ARSHILA POV
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.
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.
For a moment my entire body locks in place as if the air around me has suddenly turned solid.
The journal trembles slightly in my hands, the paper rustling faintly as my fingers tighten around it.
I can hear my heartbeat now, loud and uneven, pounding inside my ears like a drum that refuses to slow down.
The corridor feels different all of a sudden.
Too quiet.
Too watchful.
My eyes drift back to the blueprint again, tracing the ink line of the door that I am absolutely certain I never drew.
I remember the night I mapped this wing of the mansion. I remember the frustration of measuring walls, counting windows, and sketching every detail until my hand cramped.
That door was not there.
Which means only one thing.
Someone touched my journal.
The thought settles in slowly, heavy and ugly, making my stomach twist.
Who the hell would find it?
I hid that journal carefully inside my cabinet drawer beneath two layers of clothes and a stack of notebooks.
No one should even know it exists, let alone open it and casually add a door to a blueprint that isn't supposed to exist.
My mind jumps immediately to the most obvious possibility.
Izar.
The idea lingers for a second before I shake my head slightly, frowning.
No.
Izar might be intimidating, but he is not stupid enough to walk into my bedroom and start searching through my cabinets when I am not there.
The man is many things, but reckless is not one of them. Breaking into a private room inside this house without permission would be suicide.
Unless…
My chest tightens suddenly as another thought creeps into my mind.
There is only one person in this entire mansion who would walk into my room without hesitation.
Only one person who would open drawers, look through things, and treat the space like it belongs to him even if I am inside it.
Zayan.
The name lands in my thoughts like a stone dropping into dark water.
A chill spreads across my skin.
Because if it was Zayan who found the journal, then everything changes.
The investigation I believed was secret suddenly feels like a stupid illusion. All those late nights digging through files, all the hidden notes, the careful questions I asked people when they weren't paying attention… none of it would matter if he already knew.
If he had known from the very beginning.
The realization settles into my chest slowly, turning heavy and suffocating.
This whole thing might never have been my investigation at all.
It might be his.
A trap.
The kind of trap a hunter sets days before the animal ever notices the bait. Quiet. Patient. Carefully designed so the prey walks directly into it without realizing the cage is already closing.
My throat goes dry.
Because if that is true, then I am not uncovering secrets.
I am following a trail someone deliberately left for me.
And that someone is my husband.
My feet move before I fully realize what I am doing. I take a slow step backward, my gaze never leaving the door at the end of the corridor.
The journal presses tightly against my chest now as if holding it closer might somehow protect me from the realization burning through my head.
Another step back.
Then another.
The distance between me and the door slowly increases, but the uneasy feeling inside my stomach only grows worse.
He is clever.
So unbelievably clever.
Images flash through my mind in quick, uncomfortable bursts. Every conversation about the vigilante. Every time the news played another story about a criminal found dead somewhere in the city.
Every single time.
Zayan would lean back casually, that lazy smirk touching his mouth as he watched the television.
And then he would say it.
"That's me."
The memory makes my chest tighten.
At the time I always laughed it off, rolling my eyes like he was making another ridiculous joke just to irritate me.
Because honestly, who would seriously think their husband is secretly hunting criminals across the city like some nightmare version of a superhero?
Normal people do not assume the man sharing their house might also be a murderer.
But now the memories feel different.
Sharper.
More deliberate.
My steps quicken as I turn away from the door completely and start walking down the corridor. The air in the mansion suddenly feels too thick, like the walls are closing in around me with every second I remain inside this place.
I need air.
I need distance.
And most importantly, I need to think somewhere far away from Zayan Tavarian.
The idea forms in my mind quickly, almost desperately.
I should leave.
Just for a while.
Going to my parents' house would be the easiest explanation in the world. No one questions a daughter visiting her family for a few days, and it would give me space to breathe without constantly feeling like someone is watching my every move.
My fingers tighten around the journal again as another thought hits me.
If Zayan really is leading me somewhere, if this entire investigation has been a path he laid out for me to follow, then leaving this house might be the one thing he doesn't want.
A small, bitter laugh escapes my mouth.
God, this is maddening.
Because now every decision feels like part of someone else's game, and I hate that feeling more than anything.
I hate the idea that while I have been running around collecting clues like some amateur detective, Zayan might have been standing ten steps ahead the entire time, watching quietly and waiting for me to reach whatever final destination he has already chosen.
My pace slows as the hallway opens into the wider part of the mansion.
The silence here feels different now.
Heavier.
Like the house itself is holding its breath.
And somewhere deep in my chest a terrifying thought whispers quietly.
What if I am not discovering the truth about my husband?
What if he has been guiding me toward it all along?
The thought refuses to leave my head as I walk deeper into the mansion.
The entire situation suddenly feels less like an investigation and more like some twisted game I never agreed to play.
Every clue I have discovered, every piece of information that seemed accidental, now looks different when I place Zayan at the center of it.
It starts to feel deliberate.
Calculated.
Like someone is sitting somewhere in the shadows watching me move from one discovery to the next with quiet patience.
A slow, uneasy realization settles into my chest.
This is not a puzzle I am solving.
This is a trap I am walking through.
The image forms clearly in my mind without permission. A cat watching a mouse run through a maze, calm and amused because the mouse does not understand that every path already leads exactly where the cat wants it to go.
Except in this case the cat is terrifyingly intelligent.
Smart enough to step aside and let the mouse explore the trap itself. Smart enough to leave doors half-open and clues lying around like breadcrumbs just so the mouse believes it is discovering something on its own.
My fingers tighten around the journal pressed against my chest.
"Fuck," I whisper under my breath.
Anger begins to rise inside me, sharp and hot, pushing against the fear that has been sitting in my stomach since I saw that door.
The idea that someone might be manipulating me like this makes something violent spark inside my ribs.
Fine.
If Zayan wants to play games, then I can play too.
My mind jumps quickly to the simplest solution.
The police.
All the information I have gathered so far is enough to start an investigation. The trafficking records, the underground fighting pit, the names connected to the network… and now this vigilante story that seems to follow Zayan around like a shadow.
If even half of it is true, it would destroy him.
I imagine handing everything over to the authorities and watching the entire Tavarian empire shake under the weight of the truth. The thought brings a strange satisfaction curling through my chest.
Let him be the hunter.
Let him believe he is in control.
Because even the smartest predator can end up in a cage.
The idea is still forming in my mind when my phone suddenly vibrates in my hand.
The sound slices through the quiet hallway so sharply that I almost drop the journal.
For a second I just stare at the screen.
Then my stomach drops.
Zayan.
His name glows calmly across the display like it has been waiting for this exact moment.
My pulse begins pounding again.
The phone rings once.
Twice.
Three times.
My thumb hovers over the screen as if answering the call might somehow pull me deeper into whatever game he is playing. The corridor around me suddenly feels like it has eyes, like the mansion itself is listening to see what I will do next.
The fourth ring begins.
I swipe the screen at the last possible second and press the phone to my ear.
"Hello—"
His voice cuts through the line before I can finish the word.
Low.
Calm.
Effortlessly controlled.
"Come to the study."
The command lands softly but firmly, leaving no room for argument.
"There's something here for you."
The call ends immediately after that.
No explanation.
No goodbye.
Just silence.
I lower the phone slowly from my ear, staring at the dark screen as if it might suddenly reveal something else.
My heart is beating so loudly now that it almost drowns out the quiet around me.
Of course he called.
Of course he knows exactly where I am in this moment.
A bitter smile slowly pulls at my mouth.
So the cat is calling.
The realization settles into my chest with a strange, chilling clarity.
This entire time I thought I was the hunter chasing down the truth about my husband. I believed I was the one digging into secrets, the one carefully moving through a dangerous maze.
But standing here now, holding my phone in one hand and the journal in the other, I finally understand something terrifyingly simple.
I was never the hunter.
And the cat has just invited the mouse into his den.