“My mother reached out again.” My voice is quiet, but it carriesweight.
Dr. Monroe doesn’t react right away. She just tilts her head slightly, considering me. “And how does that make you feel?”
I huff out a dry laugh, shaking my head. “Like I want to throw my phone in the ocean.” I hesitate, then admit, “I’m not ready.”
She nods, as if she expected that answer. “That’s okay.”
I blink at her. “It is?”
“Yes.” Her voice is steady, reassuring. “Healing isn’t about rushing into things before you’re ready. It’s about knowing your limits, about recognizing when you need space. You don’t have to force yourself to open a door you’re not ready to walk through.”
I exhale, my shoulders loosening slightly. This has been the best session so far; she, for once, agrees upon something.
But still, there are things she doesn’t know about me. Things she’ll never know. Secrets I’ll be hiding and taking with me to the grave.
I wonder if she can sense that. If she can feel the weight of what I don’t say.
Dr. Monroe watches me for a moment, her expression unreadable, then says softly, “You’ll be okay, Isabella.”
I don’t respond. Not because I don’t believe her, but because I don’t know what “okay” even means anymore.
I will be okay, but I will be different.
Chapter 34
A Poison That Seeps Slowly
Aslanov
Nick hasn’t been back in days.
That should make me relieved. Instead, it puts me on edge.
Days blur into one another, swallowed whole by the damp, windowless cell. Sleep comes in fractured moments, if at all, drifting somewhere between fevered dreams and the cruel bite of reality. I am slowly but completely losing it.
The heavy clang of metal snaps me from my haze. Footsteps—measured, unhurried—draw closer. A familiar rhythm. It takes longer than usual, but eventually, the steel door unlocks.
Fucking old bastard.
He steps inside, his presence a shadow that darkens the already suffocating space. His sleeves are rolled up again, but this time, his knuckles are unscathed. He hasn’t needed to use his fists, my mind tries to pin the pieces together. He isn’t doing the dirty work himself, he has men below him.
“Miss me?” His voice is light, almost amused.
“You’ve been quiet, Aslanov.” His eyes flick over my face, searching for something, weakness, defiance, maybe both. “But don’t worry. I’ve been busy in your absence.”
I tilt my head slightly, waiting.
Nick smirks. “You remember that warehouse in Queens youtold me about?” He leans in but always keeping a distance, voice dropping to a murmur. “It’s mine now.”
The words are a slow knife to the gut.
“You gave me Kolbayev,” he continues, watching me closely, “ took him apart piece by piece—metaphorically, of course.” He gestures vaguely. “Some of his men were smart enough to cut a deal. Others? Not so much.”
Anger, hurt, and betrayal fill my fibers and bones. How easy some people become rats.
Anyone can betray anyone.
‘‘The deals made in back rooms? They answer to me now.” His smile sharpens. “Which means your empire is crumbling even faster than you thought.”
