ARSHILA'S POV
The car is too quiet.
Not the peaceful kind of quiet—no, this is sharp-edged, suffocating silence that gnaws at your skin. No music, no idle chatter, not even the faint rhythm of his breath. Just the hum of the engine and the occasional hiss of tires on wet asphalt.
He's driving. And of course, he's driving like he's in some kind of midnight race against death itself.
The world outside is a blur—streetlights stretch into white streaks, raindrops smear into silver ribbons across the window. My stomach knots instantly. I've always hated speed, the way it feels like the car could slip at any second, the way every bump in the road feels like your heart's about to climb out of your throat.
"Can you… slow down?" I ask, trying for casual, but my voice comes out tighter than I want.
The moment the words leave my mouth, he brakes. Not gently. Not reasonably. No—he slams on the brake so hard I jerk forward, my seatbelt locking against my chest. My palms fly to the dash like I'm about to brace for impact. He just… stays calm, eyes on the road, like nearly launching me into the windshield was completely normal.
Now the car is crawling. And I mean crawling. We're moving slower than an old man dragging his dog home from a walk.
Oh for fuck's sake.
"I didn't mean this slow," I mutter under my breath, but of course he hears it.
The accelerator sinks under his foot again, smooth, steady—and suddenly we're back to fast. Not reckless enough to crash, but definitely fast enough to keep my pulse thrumming in my ears. I clamp my mouth shut because what the hell am I supposed to say now?
I stare out the window instead, chewing at my lip. God, I hate him. Hate how arrogant he is. How he can make every little thing into some twisted show of control. How the hell am I supposed to survive this? What do you even do when the man you've just married treats the world like his chessboard and you're one of the pieces?
The drive stretches on and on. My chest feels tight, my thoughts running loops—half anger, half exhaustion, and under it all, that gnawing fear of the unknown. I don't want to think about the rest of tonight. I don't want to think about tomorrow. I don't even know what I'll be here—wife, prisoner, trophy?
Then the car slows, and I see it.
A gate.
No—the gate.
It's massive. Towering black steel, intricate patterns cut into it like something out of a fortress. It looks like it could hold back a small army. The kind of thing that says if you weren't invited, you don't belong.
Without a sound, it swings open.
And then—holy mother of fucking God.
The driveway stretches so far I can't see the end at first. The rain catches in the glow of perfectly placed lights, and trees line the path, trimmed and shaped like they've never known an imperfect day. The car moves forward, and the house—if you can call it that—comes into view.
This isn't some old, dusty, ivy-covered mansion. No. Zayan's place is modern architecture having the dirtiest, most expensive affair with pure money. Floor-to-ceiling glass rises like walls of crystal, framed in black steel so sharp and clean it almost cuts into the night sky. There are planes of white stone cutting across the glass in sleek, deliberate lines, the whole thing lit from within like it's alive.
Waterfalls pour down glass panels at the entrance, the sound mingling with the rain. A driveway fountain big enough to dock a small yacht sends perfect arcs of water into the air. Every single detail is calculated—nothing here is just pretty. It's designed to impress, to intimidate, to seduce.
The car pulls up to the front. At least ten suited men stand waiting, their postures razor-straight, eyes unreadable. Before I can touch the door, one steps forward and opens it for me.
I step out, heels clicking against black marble so polished it reflects the light like a mirror. Instantly, two uniformed women move toward me, poised and graceful, offering hands like I'm some delicate thing that might break.
And then I see the entrance.
It's a cathedral of glass and shadow, massive chandeliers hanging from above like frozen constellations. The air smells faintly of something warm and expensive—amber, maybe, or sandalwood—and the space hums with quiet efficiency. Staff move with silent precision, their eyes lowered, their steps perfectly measured.
Everyone bows.
Except one.
Izar.
Our eyes meet. His face is unreadable, his presence heavy in a way I can't explain. He doesn't bow—not to me, not to anyone.
A man steps forward, his voice deep and smooth, rehearsed like he's said it a thousand times.
"Welcome home, ma'am."
Home.
I glance at him, then back at the impossible building looming above me. Home? No. This isn't home. This is a glass palace for gods and kings, and I'm neither. I don't belong here. I'm not built for this world of steel and silk and power.
God, I don't deserve this. I don't want this. I want to go home.
The moment I step past the threshold, the interior swallows me whole.
It's… ridiculous.
Not in the oh, pretty chandelier way — no, this is the kind of wealth that slaps you in the face. Every surface gleams, every angle is deliberate, every inch screams money.
The floor beneath my heels is black marble threaded with veins of gold so fine they catch the light with every step. The walls are a mix of glass and shadow, warm lighting spilling in calculated pools, as if even the air here is staged.
Zayan moves through it like he owns the air itself. Like gravity bends a little for him. He doesn't even look around — he doesn't need to — his presence is already stamped into every polished corner of this place.
I trail a step behind, taking in the ridiculous amount of space. You could park a jet in this foyer and still have room for a dance floor. To my left, I glimpse a sunken living room with furniture so sleek it looks untouchable, all clean lines and muted colors. Above, a massive chandelier — not crystal, but something darker, more dangerous — hangs in jagged tiers like frozen lightning.
And then, from the side, she appears.
An older woman in a pristine uniform, posture perfect, her silver hair twisted into a bun that looks like it could cut glass. Her eyes are sharp, but when she speaks, her voice is warm.
"Welcome home, ma'am," she says, bowing her head slightly. "I will lead you to your room."
I nod, ready to follow her, because I'm already feeling a little lost in this glass-and-shadow labyrinth.
But Zayan's voice cuts through, smooth and low.
"No need. I can show it to her."
The woman bows again, a small, tight gesture, and disappears down another corridor without a word.
And just like that, it's just us.
He starts walking without looking back, and I fall in behind him, the train of my gown dragging like a stubborn, expensive corpse. The damn thing weighs a ton. Every step is a fight not to trip and eat marble in front of him.
We approach the staircase and—holy shit.
It's glass. Not the tacky, squeaky kind, but thick, flawless panels framed in steel, lit from below so it glows faintly under our feet. I can see the entire level beneath us through it. My stomach does a little flip as he ascends like it's nothing, his steps measured, his hand sliding casually along the rail.
I grab my gown in both fists and follow, muttering under my breath as I climb. My thighs are already burning, my breath catching. He's probably hearing every struggle-filled inhale, the smug bastard.
At the top, the corridor stretches long and wide, lined with low lights and massive abstract art pieces I know cost more than my entire House. My pulse ticks faster as he stops in front of a massive set of double doors.
He opens them without ceremony.
And fuck me.
The room beyond isn't a bedroom — it's a kingdom. His kingdom.
The space is so big it could be its own apartment complex. The ceiling is high enough to make you dizzy if you look up. Dark marble floors vanish into plush black rugs, and one wall is nothing but glass — floor-to-ceiling, looking out over the city like we're gods watching mortals below.
The furniture is sleek, low, in deep charcoal and gold accents. The bed — if you can even call it that — is an expanse of black silk and pillows big enough to drown in. and the air smells faintly of leather and something darker, spicier, him.
I follow him in, distracted by how stupidly big the space is — and almost slam face-first into his back when he suddenly stops.
He turns slightly, lifting a hand to point toward a side door.
"That's your room."
I blink. "...My room?"
"Yes."
I glance between the door and him. "Is this… your room?"
"Yes."
I just stare at him. My brain short-circuits.
So… my room is inside his room?
Oh, of course. Of fucking course. He wouldn't let me sleep next to him. Obviously not. But why the hell put my room inside his? Is this some sick power play? Does he want me to feel like a damn guest on a leash?
He moves toward the door, opens it, and steps aside like he's granting me entry to some secret wing.
"It's yours," he says simply.
I look at him for a beat longer, my chest tightening in ways I don't want to acknowledge.
I'm getting my own room on my wedding night. Fantastic.
I step inside, bracing for something cold and impersonal — but…
It's beautiful.
Not in the seductive, dangerous way his room is, but in a way that makes your lungs ease a little. The walls are soft cream, the curtains a pale gold that catches the light. There's a window seat tucked into a wide bay window, lined with cushions. Shelves are built into the wall, stacked with books, some worn, some pristine. The bed is large but not absurd, dressed in light linens that smell faintly of lavender.
It feels… safe. Which somehow makes it worse.
Around the corner, he points. "Bathroom's is there."
I frown. "One bathroom?"
"Yes."
"So… we have separate rooms, but one bathroom?"
He doesn't answer. Just turns away, crossing back into his shadowed, seductive space, heading for the massive glass wall like I've already ceased to exist.
I step fully into my room, sinking down onto the edge of the bed. The softness nearly swallows me. My chest aches, sharp and ugly. I didn't expect him to be a real husband, or kind, or even polite. But this? This is worse.
Because every single time I step out of this room, I'll have to pass through his. I'll see him. I'll smell him. I'll remember that he's right there — close enough to touch, but untouchable.
God.
It's fucking torture.
Life is a bitch.
A sneaky, unpredictable, smug-faced bitch.
Because if you'd told me a year and a half ago that I'd end up here — in a goddamn glass palace, married to Adam Zayan Tavarian — I'd have laughed in your face.
Back then, he was just a stranger I saw once. A guy on a bike, stopped in traffic, helmet on, visor down, but even through all that… I knew. Something about him pulled my stupid heart in like a magnet. I spent the next year crushed up on someone I didn't even know. Didn't know his name, didn't know his world, didn't know he was the Tavarian heir — the untouchable king in a city where everyone either worships you or fears you.
Then life, in all its asshole glory, decided to throw me under his tires — literally. An accident. Him, me, flashing lights, pain. And then… the hospital.
Four fucking months.
Four months of living in the same room, only an arm's length away. Breathing the same air. Sleeping to the sound of his breathing at night. Watching him exist like gravity didn't apply to him. Four months of feeling my heartbeat trip over itself every time he looked at me.
And then — boom. One day, the truth.
He wasn't just some guy on a bike. He was him. The Tavarian heir. The kind of man whose shadow falls across the entire city. And I did the only thing that made sense — I started trying to forget him.
Tried.
Failed.
Two months after discharge, I'm standing in a dress worth more than my old house, wearing a ring with his name tied to mine. Not because he loves me. Not because this is some fairy-tale ending. But because this marriage is nothing but a Tavarian business play — calculated, loveless, cold. And me? I'm nothing in this world. Just a pawn with a pulse.
And God, I miss home.
I miss my mom's voice drifting down the hall when she's cooking. I miss my dad's quiet laugh when he catches me swearing under my breath. I miss my younger brother barging into my room without knocking, my older brother stealing my snacks and pretending it's a joke. I miss my room. My actual room — messy, cramped, mine. Not this showroom-level "bridal suite" designed to look pretty while making you feel like you're on display.
My throat tightens, sharp and hot, like I've swallowed a stone.
I drag my gaze to the mirror across the room. And there she is. Me. The prettiest I've probably ever been — hair perfectly pinned, makeup flawless, gown sculpted to me like I was born in it. I look like I belong in this place.
But I don't.
"Congratulations, Arshila," I mutter at my reflection, my voice flat. "You married your first love. What'd it cost you? Oh, right — every fucking thing else."
He really gave me my own room. On my wedding night. How generous.
Bitch. Adam Zayan. Bitch.
I grip the edge of the vanity, leaning in closer to my reflection. My eyes look sharp even with the shimmer dusted over them.
I swear, no matter what this world throws at me — no matter how badly it tries to bend me — I'm not bowing. Not to him. Not to any of them. I don't care if I'm breaking apart piece by piece, if I'm bleeding out, if there's a knife at my throat. I will fight until there's nothing left to fight with.
Not especially to him. Never to him.
I straighten, peeling my gaze away from the mirror, and reach up to the heavy veil weighing down my head. The pins drag at my scalp as I slide it free, and the thing spills down over my arms like a white waterfall. It's so fucking long it could probably wrap around me twice. I toss it onto the bed, the silk pooling like it's too expensive to touch the floor.
Then I reach for the zipper at my back.
My fingers stretch, fumbling, catching the edge for a second before it slips away. I try again, and again — twisting my arm at an angle it's absolutely not meant to go.
No luck.
"Shit," I mutter under my breath, teeth clenching. The zipper sits just far enough down my spine to taunt me, impossible to reach.
And just like that, I know I've fucked up.
Because the only person within shouting distance who could help me is the same man who gave me my own goddamn room.
I keep trying.
One arm bent back so far my shoulder's about to dislocate, fingers clawing at the goddamn zipper like I'm wrestling with a wild animal. I twist, turn, curse under my breath, but it's useless. The dress is winning. And it's winning beautifully — all silk and smugness and impossible angles.
"No," I hiss at myself, jaw locked. "I am not asking him."
The last thing I want is to give Adam Zayan Tavarian even one fraction of the satisfaction of seeing me struggle. He'd probably smirk, tilt his head in that way he does when he's one second from ruining someone.
But I can't breathe. The gown is heavy, cinched tight, and the air feels like it's thinning. I start pacing the length of my room, the train dragging like a chain, my chest tightening with every step. The window seat looks like it's mocking me. My perfect cream walls don't give a damn I'm suffocating.
I stop, pressing a palm against my ribs, pulling in one long, heavy breath. My hands are shaking.
Okay.
Fine.
I'm not asking him.
I'm… requesting basic human assistance.
That's it.
I gather every shred of courage I can scrape together, march to the door, and wrap my fingers around the handle. Deep breath in. Deep breath out.
The door swings open.
And there he is.
Adam.
Fucking. Bitch.
Standing by the massive glass wall like he's part of the view. . The city glows beneath him, and his reflection blends into it like he's been carved into the skyline itself. His back is straight, shoulders broad, the fabric of his black shirt stretched perfectly across them.
God, his back looks…
Sexy.
Bitch, get a grip. Don't you dare fall for him again. Not tonight. Not ever.
I clear my throat once. Nothing.
"Aaahmmm," I try, but my voice cracks like I've swallowed gravel.
He turns.
And now he's looking at me, straight on. His gaze doesn't waver, doesn't soften. It's heavy. I feel it press right into me, like he's dissecting me without moving a muscle.
"I—uh…" My tongue is useless. "I can….. you…... I mean…"
His brow arches, the tiniest twitch of amusement — or maybe impatience.
"I can't reach the zip," I blurt. "So… can you please… help me?"
My eyes meet his. God, mistake. Big mistake. They're darker than usual tonight, steady and unreadable, pulling me in like they always have.
He starts walking toward me. Not rushed. Not lazy. Just slow, deliberate steps that somehow make the air in the room thicken. Each one sounds louder than it should on the dark wood floor.
When he's close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off him, he stops. Behind me.
The silence is loud.
I sweep my hair over one shoulder, my fingers brushing my collarbone. In the mirror across the room, I can see him. He's looking down at the zipper, his brows slightly drawn like he's debating something. Like the idea of touching me, even just fabric, is… complicated.
His hand lifts. Hesitates.
Then he turns his head away — actually away, like the sight of me is too much or not enough, I can't tell — and his fingers finally catch the zipper.
The sound of it lowering is slow, almost too slow, the silk parting inch by inch. My breath is stuck in my throat, not because I'm flustered, but because this is somehow humiliating.
In the mirror, I watch him — not his hands, but his face. He's still looking off to the side, like it's painful to make eye contact. Like touching me is something he's doing out of obligation, not want.
It hits harder than I expect.
I pull my hair back over my shoulders the second the zipper's done and step away like his proximity burns. No words. No thank you.
I walk straight into my room, shut the door, and press my back against it. Letting out a breath I didn't even realize I was holding feels like collapsing.
The dress is still on. Somehow, over the next thirty brutal minutes, I manage to wrestle the damn thing off — cursing, tripping, nearly ripping the seams. It ends up in a heap, the silk a perfect, smug puddle at my feet.
I drop onto the bed, clutching the gown to my chest like it's a shield. My mind's a mess — anger curling with something sharp and ugly I don't want to name.
Because he looked at me like I was a problem to solve. Not a woman. Not his wife. Just… something in the way.
And I hate that it hurts.
^^^^^^^^^^^^^
ZAYAN POV
God.
I'm fucking out of control right now.
I've spent the whole day acting like I don't care, like she's just another part of this deal, another chess piece in the Tavarian game — and I almost forgot how much of a lie that is. I can't do this anymore. But I have to.
Because she's my wife now.
My fucking wife.
She's in my house. In my space. Breathing my air. And yet… I can't reach her. She feels a thousand miles away, untouchable.
And then she opened her door tonight — hair over her shoulder, dress hugging every line, eyes a mix of stubborn and nervous — and she asked me for help. Me.
Unzip her dress.
It should've been nothing. Just fabric. Just a zipper.
But the second I stepped behind her and looked down at that damn line running the length of her spine, my brain betrayed me. Because all I could see was that night in the hospital — her bare back in the dim light, and that fucking mole.
My hands remember more than I want them to.
Control, Zayan.
I had to look away. Not because I didn't want to touch her — because I wanted it too fucking much. And because if I looked at her for one second too long, I wouldn't have stopped at the zipper.
She pulled away fast, hair back over her shoulders, no thanks, no nothing — just gone. Her door shut, a solid, final sound.
I drag a hand through my hair, trying to rip the thoughts out of my skull, and drop onto the edge of my bed. The mattress dips under my weight, but I barely feel it. My head's too full.
Today.
I married her today.
And when she walked down that aisle, when her eyes locked on mine for that half-second, I almost fucking lost it. My throat tightened, my vision blurred. I've dreamed of that moment — of her walking toward me — thousands and thousands of times. And when it actually happened, I almost cried. Not because I'm weak. Not because I'm powerless. Because it's her. And she's mine, even if she doesn't want to be.
And now she's in my room.
Well… not exactly.
I told her it was hers, gave her her own privacy — but what I didn't tell her is that I built it inside mine. Because I want to be close. I want to know she's here. I want to hear the sound of her moving, breathing, existing where I can reach her in seconds.
Every time she steps out, I want to see her.
I'm still sitting there when her door opens. The sound is soft, but I feel it. My head lifts before I even think about it.
She steps out barefoot, wearing an oversized T-shirt and loose pants. Hair messy now, face bare. And somehow, that's worse for me than seeing her in that dress. Because this is her. The version no one else gets.
She doesn't look at me. Not even a flicker. Just starts walking the corridor that connects our spaces to the bathroom.
I can't look away. My eyes lock on the line of her back, the way the shirt sways slightly as she moves, the curve of her waist before it disappears into the loose cotton of her pants.
She keeps walking. Doesn't turn. Doesn't slow.
And I keep staring at her back like a man who's already lost and knows it.
______________________________
ARSHILA'S POV
I open my door.
Don't look at him. Don't even flick my eyes in his direction. Just straight ahead, head high, like I've been doing this my whole damn life.
The corridor from here to the bathroom isn't long — but it's not the usual boring hallway either. It's… expensive. You can feel the money in it. Soft carpet under my feet, walls that aren't plain but textured, like they were designed by someone whose entire personality is "I'm richer than God."
The corridor ends in a massive double door. Not a normal bathroom door. No — this thing looks like it could lead to a ballroom or a vault.
I push one side open — and holy. Shit.
This isn't a bathroom.
This is… I don't even know what the hell this is.
The floor is black marble shot through with veins of gold, so polished I can see my reflection looking stunned as hell. The walls are the same, stretching high, higher than they have any right to. The ceiling's got recessed lighting, warm and golden, like the sun in a damn five-star spa commercial.
And the "bathtub"?
Yeah, no. It's not a tub. It's a pool.
An actual, square, sunken pool in the center of the room, water so clear it's almost glowing under the lights. Steam curls lazily up from the surface, carrying some kind of expensive scent I can't name but immediately want to drown in.
There's no "shower cubicle" in sight — instead, there are entire panels in the ceiling and the walls fitted with what look like rainfall heads, side jets, and some other space-age shower crap I've never seen in my life. They go from floor to ceiling like someone said "privacy is for peasants" and designed accordingly.
The sink is next to the door — not your standard little thing, but a wide, deep basin carved from the same dark marble, the faucet sleek and black, water streaming like liquid glass when I try the handle.
I actually step inside before my brain catches up.
How the hell is this bigger than my room?
I turn in a slow circle, mouth actually open like a tourist, before I remember myself and snap it shut. Still… my eyes can't stop eating up every ridiculous detail. The gold trim along the pool edge. The subtle heat under the marble like the floor's been warmed just to spoil you. The wall of fluffy towels that look like they cost more than my tution fee.
I lock the door — not because I think he'll just barge in, but because I need to breathe.
Then I finally face the shower situation.
And immediately regret it.
There's a panel of switches and levers on the wall. At least eight. None of them labeled in any normal way — just sleek little icons I'm supposed to understand, apparently. Rain drop. Three dots. A spiral. Two parallel lines. What the fuck does any of this mean?
I press one at random.
Instantly, a jet of water blasts me from the side, straight into my ribs. Cold.
"Holy fuck!" I jerk back like I've just been stabbed with an icicle, nearly slip on the marble, and slam my hand on another switch.
That one shoots water from the floor — which, what?? I jump again, cursing under my breath, and turn the first one off. Or maybe I didn't, because now there's water falling from somewhere above me too, warm and soft like rain.
Great. I'm soaked already, in the most ridiculous bathroom on the planet, and I haven't even figured it out yet.
I stand there dripping, staring at the panel like it's an alien control board. Yeah. I'm definitely going to be here for a while.
----------------------------------------------------
ZAYAN POV
I sit on the edge of the bed, elbows on my knees, eyes locked on the bathroom door like it's a damn loaded gun pointed straight at me.
The faint hum of the air purifier is already irritating enough—until I hear it.
The spray.
Water hitting tile in a steady rhythm, like someone's turned on the soundtrack to every fucking bad decision I could ever make.
My jaw flexes.
Don't.
Don't you fucking dare, Zayan.
Don't be that pathetic fucker who sits here imagining what's happening behind that door.
But my mind? Oh, my mind doesn't give a shit about self-respect right now.
It's already peeling away the layers of silk and lace I didn't even see her in, imagining steam curling around her skin, dripping down her neck, sliding lower—
I bite the inside of my cheek, hard.
Fuck.
The sound gets louder, sharper, like each droplet's hammering right into my skull.
I tell myself to breathe, to think about literally anything else—business numbers, last week's meeting, hell, even Razmir's ugly smirk. But no. My brain decides now is the perfect time to turn into a filthy, relentless bastard.
And suddenly—
I'm there.
In my head.
Inside that damn bathroom.
Steam burning my lungs, her wet hair sticking to her back, my hands—fuck—on her waist, pulling her against me. My mouth finding hers before she even has time to gasp. Her back pressed to the cold wall, water splashing over us while my tongue—
No.
I snap my head up, eyes squeezing shut.
Don't you dare, Zayan. Don't ruin this. Don't touch what you can't un-touch. You've had her in your life for less than twenty-four hours as your wife. First night. And if you give in now, there's no coming back from it.
But my body doesn't care about logic. Every muscle's coiled tight, my veins screaming, my palms itching to feel her. The thought alone is enough to make my control crack right down the middle.
I stand so fast the mattress dips behind me.
If I stay here, if I let the sound of that shower keep drilling into my skull, I will walk in there.
And if I walk in there—
Tonight won't be forgettable.
It'll be the kind of night that will leave both of us in pieces we can't put back together.
I grab my phone, my jacket, anything to get the fuck out of the room.
The door clicks shut behind me, but my mind's still in there. Still under the spray. Still pinning her to that wall.
And this is just the wedding night.
If she keeps breathing in the same house as me, wearing those damn looks like she doesn't even know what they do to me—
I'm not sure how long I can keep being the sane, self-controlled version of myself.
Because one of these days?
I'm not walking out of that room.
§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§
AUTHOR NOTE
Bitches… here we fucking are.
One room—no, wait—inside his room. Like, who the hell even thinks of that? Who wakes up and goes, "Yeah, let's just build her a room in my damn room." That motherfucker's got a sexy brain, I mean it. And now the fact that they're starting? Oh, it's on. It's so on. Follow, because after this… shit's about to get spicy, stupid, and probably illegal.
And comment, share support and vote and remember i always love you 👄