder against my thoughts.
If Kamal bought him at an auction like the document claims…
Then why raise him like family afterward?
Why educate him?
Why give him a future?
My head begins to throb as the questions pile up faster than answers.
I lean back in the chair and stare at the notes scattered across the page.
"Fucking hell," I mutter under my breath.
My fingers press against my temple as frustration crawls through my chest.
If I keep digging into this mess, I'm going to lose my sanity long before I find the truth.
Because living inside a billionaire's secrets feels less like solving a puzzle and more like walking through a maze built by people who never expected anyone to escape.
And if I continue chasing those secrets like this…
I might actually lose my mind before this month is over.
The room begins to feel suffocating after a while.
The same walls, the same desk, the same laptop screen staring back at me like it knows too much. My thoughts keep circling the same questions without landing anywhere useful, and the pressure building inside my head starts to feel unbearable.
I close the journal slowly and stand up.
Fresh air might help.
Or at least movement.
I slip the journal under my arm and leave the room, stepping into the long hallway of the mansion where the silence stretches endlessly in both directions.
The place always feels too large when it is quiet like this, every wing of the house branching into another corridor, another staircase, another locked door that probably hides more secrets than I want to know.
My footsteps echo softly as I start walking.
At first I move without any real direction, simply pacing through the mansion the way someone might wander through a museum.
The journal stays in my hand the entire time, pressed against my side in case I notice something worth marking down.
A strange door.
A hallway I haven't mapped yet.
Anything.
The blueprint I drew a few days ago is already detailed, but this house feels like the kind of place that could hide entire rooms inside its walls without anyone noticing.
My pace slows as I reach the north wing.
This part of the mansion is quieter than the others, the windows here letting in long strips of pale daylight that stretch across the marble floor.
The silence presses heavier here, thick enough that I can almost hear my own breathing.
I turn a corner.
Then stop.
There is a door at the end of the corridor.
My eyes narrow slightly.
I'm sure I haven't seen that door before.
The wall there was supposed to be empty.
For a moment I simply stare at it.
Then I pull the journal open and flip quickly to the page containing my blueprint of the mansion.
The paper rustles softly beneath my fingers as I prepare to mark the new discovery.
But the moment the page settles open, my hand stops moving.
My entire body freezes.
Because the door is already marked on the blueprint.
Exactly where it stands in the corridor.
My pulse stutters.
I stare at the ink line on the page… then at the door… then back at the page again.
And a cold realization slowly crawls up my spine.
Because I know one thing with absolute certainty.
I am seeing that door for the first time.