My grip tightens around it as I exhale slowly, the cold metal grounding me just enough to think straight.
A slow smirk pulls at my lips.
"I'm coming for you, Izar."
I check the gun with clumsy fingers, my pulse still running too fast to keep my hands steady.
The magazine is full. Loaded. Real.
My throat goes dry because I have no idea how to properly use it, no training, no control, nothing but instinct and anger, but I am not stepping back now. Not after everything I have seen tonight.
I shove it into the back of my waistband, the weight of it pressing against my spine like a constant reminder of what I am about to do, and then I push the storage room door open.
The hallway greets me with silence.
Cold.
Watching.
My eyes flick up to the CCTV camera in the corner. For a second, I just look at it. Then I smirk, slow and sharp, like I know exactly who is on the other side of those screens.
Let him watch.
I step forward.
It is almost two in the morning now, the house half asleep, the air heavy with something that feels too quiet to be safe.
My footsteps are soft against the marble as I move through the corridor and out toward the garden path that leads to the outhouse.
The marble pathway glows faintly under the dim outdoor lights, cutting through the garden like a line drawn between two worlds.
The main house stands behind me, quiet and controlled, while the outhouse sits ahead, darker, more alive, like it hides things that the main building refuses to show.
I walk faster.
The night air brushes against my skin, cool but not enough to calm the heat burning under it. By the time I reach the entrance, my heartbeat is steady again, not from calm but from decision.
I slip inside.
The guards are there, of course, but I stay in the shadows, moving around them instead of through them, my body pressed close to walls, steps measured, silent. No one notices.
Good.
The elevator doors slide open with a soft sound, and I step inside, pressing the button for the top floor.
My reflection stares back at me in the metal walls, eyes sharper than before, something darker sitting behind them now.
The doors open again.
Izar's floor.
His space.
I step out.
The penthouse is dim, lit only by the faint glow of the garden lights spilling in through the glass walls.
It makes everything look unreal, soft shadows stretching across clean lines, expensive furniture sitting untouched like it is waiting for someone who actually belongs here.
I don't.
But that does not stop me.
I move through the living room on my toes, each step careful, controlled, my senses stretched thin. My gaze flicks toward his bedroom door, slightly open, and I move closer before pushing it gently.
The door creaks.
Soft.
But loud enough.
The room inside is lit.
Not bright.
Just enough.
My brows pull together.
If no one is here, why are the lights on?
I step inside anyway, my eyes scanning everything quickly, searching for anything useful, anything that can give me an edge. I move to the drawer, pulling it open, fingers already ready to dig—
"What are you doing?"
The voice cuts through me like a blade.
I spin so fast my breath catches in my throat.
He is standing at the doorway.
Izar.
Half-naked, a towel hanging low on his hips, water still dripping down his chest, tracing lines over muscle that looks carved and deliberate.
His hair is damp, pushed back, his expression unreadable at first, then slowly sharpening into something darker as his eyes lock onto me.
"What are you doing here?" he repeats, his voice lower now, heavier.
I react before I think.
The gun is in my hand in a second, pointed straight at him.
He pauses.
One brow lifts slightly.
Then his hands come up, slow, almost lazy, like he is humoring me more than actually threatened.
"Wow," he murmurs.
"Where's Zayan?" I demand, my voice tight, controlled, even though my grip on the gun is anything but.
"I don't know," he says easily.
"Don't lie to me," I snap. "Tell me where he is."
He tilts his head slightly, watching me like I am something interesting instead of dangerous. "I don't know where your husband went."
My jaw clenches. "But you know where Zy is, don't you?"
That does it.
He stills.
Just for a second.
Then something shifts in his expression, slow and deliberate, and a smirk pulls at his lips as his hands lower back down.
"So it happened," he says quietly. "Good. That saves me the trouble of pretending."
My own lips curl slightly. "You're both fucking terrible."
He does not deny it.
He just watches me.
"So you're not scared?" I ask, tilting the gun slightly, daring him.
Instead of answering, he starts walking toward me.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Predatory.
"Stop right there," I warn, my finger tightening on the trigger. "I'll shoot you."
"I know," he says calmly.
My breath catches for a second. "And you still think coming closer is a good idea?"
"I know you'll shoot," he repeats, his voice almost amused.
The distance between us shrinks.
My patience snaps.
I pull the trigger.
The gun jerks in my hand, the sound exploding through the room as the bullet flies past him and slams into the flower pot behind, shattering it into pieces.
Silence follows.
Heavy.
Then he chuckles.
Low.
Dark.
"I'll teach you how to aim," he says.
"Shut up," I snap, my hands shaking now, anger mixing with something sharper. "I know what you are."
His smirk deepens. "Do you?"
"You're not just his guard," I say, my voice cutting. "You're one of them."
He says nothing.
So I push harder.
"Product," I add, the word sharp. "Four-seven-five. Bought by Kamal Rashid."
This time—
He freezes.
Not long.
But enough.
"What?" he asks, his voice dropping.
I smile, slow and cruel. "Don't act surprised, Izar. I know everything."
Something flickers in his eyes.
Gone before I can name it.
"I don't know where Zayan is," he says again, but it sounds different now.
I tilt my head. "So you are the product."
He exhales lightly, studying me in a way that feels far too calm for the situation.
"You said you know everything," he murmurs. "Then why are you asking me to confirm it?"
A scoff slips past my lips, sharp and mocking as I keep the gun steady between us. "You're the one who let me take the evidence you hid so carefully in that cabinet, huh?"
He does not answer.
That silence tells me more than words ever could.
"I know it was you outside the curtains," I continue, my voice cutting deeper now. "You stood there and still let me walk out with your files, your drives… why?"
He moves.
Slow.
Closer.
Each step calculated, closing the space like he owns it, like he owns me, and my grip tightens around the gun even as my fingers betray me with a slight tremor.
He stops right in front of me.
Too close.
Then his hand shoots out.
He grabs my wrist.
Hard.
The gun jerks forward with the force, the barrel pressing flat against his chest, right over his heart.
My breath stutters.
"What are you doing—"
"I don't know what you're talking about," he says calmly, like I am not holding a loaded gun against him.
My jaw clenches. "What if I kill you right here? Will that make you remember everything?"
"You can," he replies without hesitation. "Right now."
My finger tightens.
"I will pull the trigger," I warn, my voice shaking despite me.
"I know," he murmurs, his gaze locked on mine. "I'm waiting."
My breathing turns uneven, chest rising and falling too fast, too loud in the silence between us. My finger rests on the trigger, pressure building, and he does not move.
Not even a little.
No fear.
Nothing.
"If you shoot," he adds quietly, his voice dropping lower, darker, "the bullet goes straight through my heart. Clean. Fast. I die in seconds."
My vision blurs slightly, the weight of it pressing harder, suffocating, my finger trembling now—
"What are you doing here?"
The voice cuts through everything.
Deep.
Cold.
Familiar.
My head snaps up.
Behind him standing in the shadows—is Zayan