Page 24

I left her in the garden, tending to the stray dog that had wandered into the compound.

The gratitude and glint of confusion in her eyes when I said the dog was hers was somewhat satisfying.

Perhaps, deep down, a part of me wanted to see her happy, and that’s why I found myself doing what I could to please her.

Releasing Lucas was never my intention, at least not for now, anyway.

But because of her, I let the bastard go; I let him off without even so much as a warning.

Moving up the timetable for his release messed up the fun plans I had for the Italian prick who almost stole my woman.

But my need to console Ayla’s pain seemed to have overshadowed my passion for chaos.

I sat in my study, shrouded by the darkness of the night as the moon’s ethereal glow streamed in through the window. A stick of cigar was smoldering between my fingers, and my glass of scotch was untouched on the table. Smoke curled around me, the air thick with the scent of alcohol.

My wife was in the bedroom, on the other side, playing with her new companion, the dog.

I could hear her elated voice through the wall, blending with his playful barks.

At least now she had someone to keep her company since she felt alone most of the time.

The dog liked her at first glance—I mean, who wouldn’t?

Even I did. She was just that kind of person: likable.

Ayla didn’t deserve any of the pain I caused her.

She didn’t deserve to be caught in the crossfire when all she’d ever wanted was freedom.

My quarrel was with her father, not her.

She was cut from a different cloth: simple, pure, and so full of life.

At least that was how she’d been before I forced her to marry me. .

Her eyes no longer shone as bright as they used to, and her lips hardly curled into that smile that I loved so much.

It was almost like she was an entirely different person around me: gloomier, more defensive, guarded, and so uptight.

We used to be softer with one another, and she used to stare at me like I was something to be adored.

Now, each time she looked at me, all I saw was pain and hurt.

This miserable version of Ayla haunted me every day and night—a constant reminder that she lost her joy because of me. In my defense, I never meant to hurt her or cause her pain; I was just unfamiliar with sticky situations like that. And I couldn’t exactly punch my way out of this one.

All I wanted was to fix things between us and have her see beyond the monster she thought I was.

Releasing Lucas against my will, gifting her a pet I knew she wanted to keep, those were all attempts to redeem myself.

Ayla had slithered her way into my heart; she’d broken down my high walls and proven to me that I wasn’t as invincible as I thought.

How could my whole life revolve around pleasing one woman?

It was strange because I’d never experienced this before. It was also frustrating how all of my attempts to care less about her went down the drain. Ayla had tattooed herself on my mind, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t seem to get her out of my head.

Day in, day out, I grew more and more obsessed with her, but I couldn’t let myself come off as some perv.

With her, I felt the need to restrain myself, to deny my body the satisfaction of holding her close.

Perhaps I was concerned that she’d reject me and say something that would cut deeper than a knife.

She was my wife, and I shouldn’t have to ask for what was mine.

However, her consent was of great priority to me, even though I knew I could claim her at will.

Ayla clearly couldn’t resist me; one effortless advance, and she’d fall.

She’d give in. But what was the point? She’d only hate me even more for exploiting her weakness.

Since when did I start to consider other people’s feelings and opinions of me?

Fuck, this annoyingly gorgeous woman had eaten deeper into my heart than I thought.

For some reason, I was afraid of her rejection, like the way she walked out on me in my office the day she spoke about Lucas.

The look in her eyes, the resentment and disappointment in her gaze, had crawled under my skin more than I cared to admit.

I hated that she looked at me like that; it broke something in me and exposed the fear I never even knew I had.

With Ayla, it was a roller coaster ride, new and unfamiliar emotions that left me confused, mad, and dangerously distracted.

I hated how much power she had over me, how she made me feel things I’d long buried—guilt, longing, fear.

God, I hated the last one. Fear. These emotions she’d managed to unlock had no place in my world, yet here we were.

My wife was chaos wrapped in silk, and worse—she made me crave something I couldn’t name. Something dangerous.

Why torture myself by sleeping next to the one person I craved but couldn’t have?

So, for my own sanity, I decided to crash on the couch in my study.

She had company, so she wouldn’t even notice my absence.

Although it would mean the world to me if tomorrow morning she asked why I didn’t sleep in our bed.

Fuck, I was starting to lose myself over this woman.

I did as planned and crashed on the couch until the following morning.

Somehow, I overslept and didn’t wake up as early as I used to.

By the time I came to, it was almost 10 a.m. I sat on the couch, rubbing my eyes, shocked at how deeply I’d slept.

Maybe it was the alcohol, considering the slight pang at the back of my head.

Stretching, I rose to my feet, combing my fingers through my tousled hair, and then I headed out of the study.

I walked through the hallway, and the maids greeted me as they always did, their heads bowed, hands folded neatly in front of them.

The scent of breakfast—eggs, freshly baked bread, and spiced sausages—floated through the air, teasing my senses.

I rounded a corner and bumped into Lilia, the oldest maid, who’d been with the family for decades.

“Good morning, sir,” she greeted me, her voice thick with a Russian accent.

“Morning, Lilia,” I replied, halting briefly.

“The dining table is set,” she added, this time, in Russian.

“Thank you,” I said. “Has my wife had breakfast yet?”

She shook her head. “I haven’t seen her all morning, sir. No one has.”

I squinted ever so slightly, but didn’t think much of it.

Lilia continued, “The dog she brought in last night….”

“What about it?” I asked, my head cocking to the side by a fraction, suspicion creeping into my gaze.

“It has been barking nonstop,” she said. “I think it is sick.”

I was quiet for a moment, and in the stillness, I heard it—a low, steady growl echoing faintly from the direction of our bedroom.

Something wasn’t right about the dog’s incessant barking. The animal wasn’t sick like Lilia thought; he sounded more troubled. And why would he be barking nonstop if his owner was in there? At this point, I could smell something fishy.

I walked past Lilia and strode toward the bedroom with quick steps. “Ayla,” I called, standing outside the door. “Ayla, open up.” I knocked a few times.

No response. Only the incessant bark of the dog, and this time, his claws were scratching harder, raking at the wooden door. The animal seemed agitated, like he was trying to send a message.

My eyes narrowed.

Something was wrong.

“Get away from the door!” I commanded, as though the dog would understand me.

Surprisingly, he did; the barking and the raking stopped, accompanied by soft footsteps retreating.

Without wasting a second, I kicked the door open, and it burst inward, slamming against the wall. I barged inside, eyes scanning the interior. “Ayla!”

The room was still, too still, but everything was intact. Nothing was out of place. I called her name again, checking the bathroom.

No sign of her.

The dog, now whimpering, stood by the open window, his head tilted toward the outside.

He barked twice, as if calling my attention.

I rushed over there and looked down, my heart pounding like a drum in my chest. Nothing.

Just the vast expanse of the estate and the manicured gardens.

No footprints—no signs of struggle. Nothing.

I stepped away from the window, my fingers smoothing my hair back as a million and one thoughts flooded my mind.

Where is she?

The dog wouldn’t stop barking, his attention fixed on the outside of the window. He was definitely trying to tell me something, something he had witnessed.

I withdrew my phone and called Kuzma.

“Boss,” he answered on the other line.

“My wife…she’s missing from our bedroom. Send some men to search the house and meet me in the living room now,” I ordered, storming out of the bedroom.

Lilia, who’d been standing at the door, had her eyes wide with worry.

“How could you let this happen?” I growled at her, my tone accusing.

“I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t think—”

Of course, there was nothing she could have done. I was just looking for someone to blame for this.

“Take care of the dog,” I cut her off and stepped out into the hallway.

Kuzma was already standing in the living room, clad in a black suit, with a stoic expression on his face.

“Did you find her?” I descended the staircase, my footsteps rushed.

“The men are still looking, Boss,” he said, calm and composed.

“Where could she be?” I whispered, pacing back and forth.

“Perhaps she went out for a walk,” Kuzma suggested, trying to ease my tension.

I paused, turning to face him, disbelief coloring my eyes. “A walk?” I snapped. “Normal people go for walks with their dogs, Kuzma; hers is upstairs barking like he fucking knows something!” The words tumbled out of my mouth in a rush.

“No one has been in or out of the mansion, Boss. I can assure you that,” said Kuzma, his jaw clenching ever so slightly.