ARSHILA'SPOV
Morning hits like a slow burn.
I don't even know when the hell I fell asleep last night. One minute I'm fresh out of the shower, hair dripping down my back, the scent of his damn soap clinging to my skin like it owns me, and the next—blackout. No dreams, no restless tossing, just gone.
When I finally blink awake, the first thing I notice is the silence. Not just quiet—void.
If I were at home, right now Mom would be halfway across the hall, screaming my name like the devil's chasing her, cursing me out for sleeping in. Dad's TV would be blaring some old news channel with the volume set to "blast the neighbors," and the rooster from next door would be crowing like it's auditioning for a horror movie. Mom would also be yelling at Ahil to get his ass to school, and the whole house would be this chaotic, messy, living thing.
But here? Nothing. No noise. No movement. Just the hum of expensive air and this big-ass bed swallowing me whole.
My fingers twitch, and that's when I feel it—the weight of something cold and perfect against my skin. I lift my hand.
The ring catches the morning light like it's been waiting to show off.
It's ridiculous. The gold isn't just gold—it's warm, like the sun melted just for me. The band is slim but strong, no flimsy crap. And the diamond? Holy shit. Not too big like it's screaming "look at me," but not small either. It's the kind that makes you look twice, like it's hiding secrets in its fire. Tiny stones wrap around the band, sparkling like they're in on some private joke. It's so beautiful it pisses me off.
I don't even realize I'm staring until my chest tightens, dragging me back to yesterday . His hand sliding this onto mine. That unreadable look in his eyes. Like he's putting me in chains, but they're made of gold and diamonds.
I drop my hand. I'm not doing this.
I sit up, hair a mess, eyes probably puffed, and scan the room. My room—inside his. Which means the only way out is through his. I open my door, half expecting to catch him there, maybe lounging like the smug bastard he is.
But nothing. No Zayan. No shadow of him.
Where the fuck did he go?
I stand there for a second, gripping the doorframe, debating whether I should care. Spoiler: I don't. He can go fuck himself for all I care. In fact, I hope he's out there somewhere being his arrogant, insufferable self, far away from me.
I shut the door again and head to the bathroom to wash my face. My reflection stares back, daring me to play the part—pretty dress, neat hair, maybe a little perfume. The perfect wife look.
Nah. Screw that. I can't be "on" all the damn time. If I start putting on a show every morning, he'll think that's me. And it's not. I'm not here to be a polished little doll for him to parade around.
So no, I'm not bathing this early. I'm not curling my hair. I'm not painting my face just to have him not notice. I'll be me. Messy, stubborn, maybe a little terrifying.
If he doesn't like it, he can choke.
The moment I step out of the room, the sunlight slaps me right in the face.
God. This place is even more beautiful in daylight than it was at night — golden streaks spilling through walls of glass, touching everything like it's some sacred fucking masterpiece.
But… no. I prefer the night. Night hides things. Night is honest in a way daylight isn't.
I walk slowly, my bare feet whispering against the glass staircase, each step careful — because let's be real, I'm not trying to break my neck in Zayan Tavarian's mansion like some tragic dumbass headline. The glass under me catches the light, turning it into this strange illusion that I'm walking on air.
Halfway down, the same old woman from yesterday appears, all prim and proper, holding herself like the house itself runs on her spine.
"Good morning, ma'am," she says.
Ugh. Ma'am.
That word feels like it's dragging twenty years over my face. I bite down the grimace, give her a polite little smile — because sure, why not, let her think I'm civil.
"Your breakfast is ready," she adds.
Oh, thank God. Finally, someone's speaking my love language.
In my head, I'm like — yeah, exactly, feed me first, then maybe half my fucking problems will dissolve like sugar in tea. Maybe I'll even stop thinking about last night and him and this whole twisted situation.
She leads me to the dining area and— holy shit.
This… this is not a dining table. This is a stage. And the show is "look at how filthy rich we are without even trying." Everything is glass and steel and those sleek, cold surfaces that scream money without having to shout it. The kind of place where you breathe and the air smells like someone paid for it.
And the food? My God.
It's not breakfast. It's a goddamn parade. Dishes everywhere — plates stacked with delicate pastries, gleaming bowls of fruit that look like they've been hand-selected by angels, steaming platters of eggs, bread that probably cost more than my phone, tiny jars of jam with labels in French.
Who the hell even eats all this? Is this… is this all for me? Or are we expecting the President?
I look at the woman, but she's already pulling out a chair for me like I'm royalty. I sit — still a bit stunned — and she gives me this small, warm nod.
"I hope you enjoy," she says… and then she's gone. Disappeared into thin air like some polite little ghost.
I pick up my fork. Take one bite. And—
Holy. Shit.
It's so fucking delicious I nearly moan. Fluffy eggs melting on my tongue, bread so soft it feels like a sin to chew it, fruit that bursts in my mouth like it's been injected with summer itself.
Somewhere in my head, I think, yep, I could get used to this.
By the time I'm done, I'm not just fed. I'm high. Like someone poured sunlight straight into my veins. I wander to the huge window nearby, leaning against the frame as I look outside.
And it hits me — goddamn, it's too beautiful. The kind of beauty that doesn't just make you sigh, it hurts. Lush green spilling over acres, sunlight touching water in the distance, everything so calm it's almost cruel.
And I wonder… is Zayan romantic? Does he ever bring his girlfriend here to see this? To stand where I'm standing, with this view swallowing you whole?
It must be nice. Lucky girl.
I turn— and freeze.
Izar is walking across the hall, casual as hell, like a king who doesn't have to try. His dark eyes catch mine, and for a second, we just look at each other.
Then he nods. No smile. No warmth. Just that stiff, polite nod like I'm some stranger he's tolerating in his space.
What. The. Hell?
Is he always like this? Or is it just me? Does he hate me for marrying Zayan? For existing in their world?
If that's the case, he can go fuck himself too. I'm not here to kiss anyone's ass.
Izar's standing there.
The human wall.
The man who looks like he was born just to block sunlight and ruin people's days.
I glare at him in my head, cursing him so hard I'm surprised he doesn't spontaneously combust.
And then—
The bastard looks back.
Not just a casual glance, oh no. He looks.
Right at me.
Then down.
At my clothes.
Loose-fit pajama pants and shirt. Not sexy, not fancy, not made to impress anyone. Just… pajamas.i got it from the closet.must be expensive.
And in that split second, my brain's screaming, What the fuck is your problem?
Seriously.
Did this guy never see pajamas before?
Are pajama pants some kind of sin in the holy fucking Tavarian household?
Is this too disgusting for His Royal High-and-Mighty-Bodyguard's delicate eyes?
Because the way he's staring—it's not curiosity, it's judgment.
And fuck, it makes me want to flip him off so bad my middle finger is itching.
But I don't.
I just narrow my eyes at him, full murder mode.
He doesn't say a damn thing.
Just turns and walks away like I'm not even worth a verbal insult.
Prick.
I head toward the kitchen because I'm curious.
The moment I step in, I freeze.
It's huge.
Like, if a five-star hotel kitchen and a palace pantry had a baby, it would look like this., marble counters, shelves that go up higher than my reach, and… people.
All in Tavarian livery.
Moving like clockwork, cutting, stirring, plating.
And then—
They see me.
It's like someone hit a mute button.
Every single one of them stops.
And bows.
Fucking bows.
Like I'm some kind of queen who just floated in on a red carpet.
I actually flinch.
Because what the hell is this?
Nobody bows to me. Ever.
"What can we do for you, ma'am?" one of them asks, still bent at a perfect ninety degrees like her spine's made of iron.
And all I can think is—This is weird. This is too much. This is not me.
My mouth opens.
Then closes.
Then I just shake my head. "Nothing," I mutter, already backing up.
I'm not curious anymore.
I just need to get out before someone starts calling me Your Fucking Majesty.
Because God, this is the Tavarian world, isn't it?
A place where even grabbing a glass of water feels like a goddamn ceremony.
And I don't want it.
Not this.
Not the suffocating attention, not the fake respect, not the eyes watching every move.
Fuck this.
I'm going back to my room.
I'm just about to take the first step up the stairs when that man from yesterday suddenly appears beside me like he's been waiting in the shadows.
"Ma'am, would you like me to lead you on a tour of the house?" His voice is polite, calm — but there's this weird, practiced smoothness to it, like he's done this a thousand times before.
House tour?
I blink, caught off guard.
Whatever. I'm already trapped here; might as well know what the hell I'm stuck in.
"Okay," I say, trying not to sound too eager or too pissed.
He nods and motions forward.
"I'm Christopher Wile, the housekeeper here. Been running the estate for almost a decade now."
I follow him, eyes scanning the place with a mix of awe and that edge of irritation I carry around like armor.
He starts rattling off names like a tour guide at some fancy-ass museum.
"This is the east wing," he says, opening wide double doors to reveal a hallway flooded with natural light. The floors gleam black marble, so flawless it looks like liquid glass. The walls are all sleek angles and sharp lines — modern architecture meeting that high-end, seductive luxury that screams 'money so heavy it could kill you.' Whoever designed this place didn't just want a home; they wanted a masterpiece wrapped in silk and steel.
Then he shows me the west wing, where the furniture is so plush and perfect it feels like it belongs in a magazine—impossibly expensive leather couches and velvet chairs that look like they've never been sat on by anyone human.
Next, the indoor pool. Holy shit, it's not just a pool — it's a goddamn lagoon, sparkling beneath a sky of glass so clear I can see every ripple in the water. The gym? Fully loaded with every machine and gadget you could imagine, probably enough to kill any excuse for not working out.
Christopher even jokes, "If someone gets lost in this house, they'd probably drink themselves silly before finding the kitchen." I snort. Yeah, probably.
We step outside for a bit, and the view nearly knocks the breath out of me. One side stretches out into dense woods — trees so thick and wild they look like a secret forest where anything could hide. The other side is a manicured flower garden so damn perfect it feels like stepping into a dream painted with every color imaginable.
"This mansion sits across five hundred acres," Christopher says casually, like he's mentioning the weather. "There's a separate house for the staff somewhere on the grounds, too."
Five hundred acres. I'm blinking again. Who the hell needs that much damn space?
"How many people live here?" I ask, genuinely curious now.
"Only you and Master Tavarian, ma'am."
I want to laugh. This whole fortress of a place for two people?
"Why the fuck does he need this much land? What's he, some kind of god?"
Christopher shrugs, polite but closed off. "Master Tavarian values privacy and security above all else."
"His parents?"
"They live in another estate."
I shake my head, swallowing back the sharp edge of jealousy and something worse — dread. This is what having endless money does to you. You build palaces where no one can touch you. You create worlds so vast, you don't even need anyone else.
Then we reach a massive door — black, polished like a mirror, with heavy golden handles shaped like coiled snakes. I reach for it, fingers brushing the cold surface, but Christopher stops me.
"That area's restricted, even for you, ma'am."
I narrow my eyes. "Why?"
"Master Tavarian's orders."
My mind spins. What the fuck is behind that door? A harem? His girlfriend suite? Or something worse — something he doesn't want me to see? I bite the inside of my cheek and nod. Whatever it is, it's off-limits. For now.
As Christopher continues the tour, the opulence weighs down on me like a velvet prison. This isn't just a house — it's a monument to power and control, a place designed to impress, seduce, and intimidate all at once. And me? I'm caught in the middle, a stranger pretending she belongs.
I ask, trying to keep my voice steady, "Well, where the fuck is Zayan? I haven't seen him since I woke up."
The housekeeper nods like it's the most normal question in the world. "He must be in his study."
"Study?" I blink, trying to picture where that hellhole might be in this endless mansion.
He offers a polite smile. "I can lead you there."
"No, no need," I cut in fast, not wanting an audience on this little adventure. "Just tell me the directions. I can find it myself."
He points down the hall, second door on the right. I give him a small smile, maybe too sweet for the mood I'm actually in, and I head off.
Heart thudding like a damn drumline, I reach the door and stop. This has got to be his study — that room where he's probably locked away, ruling some empire or plotting world domination or whatever the hell Tavarians do when they're not staring at me like a goddamn enigma.
I roll my eyes at myself. Why the fuck are you here, Arshila?
Do you want to see him?
Are you missing him?
Hell no. Just curious, that's all. Pure, innocent curiosity. I warn myself again — don't be a dumbass.
Slowly, I crack the door open and peek inside, trying to stay as invisible as possible. But all I see is darkness — the heavy curtains blocking the sunlight, the shadows swallowing the corners of the room.
I lean a little further, squinting, and then—there. A breath on my neck.
I spin around so fast my face nearly slam into his chest .
Fuck. There he is.
Tall, impossibly fucking gorgeous, that arrogant tilt of his head and that goddamn smirk he wears like a goddamn weapon.
I scramble backward, pushing my back against the door, only for it to swing wide open and me to fall ass-first on the cold floor with a loud thump.
"Fuck!" I hiss, clutching my hip where the pain shoots up like a neon flare.
He stands over me, arms crossed, staring down at my sorry ass like I just ruined his entire day.
Damn, bitch, you're a mess right now. And he's not even offering a hand?
His voice breaks the silence, low and gruff. "What the hell are you doing here?"
I stammer, scrambling to get my shit together. "Uh, I was just—looking at y—no, wait. I mean, I was checking out the room. That's all."
He says nothing, just holds my gaze like he's trying to pull every secret out of my soul.
I haul myself up and start to back away, but of course, he blocks the way — like a goddamn wall, only way sexier and way more dangerous.
I stare up into those dark brown eyes, which have somehow deepened in color, turning almost black and so fucking intense it's like staring into the abyss and wanting to dive in at the same time.
It fucking kills me.
"Can you please move? I want to go," I say, trying to sound more confident than I feel, but my voice cracks like a busted speaker.
Without breaking eye contact, he steps aside. The second I'm free, I don't just walk—I fucking bolt out of there, heart pounding so loud it feels like it could shatter glass.
Leaning against the hallway wall, I take a shaky breath and curse myself under it.
What the actual fuck was that?
And why the hell do I want to go back?
I try to steady myself, but the tension lingers like smoke, thick and impossible to ignore.
Goddammit, I'm a fucking mess.
I remind myself—again, like a fucking mantra—that he doesn't like me.
That this marriage was just a game to the Tavarians.
That he hates me.
That his heart already belongs to someone else.
So stop looking for him.
Stop wondering where the hell he is.
Stop pretending you're fine when you're not.
Just… mind your own damn business, Arshila.
The problem? My brain doesn't listen. It keeps scanning every doorway, every shadow, expecting him to appear—Zayan Tavarian in all his cold, infuriating glory—only to slap me with disappointment when he doesn't.
By the time the sun starts sinking, painting the massive windows in gold and bruised purple, I still haven't seen him. Not at lunch. Not in the hallways. Not even a single accidental passing in one of this mansion's absurdly long corridors.
It's almost like he's deliberately avoiding me.
Good. Perfect.
Then why the fuck does it sting?
I'm curled up on the living room couch now, one leg tucked under me, the massive flat-screen playing some evening news. The sound is low, barely more than background noise. I'm not watching it anyway. My mind's off somewhere else—probably pacing around the West Wing with a cigarette, if it were a person.
Then movement catches my eye.
From the corner, I see him.
Not Zayan.
Izar.
Walking in from the West Wing, tall, broad-shouldered, with that bodyguard stance that says he could crush your bones in under five seconds without breaking a sweat. He's not just handsome—he's the kind of dangerous handsome that makes you think of dark alleys and bad decisions.
His eyes find mine.
And the way he looks at me… God.
It's not neutral. It's not professional.
It's… like he fucking hates me.
Like my existence offends him on a personal level.
I narrow my eyes, give him my best death stare—the one that usually makes people stutter and back off.
Izar doesn't flinch. Doesn't blink. Doesn't even slow down. He just turns his head away like I'm some annoying insect buzzing near his ear and walks right past.
God, what's his problem? It's literally the first day and I already want to throw something heavy at him. I can't fucking tolerate this energy. And I hate it—hate that I'm here in this gilded cage with people who either avoid me like I'm radioactive or look at me like they're planning my funeral.
The newscaster's voice slices through my thoughts.
"…breaking news. Star Group CEO Alexander Reed found dead in his apartment earlier today. Authorities confirm his death is being investigated as part of the ongoing vigilante case. Police reports state that Reed publicly confessed to assaulting several of his artists just two weeks ago in a live broadcast…"
My head snaps to the screen.
What?
The anchor keeps talking, but I barely hear the words. My mind latches onto the only thing that matters—
He's dead?
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Author's Note:
This chapter is where the air gets heavier. You'll feel it — that slow shift from curiosity to tension, from watching to being watched. Arshila's walls are up, but cracks are starting to show… and the Tavarian mansion doesn't feel like just a house anymore. Every glance, every word not said, every shadow feels sharper here.
I had way too much fun writing the little moments — the ring catching the light, Izar's judging stare, Zayan being a walking contradiction. They're all small sparks, but I promise, they're leading somewhere. The question is… which one will burn first?
Read with your tea/coffee/chaos of choice, and if you catch any line that makes you pause or reread, I want to know which one. Your reactions are the best way for me to tell if I'm hitting the right kind of tension.
If you've been following since the earlier chapters, thank you for sticking around — you're making this way more fun to write than I expected. And if you're new here, welcome to the gilded cage. There's no escape now.
Love you 🤍👄