Arshila's POV
Morning.
If hell had a twin, it would be wedding morning.
Not because it's bad—oh no, it's too perfect. That's the problem.
The Tavarian estate isn't just a venue—it's a goddamn kingdom. Hilltop, overlooking the kind of sea you only see in postcards or those pretentious rich-people movies where someone's always sipping champagne on a yacht. The air tastes expensive. Even the wind feels like it's wearing perfume.
And I'm in the middle of it, trapped in the Tavarian dressing room.
it's more like a small palace with mirrors on every wall, gold accents, and a view that could bankrupt a travel agency. There are at least six people buzzing around me like I'm a car getting polished before being put in a showroom. Hair. Makeup. Nails. Someone keeps fixing the fall of my veil like it's a fragile museum artifact.
And the dress—
Holy. Shit.
It's not white. Not blue. It's some unreal shade in between, like someone dipped moonlight in ocean water and then decided to throw a billion tiny diamonds over it for fun. It's heavy but in that I'm-rich-enough-to-be-uncomfortable way. The veil is longer than my patience with this whole marriage. My hair looks better than it has in my entire existence. And my face… God. Simple makeup, sure, but still luxury. The kind of look that says, "Yes, this costs more than your annual rent, don't touch me."
I stare at myself in the mirror.
"What the fuck… is this me?"
No. This isn't me. This is some delicate, unreal creature who doesn't trip over her own feet or spill coffee on her shirt. She's not the girl who yells at her little brother for stealing her snacks. She's not the girl who wakes up to her mom splashing water in her face. She's not the girl who—
Fuck.
I'm not going home tonight.
Tomorrow morning, there won't be my mom yelling for me to get up. No dad pretending to be the calm one while sipping tea. No scolding. No fights with my older brother over the remote. No screaming matches with my younger brother over nothing at all.
And it hits me—hard, right in the chest.
I'm leaving.
Not just leaving the house.
Leaving them.
The tears sting before I can stop them. But nope—not today. This makeup probably costs more than my car. I blink hard, force it back down.
Then—
My friends burst in like they own the place.
"Holy shit," Shaiza says first, hand over her mouth. "This is—God—it's so beautiful. This dress must cost, like, a small country."
Ifrah's eyes are wide. "Girl… you look like… like those royal wedding photos we stalk online but pretend we don't."
Ruby just stands there, shaking her head slowly, like she's physically trying to process me.
They crowd around, touching the veil, the hem, murmuring "what the fuck" under their breaths every thirty seconds. Their faces are a mix of excitement, disbelief, and that tiny sting of envy they'll never admit.
I roll my eyes but inside, I'm spinning. Today isn't just a day—it's the day. After this, my life isn't mine anymore.
And then my parents and siblings come in.
My mom's eyes are already watery. My dad's pretending to be composed but his jaw's tight. My younger brother's just staring like he's seeing an alien in a diamond suit. My older brother? Doesn't even bother softening the blow.
"You look ugly."
Without missing a beat, the younger one chimes in, "Yeah, she does."
"Wow," I deadpan, "nothing like brotherly love to make a girl feel special on her wedding day."
They smirk, satisfied. I roll my eyes again, because if I don't, I'll cry. And crying isn't an option. Not when I've been turned into a luxury exhibit worth millions.
So I sit there. Waiting for the call. Waiting for someone to say, It's time.
And wondering if, when I step out of this room, I'm stepping into my new life—or straight into the lion's den.
__________
The door clicks.
And then he's there.
Shadin.
The name alone is a slap of memories I've been avoiding for months. Two months, to be exact. Two months since I blocked him, since I decided he didn't deserve another second of my trust. Two months since the hospital.
I freeze.. And in the space between us, the air turns dense.
God. He looks—
Handsome isn't even the word. He's in an immaculate black suit, tailored within an inch of its life, dark hair neat, jaw clean-shaven, eyes that hold that quiet, unshakable weight he's always had. But there's no smile. Not really. Just that unreadable Tavarian face.
"You look… goddess," he says finally, voice low, like the words aren't meant to be shared with the air around us.
I keep my chin high. "Yeah. I do."
His lips twitch—almost a smile, almost—but fade. He takes a step closer, hands in his pockets, and there's something in his expression I can't name.
"You don't have to do this."
My chest tightens, but my mouth refuses to answer.
"I mean it," he says, softer now, eyes boring into mine. "If something gets wrong, you can leave. Anytime. I won't… I won't allow you to be sad."
That last part almost cracks me. Almost.
I just nod. No promises. No reassurances. Because we both know I can't guarantee shit.
He pulls up a chair and sits beside me, leaning forward slightly. "You okay? Did you really want this?"
A bitter laugh slips out before I can stop it. "You think I want this? Being a Tavarian wife?" I shake my head, biting the inside of my cheek. "Bro, I'm scared. I don't know what's waiting for me on the other side of today."
He doesn't even blink. "Don't worry. No one will touch you. I'll protect you from everyone. Including Zayan."
That makes me look at him, sharp. His gaze doesn't waver.
"I don't like you being his wife," he says, the words gritted out between his teeth. "I fucking hate it."
"Why?" The question is out before I think.
"Nothing." His voice is final, clipped. He stands suddenly, buttoning his jacket like he can't stay still another second. "We can see around after this."
And just like that, he's gone.
I exhale, long and slow, my hands twisting in my lap.
Of course he hates it.
Of course I hate it.
Because now my brain is spiraling back to the same place—Zayan.
How will he treat me? Cold. Rude. With that sharp-edged politeness that isn't politeness at all. I can already see it—the calculated stares, the silences heavy enough to choke on. And maybe—God forbid—I'll run into the girl he actually loves. That would be the real torture.
And then it hits me like a freight train.
The wedding kiss.
No.
No. No. No. No. No.
I can't kiss him.
I don't want to kiss him.
"Ugh, ayyyshhhh," I groan under my breath, squeezing my eyes shut.
What if he kisses me?
He??
Nah, bro. He won't.
Right?
…Right?
The door cracks open again. A staff member leans in, calm and formal. "It's time."
Time.
My heart starts pounding so hard I can hear it in my ears. My lungs forget how to work.
I stand, but my legs feel like jelly—weak and shaky—and my palms are sweating despite the freezing cool of the air-conditioned room.
No. I'm not kissing him.
If he tries—
God, don't think about it.
I force one foot in front of the other. The veil sways behind me, diamonds catching the light like tiny stars. I'm walking toward the rest of my life, and I don't know if I'm stepping into a gilded cage or a battlefield.
Maybe both.
The hall doors loom in front of me like gates to another world.
Two uniformed staff push them open in perfect unison, and—
What the actual fuck.
The air hits me first. Cool, perfumed with something subtle and ridiculously expensive—like white orchids and rain-soaked wood. Then the sound—low, live strings, the kind of music that belongs in old films where the women wear gloves and the men smoke cigars without ever taking off their tuxedos.
And then I see it.
The aisle stretches ahead like something out of a dream you can't afford to wake from.
Tall arrangements of cream roses, blush peonies, and soft wildflowers spill out of crystal vases taller than me, each one glowing under chandeliers that look like entire constellations frozen in gold. Above, a ceiling painted in muted fresco swirls—soft clouds, hints of light, subtle but impossible to ignore. The marble under my heels reflects everything—the gold, the flowers, the lights—until it's like I'm walking through a second world beneath me.
Every seat is filled. And I mean every seat. Rows of people in gowns and tailored suits, glittering in jewels worth more than my entire existence. Tavarian power brokers, foreign dignitaries, women with diamonds like ice drops on their skin, men with the kind of posture that screams old money and old blood.
And—God—the King of Nazrani is here. In the flesh. Just sitting there like this is another Tuesday.
At the very start of the aisle, my dad waits. Straight-backed in a suit , pressed sharp, his hands folded until he sees me. Then his face softens, mouth curving into a smile that feels like a tiny anchor in this overwhelming sea.
My gaze drops to his hands. Familiar, worn, strong. My chest tightens. I grip my bouquet harder, willing my own hands to stop trembling.
One step forward—
And movement at the end of the aisle pulls my eyes like a magnet.
Zayan.
Two months since I've seen him, and he's exactly how I remember and nothing like I remember at all. Tall, rigid in his stance, dark suit molded to him like it was stitched over his bones, not a single hair out of place.
He turns.
And his eyes—God—his eyes land on me.
Sharp. Intense. The kind of gaze that could slice through silk, through skin, through bone. The kind of gaze you feel like heat crawling up the back of your neck.
My breath catches so hard it hurts.
I drop my eyes to the floor instantly, to the white petal-strewn path beneath my heels.
One step. Two.
The veil drags like liquid light behind me. My pulse is in my throat, my ears, my fingertips. The music swells. The scent of flowers is almost dizzying. Every step is measured, but inside, I'm trying not to fall apart before I even reach him.
Because in this moment, it's not the chandeliers or the roses or the goddamn king that scare me.
It's him.
________
Zayan pov
The sound of the hall changes before the doors even open.
It's subtle—a shift in the air, a faint stillness crawling through the crowd as if everyone suddenly remembered they're supposed to witness history. I keep my spine locked, eyes forward, jaw clenched. My hands stay loose at my sides, but inside, I'm bracing like I'm about to take a hit.
The hinges groan. A slow, deliberate opening.
I turn my head.
There she is.
Her gaze finds mine instantly, and for a second, the world tilts. The room, the music, the stares—they all dissolve. She's framed by the light spilling through the doorway, the diamonds on her dress catching it like they've been waiting for this exact moment. That veil trails behind her like it was spun out of something rarer than silk, every step pulling it into motion.
I look away before I let myself feel too much. But it's already too late. The back of my eyes sting, a burn I refuse to let spill over. A quiet shake of my head—no one notices but me—and I force myself into place again, tall, unyielding.
The sound of her heels cuts through the music. Each tap sharp, deliberate, echoing up the aisle. People shift in their seats to follow her progress, but I don't. I can't. I'm tracking her without even moving my eyes, every step a pulse in my chest.
She reaches me. Stands close, the kind of close that makes the air heavier. I can smell something faint on her skin, maybe perfume, maybe just her. She doesn't look up at me. I don't look down.
The officiant begins, his voice rich, steady, filling the high-arched ceiling with words older than either of us. He speaks of unity, of legacy, of vows that bind deeper than law.
I hear every word and none of them at once. My focus stays on the fact that she's here, breathing the same air, about to be bound to me in front of a hundred watching eyes.
Then comes the pause. The part where I speak.
I take in a slow breath, feeling every muscle in my body tighten before I let the words out. My voice carries, calm but sharp, each line meant to land exactly where it should. I don't look at anyone but her.
When I'm finished, the silence that follows feels alive.
Now it's her turn.
---
Arshila's pov
My heels click against the polished marble like the world's slowest countdown.
Every step closer, his figure sharpens, and my nerves… yeah, they're about ready to mutiny.
I reach him. Close enough to breathe the same air.
And—nothing. Not even a flicker of acknowledgment.
No glance. No twitch. He might as well be carved from Tavarian marble, all posture and perfection and zero warmth.
The officiant's voice cuts into the silence, rich and formal, like it belongs in some ancient marble hall.
"Adam Zayan…" He says the rest of his name—Tavarian—and I want to spit on the floor. I mentally block it out, pretend I didn't hear it. That name doesn't belong in my life. "…repeat after me. I vow to be your partner in all things, to stand beside you through light and shadow, to honor and respect you for all my days."
Zayan's voice follows. Smooth. Controlled. Ice disguised as silk.
"I vow to be your partner in all things, to stand beside you through light and shadow, to honor and respect you for all my days."
Not a crack. Not a stumble. Like he's reading from a damn teleprompter. I could be anyone standing here.
Then it's my turn. The officiant says my full name, slow and deliberate, as if each syllable is being set in stone.
"Arshila Eshaal Mirza… repeat after me. I vow to be your partner in all things, to stand beside you through light and shadow, to honor and respect you for all my days."
I force my lips to move. "I vow to be your partner in all things, to stand beside you through light and shadow, to honor and respect you for all my days." My voice is steady, but inside I'm screaming. Because every word tastes like a lie.
Then comes the part where they ask—where they make you say it like you mean it.
The officiant turns to me first, his tone heavy with ceremony.
"Arshila Eshaal Mirza, do you take Adam Zayan Tavarian to be your lawful husband, to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, for better or worse, to love and to cherish, till death do you part?"
The name Tavarian slams into my ears like a slap. My pulse jumps. My fingers curl. I glance at Zayan for half a second, then back to the officiant. "I do." The words leave my mouth before my brain can second-guess them.
Now it's his turn.
"Adam Zayan Tavarian, do you take Arshila Eshaal Mirza to be your lawful wife, to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, for better or worse, to love and to cherish, till death do you part?"
Silence.
It's not the usual pause where someone collects their thoughts. It's a vacuum. My stomach drops. I can feel every single pair of eyes in this hall shift toward him. Even the chandeliers seem to stop glittering.
The officiant glances at him. I glance at him.
For a long, sharp moment, he just stares straight ahead. Then, finally, his eyes shift to mine. They pin me in place. Cold. Heavy. A look that makes my breath catch for all the wrong reasons.
"I do."
The officiant nods as if nothing just happened.
"You may now exchange rings."
I take the ring meant for him, my fingers trembling so badly I'm sure I'll drop it. He notices—I can see it in the way his gaze flicks down to my hands before locking back on my eyes. And God, those eyes. It's like drowning in black water—no light, no escape. I shove the thought away and somehow manage to slide the ring onto his finger without making a complete idiot of myself.
Then I give him my hand. Bad idea. It's shaking like I'm standing in the middle of a blizzard with no coat.
He takes it—gently, unexpectedly gently—and slides the ring onto my finger. Slow. Controlled. His gaze never wavers. No smile. No warmth. Just that fucking glacier stare that could freeze the blood in my veins.
I stay still, every muscle tight. Inside, my brain is spiraling.
No kiss. Please, no kiss. God, don't you dare. No fucking way.
The officiant's voice seals it:
"By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife."
And just like that, it's done.
No kiss. No applause from my heart. Just this heavy, suffocating truth sitting on my chest—
I am now Mrs. Adam Zayan Tavarian.
And fuck, I have no idea what the hell I've just signed up for.
The applause hits me like a wave, loud and echoing through the cavernous hall, but it doesn't reach me—not really. My heart's drumming so hard I swear it's trying to punch its way out of my ribs. We're standing there, side by side, in front of everyone, the officiant's words still clinging to the air like smoke. Cameras flash in rapid bursts—white, blinding explosions in my vision—as photographers swarm closer.
And then they appear.
Alyan Idris Tavarian. His father. The kind of man who looks like he could command armies with just a glance. Sharp suit, sharp jaw, sharper presence. Beside him, his wife—Zayan's mother—an absolute vision of elegance. She's beautiful in the way that makes you feel… inadequate. Every line of her dress screams power, grace, and untouchable.
I freeze. My palms sweat instantly. Every cell in my body screams don't mess this up.
They walk up to us, slow and purposeful. My spine tries to straighten on its own. My hands clasp together to stop them from shaking. And then… nothing. No words. Just photos. Alyan's gaze flickers over me once, cool and unreadable, and then they're gone.
It feels like someone just stamped PROPERTY OF THE TAVARIANS on my forehead. And God, it hits me—my life is officially over.
The next few minutes are a blur of faces. My family swarms in—Mom, Dad, my younger brother, my older brother—everyone smiling like they're at the happiest wedding on Earth. My friends pile in too, whispering things I can barely register over the constant click of cameras. My cheeks ache from smiling, my feet ache from these hell-forged heels, and I'm praying I don't faceplant in front of the entire kingdom.
Then—oh, shit.
Here they come. Zayan's friends. And God help me, they look like they just stepped out of some high-budget royal drama. Tall. Effortlessly hot. The kind of hot that makes your brain trip over itself. And—holy hell—the actual prince is here. The air shifts like it knows royalty is walking through it.
They stand beside us for pictures, not a smile in sight—except for the faint curve of mockery in a few eyes. My spine stiffens again. The cameras go off in blinding bursts.
Then Eshan steps closer, leans slightly toward me, and says, "Welcome." His voice is warm enough to catch me off guard.
I glance at him, unsure what to say, but before I can even try, Razmir grins and says, "Come on," before turning to walk off. Rafaen follows, his expression somewhere between amusement and boredom.
And then—unexpected—Zayan's hand wraps around mine.
It's not painful, but it's not soft either. Firm. Commanding. Possessive in a way that sends a shiver crawling up my spine. My pulse stutters as he leads me outside.
It's raining. Not hard—just a soft, silvery drizzle that makes the air smell like wet earth and something sweet I can't place.
We reach the far side of a hillcliff, and my breath catches. The sea stretches out below us, restless and glittering under a moody sky. The place is draped in flowers—roses, orchids, blooms I can't even name. It's so damn luxurious it almost hurts to look at.
But this isn't the stiff, formal picture-taking from before. This is chaos. Beautiful chaos. Razmir shoves Zayan lightly, and he actually laughs. Eshan flashes a peace sign right in front of the camera. Rafaen turns toward me with a teasing chu gesture that nearly makes me snort.
And then—oh God—Zayan's smiling.
Not the polite, dead-eyed smile from earlier. A real one. One that shows his fangs, makes his jaw sharper, his eyes brighter. It's… unfair. Criminal, even. The kind of smile that could make someone burn their own rules to the ground.
I actually laugh. I can't help it. It bubbles out of me before I can stop it, and the sound gets caught in the drizzle and the shutter clicks.
Suddenly, they're all around me—his friends—laughing, nudging, teasing, the cameras catching every unposed, messy, real second. It's the first time today I feel like I'm not suffocating.
For a heartbeat, I let myself smile.
And then… he looks at me.
Zayan.
The smile dies instantly on my lips. His gaze is heavy, pulling me back under that cold water I thought I'd escaped for just a second.
The rain softens even more, the drops barely brushing against my skin now. The whole scene turns almost too beautiful. Too cinematic. And somehow, that makes it worse. Because moments like this are dangerous—they make you forget the truth.
And the truth is… this isn't a love story.
Not yet.
Maybe not ever.
_________
The air in the hall feels like it's shrinking around me, pressing in on my chest, making it harder to breathe. God, I don't want to leave. Not yet. Not when the music's still humming faintly in the background, not when the flowers are still spilling their scent into the air, not when the rain's still tapping the windows like it's trying to hold me here a little longer.
My plate is pathetic—one tiny forkful of cake I didn't even finish, and a single candy I chewed just to avoid answering another round of "aren't you eating?" I feel full, but not in the way food does it. It's this weight, this knot of nerves twisting in my stomach, tying itself tighter every damn minute.
People are starting to move. Coats getting pulled on, heels clicking, polite laughter fading into the awkward quiet that always comes before goodbyes. I turn to my girls—my three ride-or-die disasters—and the second they see me, I know I'm in trouble.
Shaiza tilts her head, that sly grin curling at her lips. "So… you ready for tonight?" she says it low enough so only we hear, but her eyes are gleaming with trouble.
Ifrah leans in from the other side, dead serious but still smirking. "Hope you've been… uh… stretching, babe. You're gonna need more than just emotional stamina."
Ruby, of course, is the worst. She bites back a laugh and says, "Don't pretend like you don't know what's coming. That man is going to wreck you. Properly."
I choke out a laugh, shaking my head, heat climbing my neck. "You three are fucking disgusting."
Shaiza just winks. "We love you, though. Have fun breaking the bed."
"Or being broken by it," Ifrah adds, and Ruby's already cackling like she's got front-row tickets to the chaos in my future.
I laugh, nodding like I'm in on the joke, even though my brain is already screaming shut up, shut up, shut up because the last thing I need is their voices echoing in my head later.
Then I have to face my family.
My dad's eyes are already glassy, like he's been fighting the tears since the moment I walked down that aisle. My mom? She's gone—completely in tears, mascara still clinging in smudged streaks but somehow not making her any less beautiful. She grabs my hands and squeezes so tight it's like she's afraid I'll disappear if she lets go.
"Forgive me," she says, voice breaking. "For everything I said to you. I didn't mean it. Not any of it."
I bite the inside of my cheek, my throat thick. "I know, Mom. It's okay. Really."
Then I turn to my older brother and slap his arm lightly. "Don't be a menace in the US, or I'm flying back just to throw you in the ocean."
He smirks, cocky as hell. "You'll hear from me whether you want to or not."
My younger brother's next. "Stop playing games all day, alright? There's life outside your screen."
He sticks his tongue out and flips me off without missing a beat. I roll my eyes. "Classy."
That's when a staff member appears, sharp suit, clipped tone. "Ma'am… it's time."
The words hit harder than I thought they would. It's time. Just like that.
I glance toward Zayan. He's not moving, not saying anything—just watching me. His gaze is heavy, unreadable, like it's holding me still even from across the room.
I turn toward the car waiting outside, my heels clicking louder than they should, each step heavier than the last. I glance back once, because I can't not.
They're all there—my family waving through tears, my friends grinning like they're sending me off to war and the honeymoon suite at the same time. My mom clutching my dad's arm like it's the only thing keeping her standing. My dad, shoulders squared but eyes still shining.
I force myself to walk the last few steps.
Zayan steps ahead, opens the car door for me without a word. His face is unreadable, his movements smooth, controlled. I slide into the seat, my dress pooling around me, the faint scent of rain and flowers clinging to my skin.
He closes my door, circles around, and gets in beside me. The car is warm, the leather seats firm, and the sudden quiet makes my pulse loud in my ears.
This is it.
The old chapter is done. Torn out, sealed away.
And now my new chapter is starting.
I don't know if it's going to be a love story, a survival story, or something that will burn me to the ground before it ever gives me peace.
But I know one thing—there's no going back.
And God… I don't know if I'm ready or if I've already fallen straight into the fire.
---
Author's Note:
Alright bitches,
finally, she's walking into the damn lion's den. No more running, no more bullshit—this is where shit gets real. The king of cold stares and silent threats is waiting, and trust me, he doesn't do hugs.
What's gonna happen in that powerhouse den? Will she survive the cold war? Break his damn walls? Or get royally fucked over? Hell if I know. But one thing's for sure—this marriage is no fairy tale. It's a goddamn battlefield, and she's about to find out how deep the claws really go.
So buckle the fuck up. It's about to get wild.
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