Page 52

Valeria

N o matter how hard I tried, sleep didn’t come. My body hurt. Every position was painful, and to complete this physical disaster, my mental state worsened.

Chester’s furious face danced before my eyes like a scary ghost haunting me. Every move of my arm or leg reminded me of the belt marking my skin.

I couldn’t rest, fell into nothingness, and forgot what happened. The scene was on repeat in my head, making me feel hopeless and desperate for an escape from a loveless marriage with a psychopath.

At least Zara was safe. Chester didn’t show up at his mother’s house. Exactly as I assumed, he stayed with his friends, losing money he should have used to provide for his family.

Bitter tears streamed down my cheeks when I lay in bed, which I shared with my husband for years.

Nothing could ease the ache in my chest. The physical pain was unpleasant, but eventually, it would pass.

Yet, the memories of these dreadful times would remain.

They would forever remind me of the failure of my marriage.

The unanswered questions tortured me for hours. Was I a bad wife? Did I deserve this? Why didn’t I notice it sooner? Could I have prevented it?

The sobs almost tore me apart. I felt unexplainable guilt for my situation and Chester’s unforgivable behavior.

Maybe if I hadn’t started an affair, this would never have happened.

Perhaps I shouldn’t have accepted the proposition to work for Zhumagulovs.

That way, my obsession with Zyon wouldn’t have blossomed, and I would have lived in blissful ignorance of Chester’s extracurricular activities.

However, I knew it wasn’t possible. The moment I opened my eyes to accept his crimes against our family, our marriage was done. With or without the involvement of my stalker, I wanted to leave Chester and start over as a free woman.

Exhaling heavily, I got up from the bed and dragged myself into the bathroom. My energy was at its lowest level. I couldn’t think. Even breathing was challenging. I was drained, crushed by my stupid decision to return to Chester after I found the courage to leave him.

It was the most idiotic thing I could ever do. If Zyon was my stalker, he would’ve taken care of him. If I confronted him sooner, he would’ve protected me. Everything I did was stupid and illogical.

Instead of keeping myself and Zara safe, I chose to live with the tyrant who did nothing but hurt us. Rather than ask for help from the most powerful person I knew, I proudly wanted to fight my battles. And where did it get me?

I looked at my beaten face in the mirror, closing my eyes and hoping not to see the sad reality.

It was my fault I ended up like this because I returned to Chester.

It was punishment for a ridiculous and naive decision.

He forced me to live under his roof, and I knew that if I didn’t leave, he would kill me one day.

Splashing cold water on my face, I shivered. The bruise looked terrible and would be hard to cover, but I already had a picture of my makeup and costume for the party in my mind.

The decision had been made. I was prepared to ask Zyon for help whether he was or wasn’t my stalker. I didn’t have a choice. I had to escape Chester, which couldn’t happen without help.

Hoping to direct my thoughts elsewhere, I walked into the quiet, dark living room and plopped on the couch.

I flirted with the idea of texting my stalker’s phone or calling Zyon, but eventually, I discarded it.

I wasn’t in the right state of mind to explain anything, and he couldn’t see me like this.

It was best to let my mind rest and prepare for tomorrow’s conversation.

I curled into a ball in the corner of the sofa and turned on the television. At first, I couldn’t comprehend what was going on because my brain was exhausted. But when the explosion occurred on the screen, and the reporter claimed it happened in Manhattan, I sat up .

The titles were shocking, announcing the deaths of twelve influential people.

The massive fire demolished the building of a construction company and damaged the surrounding areas.

The dark cloud of heavy smoke rose to the sky while the drone with the camera showed the place of destruction from all sides.

Employees of the company gave interviews, saying it came out of nowhere. The alarm went off, and they were rushed out of the building. No one knew why twelve shareholders stayed inside. According to the information, they were burned alive on the highest floor.

I stared wide-eyed at the screen, trying to remember where I saw the company name: Trojan Construction Inc.

I was sure I had come across that name somewhere, but I couldn’t recall where. The reporter continued to talk about the tragedy that affected twelve wealthy families while I fried my brain to cooperate.

But it was pointless. I was too tired and didn’t understand why it was so important. I took the remote control, attempting to turn off the TV, when the reporter mentioned the company’s biggest project.

The Starlight building, belonging to Zyon Zhumagulov, was the most impressive and famous construction they produced. My heart missed a beat when I instantly realized where I saw the name.

The papers at work listed it. Zyon paid enormous amounts of money for the projects Trojan Construction worked on.

My paranoia swiftly spiked to the highest level, and my brain finally woke up. But I didn’t have the answers to the questions arising with that knowledge.

The explosion could be a tragic accident that took the lives of twelve people, or it could be much worse.

I glanced blankly at the screen that showed the same information repeatedly, thinking where I could find out more. The curiosity was killing me, and my chest tightened with fear that Zyon had sent a dozen people into hell.

Of course, I wasn’t simple-minded. I knew he took lives or had people doing dirty jobs for him, but this was massive. If he had done it, something enormous must have been behind it .

Slowly, I walked to the bedroom, my mind swirling with every possibility. Yet nothing was sufficient. I couldn’t imagine the reason why someone would murder twelve people in broad daylight.

Passing the door into Chester’s old office, I abruptly stopped midway through my next step.

Looking at the door, an idea sparked out of nowhere, and my intuition pushed me to follow my gut.

I quickly checked the front door so Chester wouldn’t surprise me while I was snooping in his stuff, and opened the door that had been closed for way too long.

It was strange to have a locked room in the apartment that no one visited. My husband had his old files there. Books about stock markets and economics framed the walls, and in the middle was a vast dark wooden table with only a computer and a lamp.

Chester hadn’t worked from here for years.

Since his business collapsed, he refused to use this place.

The nicotine provoking me as I walked in told me that he must use it to smoke inside, though.

After an argument, he often disappeared into his cave, but that stopped, too, when he found joy in slot machines and poker.

I sat behind the table, gently grazing the expensive wooden surface, which was covered with a thin layer of dust. Chester didn’t want me to come inside.

He always cleaned it by himself, and I never asked why.

However, after the recent events and my mind’s creation of different conspiracy theories, I believed he was hiding something shady from me.

When I opened the laptop, my heartbeat increased, and adrenaline flooded my system. I felt like I was doing something terrible, and paranoia again kicked in when I realized Chester could have hidden cameras on the bookshelves.

With trembling fingers, I typed the password that hadn’t changed since we got married, hoping my worries were unfounded.

The screen lit up with only one folder, so I clicked on it. My eyes traced the countless photos, but I didn’t see anything suspicious. One by one, I observed the unknown men in slightly compromising positions, yet it wasn’t anything serious. It wasn’t until I found photos of me with my stalker.

My breath stuck in my throat as I stared at the picture, unable to tear my gaze from it. The image showed me unconscious in the front seat. My head was pressed against the window, and my stalker had his eyes glued to the road .

I had no idea how someone could take such a clear photo of us when the car was in motion, but it looked like the observer was set directly on us.

Could Chester have hired a private investigator to spy on me? That would mean he knew about my affair the entire time.

Inhaling a shaky breath, I went through the next set of photos. My stalker returned me to my old car, kissed my forehead, and brushed my cheek. My heart melted at his gentleness, but at the same time, my entire body seized in painful cramps.

It was our first encounter. I had no idea who was hidden under the mask, but my husband knew about his wife being kidnapped by a masked man. And he did nothing to prevent it from happening again.

Scrolling through the pictures, I studied a few that followed my stalker through the dark streets.

His entire path was documented until he reached his expensive car.

The model and color matched Zyon’s beloved Maserati, but the image was blurred.

Only when I looked at the next photo did my heart begin speeding in my chest like a wild horse.

Before my stalker sat behind the steering wheel, he removed his mask.

Zyon’s gorgeous, frowning face took almost the entire picture.

His hair was glued to his head and forehead.

His dark eyes focused on something in his hand.

The lines of the wingy monster tattoo on his neck confirmed it was him and not one of his brothers.

This was the proof I needed. It was the breakthrough in my pathetic plan to ask him for help. Yet, it also enlightened a couple of unfortunate things.

First, my husband knew all along that Zyon had his eyes on me. He was aware of the affair, and he let it continue. Why?

Second, Zyon killed George Harrow. When I confronted him, he confessed without hesitation. He almost sounded as if he was proud of it, claiming that poor man was a threat to me.

He committed a terrible crime. I knew it was unacceptable. I should run, hide, and never meet him again. I should probably call the police, but I found it fascinating. How obsessed was he with me if he murdered a man for me?

I tore my gaze away from the screen, covering my mouth with my hand. The third thing that came to my mind was frightening, but everything I discovered so far led to this.

Chester was on Zyon’s heels. He worked against him, and I was stuck between them.

I was positive Chester hadn’t said anything about my secret relationship because he was prepared to use it against Zyon.

He knew how crazy Zyon was about me, so he hid this ace up his sleeve and wanted to use it at the right moment to maximize the damage.

I was nothing but a pawn in my husband’s schemes, and that realization hurt but didn’t surprise me at all.

It made perfect sense. When I left, he forced me to return because he would lose the advantage.

He kept me hostage, and Zyon had repeated many times that he couldn’t show me his face because it would put me in danger.

They knew about being each other’s enemies. They just forgot to tell me what was happening under my nose.

I didn’t know if I was angry, relieved, or disappointed. My feelings mixed in a huge mass, and I couldn’t put them in order. There was just too much of everything going on at the same time.

After quickly finishing scrolling, I found nothing useful but my photos with Zyon. Chester documented some of our meetings, but he probably hadn’t discovered the warehouse. Our secret hideout stayed hidden.

I closed the laptop with a heavy feeling in my stomach. The room was submerged in darkness, and only the weak light from the street lamp illuminated the piece of carpet on the floor.

I stared into the blackness, musing about my next step. My plan hadn’t changed. I would confront Zyon at his party, yet thanks to my husband’s files, my courage was boosted to the highest level. The pictures gave me the certainty I needed.

Hope for better times grew in my chest, pushing away all the bad feelings. I would get away from Chester. With Zyon’s help, he would be just an awful memory.