"…Star Group CEO Alexander Reed found dead in his apartment earlier today."
The words drop like ice water down my spine.
My head jerks toward the screen.
I blink once. Twice.
He's dead?
Dead?
For a second I think I misheard. But no—the slick-haired news anchor is still talking, his voice far too calm for what he's saying.
"Authorities confirm his death is beinginvestigated as part of the ongoing vigilante case. Reed, a prominent figure in the entertainment industry, confessed just two weeks ago during a live broadcast to having assaulted several of his artists…"
My brain glitches.
What the actual fuck.
Alexander Reed.
The Alexander Reed.
The man who was practically a saint in the media's eyes—shiny, untouchable, dressed in expensive suits and donating obscene amounts of money to charity. Every damn gossip magazine called him a "man of the people."
Hell, even I believed it.
And now—
Now they're saying he was a rapist. An assaulter.
A predator hiding behind PR smiles and glittering galas.
God. How many other people have i been liking at all these years, thinking they were golden when they were actually rotting inside?
The anchor keeps going, each word slicing deeper.
"…the postmortem report reveals that Reed was killed approximately two weeks ago, his body discovered only today. In keeping with other vigilante-linked deaths, all of his assets have mysteriously vanished—offshore accounts, properties, investments—wiped clean. Authorities describe the killing as brutal, the work of someone highly skilled. The identity of this so-called 'vigilante' remains unknown…"
Two weeks ago.
Assets vanished.
Brutally killed.
I lean back against the couch, staring at the TV but not really seeing it.
Who the hell is this vigilante?
What's his game?
What's his motive?
Because yeah, sure, he's taking out scum like Reed—people who honestly deserve to rot in hell—but he's still a killer. This isn't some hero story with capes and speeches. This is blood on the floor, throats cut in the dark, lives snuffed out like candle flames.
What will be his next plan??
Planning his next target?
Stalking someone in a dark alley?
Or—hell—maybe sitting somewhere in a perfectly pressed suit, sipping whiskey like nothing's happened, with someone else's blood still drying on his hands.
The thought sits heavy in my chest.
Dangerous. Twisted.
And I can't decide if I'm more disturbed… or curious.
And what's he doing right now?
________
ZAYAN POV
I'd avoided her all day.
Not the casual kind of avoiding you do when you're busy—no. This was deliberate. Methodical. Like moving pieces on a chessboard so you never end up in check. I timed my steps, my routes through the house, every moment calculated so I wouldn't cross her path. I didn't even let myself hear her voice for more than a few seconds before walking the other way.
Cruel? Yeah. Fucking cruel.
But cruelty sometimes feels safer than temptation.
Now it's night, the kind of quiet where the house breathes louder than you do. I'm in one of my room—the one no one else enters—and he's here.
Boo Boo is stretched out on the rug at first, tail flicking like he's thinking about something. When I speak, his ears twitch.
"You know your mammy's here," I murmur.
He stares, steady and unblinking, then tilts his head like he's trying to read me.
"Do you wanna see her?"
There's a long pause before he gives a tiny, deliberate shake of his head. I almost laugh at how human it feels.
"You can't see her. Not yet. If she sees you here…" I drag in a breath. "It'll be bad, okay?"
He doesn't argue—if cats even can. Instead, he gets up, pads over to me, and climbs into my lap like it's the only place that matters. He curls up, his purr settling in low and steady, like he's reminding me he's mine. My hand moves over his fur automatically, slow and careful.
And that's when my head betrays me.
It always does.
Yesterday—our wedding day—flashes in brutal detail.
She walked into that ceremony and the air fucking shifted. Like the whole room inhaled at once and forgot how to breathe. And I wanted—God, I wanted—to lean in, press my mouth to the corner of her lips, and tell her she was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. But I didn't. I stood there like stone.
She's always been pretty. That's the dangerous part.
Always.
Even when she's furious. Even when she's rolling her eyes and muttering something sharp under her breath. Even when she's wearing those loose pajama pants she thinks are hideous—especially then.
And now she's here. My wife, on paper. In my house.
And I still can't have her.
Not yet.
Because what's worse than wanting someone you can't touch? Touching them without them knowing the truth. Acting like you care without earning the right. That would be the real cruelty. So I keep my distance. I let her think I don't care. I let her think I don't want her. Even if it's killing me one hour at a time.
Boo Boo shifts in my lap, and I glance at the ceiling, jaw tight. My fingers keep moving through his fur because it's easier than clenching my fists.
I could go to her room right now. Knock once. See her open the door, hair messy from running her hands through it, that guarded look in her eyes ready to slice me in half. I could step in, close the gap, undo everything in seconds.
But not yet.
Not until she knows.
Not until she looks at me and sees all of it—the ugly truth, the past, the reason I've been keeping her at arm's length.
So I'll stay cold. Distant.
Even if it makes me rot from the inside out.
Boo Boo's purr fades into the background, like static under the weight of my thoughts. I lean back against the headboard, eyes fixed on the ceiling like there's something up there worth staring at. There's not.
But my mind?
My mind's anything but blank.
She's upstairs. Probably in her room right now. Maybe lying on her side with one leg hooked over the blanket because she gets too hot at night. Maybe scrolling through her phone, pretending she's not checking the clock. Maybe thinking about me.
Or maybe not. Maybe she's thinking about how much she hates this place, how she can't wait for this arrangement to be over, how the hell she got herself into marrying a man who won't even look at her.
I drag a hand down my face, forcing my eyes shut. Fuck.
I know exactly what she looks like when she's getting ready for bed—hair loose, falling over her shoulders, skin clean and smelling like whatever floral crap she uses that still clings to my head days . I know her.
Four years of watching, waiting, wanting. And now she's here, but it's still like I'm locked out in the cold.
Boo Boo shifts again, stretching out like he owns the whole damn bed, but doesn't leave my lap. I keep scratching between his ears because it's something to do with my hands besides imagining what her skin would feel like under them.
I could go up there right now. She wouldn't be expecting it. She'd open the door and her first reaction would be that little flicker of surprise—right before she puts her guard back up, hard and fast. And God, I'd want to push past it. Press her back against the wall. Kiss her until she forgot she ever wanted to fight me.
But that's not how this works. Not for us.
Not yet.
I have to let her think I don't care. Have to let her think she can hate me without knowing why I'm doing it. Because if she finds out the truth before I'm ready to give it to her? I'll lose her. And I've spent too fucking long making sure I wouldn't.
So I stay here. In the dark. With the only part of her I can safely have curled up in my lap, purring like he knows I'm breaking myself apart piece by piece just to keep her in my orbit.
And tomorrow, I'll avoid her again.
Because I can survive the pain of not touching her.
I'm not sure I could survive touching her and then having to let go.
ARSHILA'S POV
Morning hits slow.
Like the sun is dragging its feet, like it doesn't even want to get up today.
I crack my eyes open, stare at the ceiling for a moment, and remember—right. This place. This bed. This… marriage that doesn't even feel like a marriage.
I push off the blankets, pad to the door, and open it half-expecting him to be there, sprawled in his bed like he owns the damn universe.
He's not.
The room is empty. Too empty.
I tell myself I don't care.
You don't care. You're not supposed to care.
Bathroom. Shower. Pretend he doesn't exist.
When I step out, there's a coffee mug already waiting for me, courtesy of the staff—like magic, except without the warmth. I take it, murmur a thanks that probably lands in thin air, and head outside.
God.
The outside hits like a dream. Crisp air, manicured lawns stretching like they've been painted, sunlight kissing every leaf and flower like the whole world here exists for an Instagram filter.
But then I notice it.
The guards.
Every single one of them—shifted. Not facing me anymore. All their backs turned, perfectly in sync, like I'm some kind of walking plague.
What the actual fuck?
Are they pretending they didn't see me? Or is it worse? Do they hate me too? Like I've been here barely two days and I'm already something they can't bear to look at?
I take the marble bench like I own it, cross my legs, and sip my coffee while staring at their rigid spines.
Fine. Turn away. I'll drink my coffee and watch your backs all day, assholes.
It's only the second day.
Second.
And it already feels like I've been here more than a decade. Like time moves slower just to watch me squirm.
Then—noise.
I glance up, scanning the glass wall upstairs.
There.
Zayan.
Black shirt, black pants, phone to his ear, face like it was sculpted to ruin people. He's all clean lines and heat, the kind of sexy that makes your stomach flip before your brain catches up to slap you.
He's talking.
Focused.
Then his eyes find me.
Caught.
I whip my head away, pretending the sky just got really interesting. But my curiosity betrays me, and I sneak a glance back—
Gone.
Like he vanished into the walls.
My chest knots.
Why is he avoiding me this much?
This is the same man who sat in that fucking hospital room with me for four months. Sure, he was rude as hell back then, but he talked to me. He listened when I rambled about nothing. He didn't… disappear.
And I used to pray for him. God, I prayed so damn hard for God to give me Zayan. And He did. He actually put him in my hands.
But what's the point of having him when I can't have him?
Tears sting. I blink them away before they win.
I tip my head back, stare at the morning sky like it's got answers, then let my eyes drift to the massive gate at the end of the driveway.
What if I just… walked out?
Would they stop me?
Or would they just watch me go, like they've been waiting for it?
Mom called yesterday. I told her everything was fine. That I was happy here, in this perfect mansion with my perfect husband. She believed me—her voice actually sounded lighter.
Yeah. That's the only reason I keep up the lie.
She doesn't need to know that in here, I'm just pretending everything's fine while rotting on the inside.
I didn't see him at breakfast. Didn't see him at lunch. Hell, I didn't see him at all.
When I asked the housekeeper, his answer was the same—cold, short, precise.
"He's not in the house."
That should've stung, but I just nodded and walked away like it didn't. Like I didn't care. But fuck, my chest kept tightening, my mind running in circles, spinning scenarios I didn't even want to imagine.
The day drags. I stay in my room, staring at the walls like they're plotting against me, until darkness seeps in, swallowing the house in shadows.
Eventually, I can't stand it anymore. I get up, step out into the endless hallways of this fucking mansion, my footsteps echoing against marble and glass. It's like wandering through someone else's life, each corner a reminder that I don't belong.
The air changes. I follow the faint scent of chlorine, curiosity pulling me forward until I step outside.
The pool is ridiculous. Moonlight hits the water just right—it looks like molten silver, every ripple sparkling, glinting, calling to me. It should make me breathe, make me feel… peace. But all it does is tighten my stomach, make my chest hammer.
And then I see him.
Zayan.
Sitting like he owns the night, like he owns everything. His legs stretched, his posture lazy but sharp, black shirt, black pants, the way the moonlight kisses his jaw—it's criminal.
He's hot.
Fucking impossibly hot.
I freeze.
His head turns.
Our eyes lock. And suddenly, the world shrinks down to nothing but him. My heart is doing something ridiculous, skipping, hammering, probably making me look like a goddamn idiot.
I'm about to turn and walk away when his voice cuts through the quiet, deep and smooth and impossible to ignore.
"How's the house?"
Wait, what? He's talking to me.
I turn fully. Swallow the lump in my throat. "Yeah… pretty good. I didn't ever think your house would be like this."
His brow quirks. "Why?"
"I'm a Tavarian," he says like that explains everything. "I can have it."
"Yeah, you can have it," I murmur, my voice tighter than I like.
I walk closer. Fuck it. Need answers. "Where were you all day?"
"Something's up. Had to go."
I hum. My gaze drifts to the water. "If you hate me that much… why did you marry me?"
Nothing. Silence.
I turn. His eyes… they're just staring. Fucking staring.
Then he stands. Slow. Every movement measured, deliberate, making me painfully aware of the space between us shrinking.
He stops just in front of me. His voice low, sharp.
"Why did you do it?"
My chest tightens. "'Cause I had no choice."
My voice cracks. My brain screams, I don't hate you. I never did.
He steps forward. I step back.
"Hate me all you want," he says, "but don't ever think I care."
Asshole.
I step back again—but my heel hits wet marble, and my balance betrays me.
The world tilts. Pool water gapes beneath me. Panic surges.
And then his hand is on my wrist.
I'm bent over backward now, hair brushing the surface of the water, my pulse hammering. His grip is iron, his gaze crushing.
"What did you call me?" His voice is so low, so deadly.
"Asshole," I spit, more defiance than breath.
His lips twitch like he's amused. "Remember—you're in my house."
"So what?" I fire back, my voice shaking. "You gonna kill me? Lock me? Shut me out? You fucker!"
For a moment, he just… lets go.
The world slams me. Water engulfs me. It's cold, all-consuming, a shock to my system. My clothes weigh a ton, dragging me down, stealing my air.
I thrash, panic climbing, my arms slicing through the water as I kick toward the surface.
Finally, I break through, gasping. Water drips down my face, burns my eyes. I blink, coughing, sputtering.
And he's still there. Standing. Watching. Calm as if letting me fall was the most normal thing in the world.
The asshole.
My heart is a runaway train in my chest. My lungs burn. My fingers shake.
And I hate him. I hate him so much. But fuck, I can't stop thinking about how goddamn perfect he looks right now.
The water ripples around me, the moonlight catching on the wet strands of my hair. I clench my fists, reminding myself—he's cruel. He's cold. And I don't belong here.
"You fucking jerk!" I scream, water dripping from my hair, clinging to my skin, every inch of me soaked and humiliated. My heart's hammering, rage practically spitting from my veins, and I'm staring at him—tall, dark, fucking gorgeous, and completely insufferable.
He crouches at the edge of the pool, black shirt sticking to his chest, pants darkened by moonlight, those fucking eyes—dark, piercing, unreadable—locked on me. Calm. Too calm. Like he's enjoying watching me flail.
"Careful what you call me, sweetheart," he says, his voice low, smooth, dangerous. "I might just remember it."
I glare at him, teeth clenched. "Remember it? Remember it? You let go of my hand, you motherfucker! You made me fall! !"
He smirks, tilting his head, that infuriating smirk that makes me want to punch him and throw myself at him at the same time.
"I didn't make you fall. You… slipped. Careful, You keep slipping around me, you're going to end up swimming in more than just the pool."
I want to scream. God, I hate you so much. "Oh, yeah? And what's that supposed to mean, huh? You think this is a game? You think standing there like a fucking statue while I almost drown is funny?!"
He laughs, low and smooth, and it makes something in me burn. "Maybe it is," he murmurs. "Maybe I like seeing you like this. Wet. Furious. Helpless. Damn… you're impossible."
Impossible? That's it. That's what he calls me? "Impossible? You think you're better, huh? You think you can just sit there all high and mighty, watching me almost crack my neck in your damn pool, and it's all fine because you're a Tavarian and everything revolves around you? You sick, twisted, fucking asshole!"
He leans forward slightly, those eyes boring into me, and then—he extends his hand. Just one hand. Calm. Like I should trust him.
"Don't," I warn, voice cracking but sharp. "I don't trust you."
"Take it," he says. "You're not going anywhere without it."
I hesitate, fingers trembling, chest tight. My brain screams: don't take it. He'll just ruin you again. But my pride battles my stubbornness, and against every instinct, I reach. My fingers brush his. His grip is firm. Solid. Safe. For a split second, I think maybe—just maybe—he's not completely cruel.
Then he lets go.
And I fall again.
Cold water engulfs me, and this time it's not just my body—it's like my entire chest caves in. Humiliation, rage, and something sharp twisting in me, inside, unbearable. I surface, gasping, hair plastered to my face, lungs burning.
And he… he just stands there. Dark, silent, cruel, untouchable. Watching. Waiting.
I glare at him, dripping and seething. "You… you fuck! You think this is funny? You think I think this is okay?" My fists clench so tight I can feel my nails biting into my palms. "I hate you. I fucking hate you, Zayan Tavarian!"
His lips twitch—smirk? amusement? "Do you now?" He says nothing more, just watches, eyes dark and predatory.
I haul myself out of the pool, wet clothes sticking to me, pants clinging, shirt soaking. My skin is cold, hair plastered to my face, and every step I take toward the house is fueled by pure, unfiltered hatred. I can feel his gaze on me, burning, following. But I refuse to look.
Every curse word I know screams in my head: fucker, asshole, sadistic bastard, prick, cruel son of a bitch. I stomp across the marble deck, dripping wet, chest heaving, trembling with fury, and I swear to myself: I'm never letting him see me like this again. Never. Not a fucking chance.
I push open the door, water sloshing, pants and shirt sticking like a second skin, and march inside. Each step is a silent scream, my mind an unrelenting storm of hatred and humiliation. He doesn't move. He just stands there, black shirt clinging, hands in pockets, calm as a fucking demon.
And I hate him more than anything in the world.
I slam the door behind me so hard I swear the fucking frame shook. God, why does he have to be this impossible?
I peel off the wet clothes, cursing every inch of fabric that clings to me like a second skin, and pull on something warm. Soft, oversized, cozy—fuck him. Yeah, he's cozy in his fucking black shirt and black pants, but me? I deserve warmth, not torture.
I pace like a caged animal, muttering curses under my breath. "What the fuck is his problem? Since the marriage he's been avoiding me, fine. I can take that. But today? The second damn day? Fucking hell, Zayan, what the fuck is wrong with you?"
I press my palms to my face. God, I feel trapped. I can't run. I can't escape. I owe him, I owe the Tavarian family, I don't even have a job. And even if I did, no one in this world would hire me. Tavarian's shadow is everywhere.
My eyes sting. I want to cry. But no. Not a fucking chance. I refuse.
Then… I hear it.
The soft, deliberate click of his door… slowly shutting.
The fucker. He's right outside this fucking room.
I freeze, then jump up, grab the door, and swing it open. He's there, calm as a fucking predator, unbuttoning his shirt like nothing happened. Not a damn inch of skin showing, but god, the way he moves… I almost gag. I immediately turn my head. No. Don't look. Just… go.
I march straight past him, ignore his presence entirely, and slam his door behind me . Downstairs. Dining table. Food. Anything to distract myself.
It's dinner time, and I sit there like a storm cloud in my oversized sweater, eyes on my plate. I hear the soft creak of the staircase and oh god, he's coming. I don't look.
He sits across from me, that fucking calm, confident presence. Staff bring the food. I eat, eyes down, like a goddamn rebel with a death wish. I shove food in my mouth like it's survival, each bite a tiny rebellion.
Then it happens.
"Achoo—oo!"
God, no.
"Achoo! Achoo!"
I freeze mid-chew and glance up. He's staring. Fucking staring. I feel my cheeks heat, like he's reading my every thought.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
I push my chair back. Enough. I stand, muttering curses under my breath, and storm back upstairs. The chlorine from the pool makes my nose go haywire and my chest cold, but I don't care.
"Goddamn motherfucker," I mutter, sneezing violently.
"Fuck you, Zayan," I sneeze again.
And again.
Every sneeze is another little battle with him, with this house, with this damn life. I curse him in every possible way, my mind a mess of fury and humiliation.
But fuck if I'm letting him see that I'm breaking.
Not. A. Chance.
...
The fever doesn't just kick in—it claws its way under my skin like it's trying to burrow down to the bone. My head feels like it's stuffed with molten lead, my throat's a desert, and my entire body is shaking in that ugly, uneven way that makes you feel both freezing and boiling at the same time.
My face has to be pale—like corpse pale. I can feel it. My lips are dry enough to sand a piece of wood. I curl deeper into the blanket, clutching it tight around me like it's my last shred of dignity. It's not working. My teeth are still clattering together like they're gossiping about me behind my back.
Why did he let me fall?
No, seriously—why?
It's been replaying in my head all day, that moment his hand let go and gravity said, Hey, bitch, hope you can swim. The cold water, the chlorine burning my nose, the sound of him just… standing there. Watching. Not rushing. Not caring. Like I was an annoying stray he couldn't be bothered to save.
Did he hate me that much?
And the ugly thing is… I think I know the answer.
If I were him—hell, marrying someone because your family decided to twist your arm while your heart is already reserved for someone else? Yeah. I'd hate me too. I'd hate the situation. I'd hate every single morning I woke up and saw my not-choice across the table.
God, I don't even know if it's me he hates, or just the idea of me. Doesn't matter. Either way, I'm freezing my ass off here.
I grab the air conditioner remote, fumble it with trembling hands, and bump the temperature up a few degrees. My eyes sting with exhaustion, my head throbs, and my nose twitches.
Then—achoo.
Another. Achoo.
Goddammit. I'm like a broken wind-up toy at this point—sneeze, shiver, groan, repeat.
I'm so, so tired. My eyelids start to drop like they weigh a hundred pounds. The ceiling blurs into nothingness. I drift.
-----------------------------------------------
Something cold and wet touches my forehead.
My brain doesn't process it at first—it's too soft, too sudden, like I'm dreaming. My lashes twitch against my cheeks, my breath shallow. There's the faintest weight pressing against my skin, and it's not the blanket.
A slow ripple of awareness creeps in, and I force my heavy eyes open. The room is drowned in darkness, so thick it swallows the walls. I blink, my vision fuzzed, adjusting to the dim glow of the moon leaking through the curtains.
My hand lifts weakly, brushing against the thing on my forehead—soft, damp, cool. A cloth. My fingers linger there for a moment, confused, before my eyes drag themselves across the room.
And then I see him.
A tall, unmoving figure by the window.
The moonlight spills across his outline in sharp, deliberate strokes—broad shoulders draped in shadow, hair tousled just enough to look unfairly good, his stance relaxed in that way only people who own the ground they stand on can manage. His face is mostly shadow, but the silver light catches just enough for me to see the set of his jaw, the faint glint in his eyes.
He's not looking at me. Or maybe he is—
My breath catches, heat flaring in my chest despite the cold. My pulse stumbles, not because I'm scared—at least, not just scared—but because his presence here makes no sense.
He's supposed to hate me. He's supposed to stay the hell away. He's supposed to… not be here, in my room, at night, in the kind of silence that makes you think the world has stopped turning.
The shadows cradle him, the moonlight crowns him, and my fever-warped brain can't decide if he looks like a savior or the executioner.
One word slips through my thoughts, uninvited, unwanted, unstoppable.
Zayan.
_____________________________________
Author's Note:
Ohhh it's starting, guys—the push and pull, the "I want you but I'd rather choke on a cactus than admit it" bullshit. 😤
They both want each other, and yet here we are… stuck in this hot mess because they're stubborn little fuckers with egos the size of Jupiter.
And yes, I'm pissed at myself while writing this because WHY am I making them suffer when I'm the one who could just… you know… make them kiss? But nooo, I chose pain. For all of us.
So buckle up—you're gonna scream, I'm already screaming, and Zayan's just out here being a beautiful menace. 💀🔥