Zayan pov
Dinner is a mess before it even starts.
She sits across from me like she's trying to pretend I'm just a chair someone forgot to move out of the way. No eye contact. No words. Just stabbing her fork into food like it personally insulted her family.
I'm telling myself it's good—distance is good, distance is safe—when she sneezes.
I glance up. She's rubbing at her nose, still not looking at me.
Then another sneeze. Louder.
And it hits me right in the gut.
Yeah, I fucked up.
No—scratch that—I fucked her up.
Twice.
Once was bad enough, but twice? The second time… God, the way her eyes locked on mine before she hit the water—it was like watching the light go out of something. Like I'd just confirmed every awful thing she's ever thought about me. And maybe she's right.
I tell myself it's necessary. That pushing her away keeps her from seeing the real me. That it's better she hates me than knows the truth. That she'll be safer if I'm the villain in her head.
But now she's sick.
Because of me.
She leaves the table without a word. I sit there another five minutes, pushing food around until it's cold. Then I go upstairs, trying not to notice the silence pressing in from all sides.
And somehow I end up in front of her door.
My hand hovers over the handle.
It would be so easy. One twist, one step forward, and I could check on her. Maybe apologize. Maybe… hell, maybe just see her.
But I don't. I can't. I'm halfway through convincing myself to walk away when it happens again—muffled, through the door.
A sneeze.
Then another.
I grit my teeth so hard my jaw aches.
Her light clicks off. The room goes dark.
And I open the door anyway.
She's curled up on top of the bed like she passed out without even trying to get under the blanket. The AC is still running, low enough that the air bites against my skin, and she's shivering hard enough I can see it from here.
Her face is pale—too pale—and there's a heat radiating off her skin that I can feel even from a few feet away.
Shit.
I did this.
I run a hand through my hair, resisting the urge to put my fist through the wall. That wouldn't help her—it wouldn't help anything—but it would be easier than standing here and looking at what I've done.
I go to the bathroom, grab a clean cloth, soak it in cold water. When I come back, she hasn't moved. Just small, shallow breaths and the occasional twitch, like her body can't decide if it's freezing or burning.
I kneel beside the bed, slow, careful, like if I touch her too hard she might break. Her hair's a mess—damp, knotted, plastered to her skin. I brush it back, fingers barely grazing her temple, and lay the cloth across her forehead.
She stirs. Just a flicker of movement. Doesn't wake.
God, she looks fragile. And I fucking hate it. I hate seeing her like this. I hate knowing I'm the reason.
I stay there longer than I should, just watching her breathe. Every few seconds, I tell myself to move—get up, put space between us—but my knees stay planted.
When I finally do stand, it's only because if I don't, I'll touch her again. And I can't. Not when I've built this wall brick by brick.
I cross to the window. The moonlight cuts through the glass, spilling across the floorboards, just barely catching the curve of her cheek where she lies. I lean against the wall, hands shoved into my pockets, and fix my eyes on her.
I'm not leaving tonight.
If she wakes, she'll think I'm a shadow.
But I'll be here.
Watching.
Waiting.
Wanting what I can't have.
°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°
ARSHILA'S POV
The fever makes the air heavy. My eyelids feel like they've been dipped in cement, my throat raw from breathing through my mouth. I'm half-awake, half-floating in that weird fever haze when something cold and wet presses against my forehead.
It's enough to jolt me all the way up from the fog.
Not my blanket. Not the AC. Something deliberately placed there.
My hand crawls up, fingers brushing against the edge of it—cloth, damp and cool. I blink into the dark, vision slow to adjust, and that's when I see him.
At first it's just a shape. Tall, still, at the window. Moonlight spills over him, slicing across the sharp angles of his face. For a second, I wonder if I'm hallucinating, because there's no way he's actually standing in my room like that.
Zayan.
I push myself up a little, ignoring the way my head throbs, and rasp, "What are you doing here?"
His head turns, eyes locking on mine like he's been watching me this whole damn time. His voice is low, rough in that way that makes it feel like it vibrates down my spine.
"You need sleep now. Just rest. I'll be here."
I snort, because what else am I supposed to do? "I don't need you."
There's a flicker in his expression—something quick, unreadable—but he just nods once, turns, and walks toward the door. No fight. No smart-ass remark. Just… leaving.
I slump back into the pillows.
Good. Better. I don't want him near me.
He's the reason I'm like this—the fever, the cold, the fucking exhaustion that's seeped into my bones. All because he couldn't keep his little games to himself.
But then the door opens again.
He steps back in, moonlight catching in his hair, making him look like some cruel, beautiful thing carved out of shadow and silver. In one hand, a glass of water. In the other, a small blister pack.
"Take it," he says, crossing the room without hesitation. "The fever will go down."
I eye the pill like it's some kind of test. "What if I don't?"
"Nothing." The word is blunt, solid. "But you'll feel worse."
He doesn't wait for my permission—just places the tablet in my palm, the water in my other hand. His fingers brush mine briefly, warm against my skin despite the cool air.
I mutter something under my breath that's probably offensive to most deities and take the damn pill. The water is cold enough to make my teeth ache.
"Sleep," he says after I hand the glass back. "I'm here."
What the hell is happening? One minute he's the asshole pushing me into a pool like it's some kind of sport, the next he's standing here in the dark, feeding me medicine like… like he actually gives a damn.
I lie back down, trying to make sense of it. Spoiler: I can't. My brain's too fried to untangle this kind of mindfuck.
I glance at him again, thinking maybe he's gone back to wherever he lurks when he's not being infuriating. But no. He's still there—sitting by the window, elbows on his knees, eyes on me like I'm the only thing worth looking at.
I shift under the blankets, turning away because the weight of his stare feels like it's peeling back skin and bone to see what's underneath. My thoughts are a messy, tangled knot—half wanting to throw something at him, half wanting to ask why he's even bothering.
Just when I think I've successfully pretended to sleep, his voice comes again. Quiet. Steady.
"Don't think anything. Just sleep."
I squeeze my eyes shut, partly because I want to follow the order, partly because I can't stand how it sounds—like he actually means it.
It's not even ten minutes later when my eyes flick open again. I don't know why—maybe the fever, maybe my brain just hates me—but the first thing I see is him.
Still there.
Still in that damn window seat.
Not sleeping. Not even blinking, it feels like. Just sitting there, forearms balanced on his knees, head tilted slightly like he's listening to something I can't hear.
The moonlight hasn't moved much, but it paints him the same way—sharp, beautiful, unreal.
I shut my eyes quickly.
Don't think anything, Arshila. Don't start imagining shit.
Because that's how it starts, isn't it? He does one vaguely human thing, and suddenly I'm writing tragic romance novels in my head about the man who's been making my life hell. No. This is just another one of his games. I'm not falling for it.
I wrap the blanket tighter around me, curl into the pillow, and force my breathing to slow until my mind finally lets me sink under.
---
When I open my eyes again, sunlight is spilling into the room. My head feels lighter. My skin isn't burning. Fever's gone.
The first thing I do is glance toward the window.
Empty.
Of course.
Whatever last night was, it's over now. That was guilt. Nothing else. He doesn't care about me, and he never will. It's better I keep reminding myself before I get stupid and mistake his random acts of decency for something real.
I get up, shuffle to the bathroom, and let the cold water wake me the rest of the way. A fresh set of clothes—a soft cream blouse, loose trousers, hair pulled back—and I almost feel human again.
Almost.
When I head downstairs, the staff is already setting breakfast. The smell of fresh bread and coffee should make me want to sit, but my chest feels tight. I keep walking, ignoring the long dining table and the fact that his seat is empty.
Outside, the air is crisp, a little damp from the morning dew. I make my way to the marble bench tucked against the garden wall, where the stone is cool beneath me.
I tilt my head back and just stare at the sky.
The whole thing feels ridiculous now—last night, the way he looked at me, the sound of his voice when he told me to sleep. It seemed so genuine in the moment. Like maybe—just maybe—there was something there that wasn't cruelty or control.
But no.
If there's one thing I know about Zayan, it's that he never does anything without a reason. And that reason is never me.
Still, I can't shake the image of him in that chair, eyes fixed on me like I was something worth staying up all night for. I hate myself for even replaying it.
I close my eyes, breathe in the faint scent of jasmine drifting from somewhere in the garden, and tell myself again—
It meant nothing.
The marble bench is cold against the back of my legs, even through the thick fabric of my dress. I'm pretending to admire the sky, but really, I'm just sitting here so I don't have to be in the same building as him. If I stay inside, I'll start thinking about last night again… and I've already promised myself I won't do that.
Which is why it's especially irritating when a voice comes from behind me.
"How's your fever?"
My neck almost snaps when I turn, because—oh, what the actual fuck—it's Izar.
Izar, the man who's been Zayan's shadow since the day I met him, the human equivalent of a locked door. He never talks to me. Like… ever.
"It's gone," I say finally, still processing the fact that his voice is real and not just a distant grunt I've heard in passing.
He steps forward until he's standing beside me. Which is slightly intimidating, because I'm sitting and he's towering. He's got that calm, unbothered face like he could stand here for hours without blinking.
"Zayan ordered you to rest more," he says evenly. "Would you like to go to your room?"
For a second, I just… blink. "Wait. Zayan said that?"
"Yes."
My stomach twists in this annoying way I hate, because—why? Why the fuck does he care? Oh right, he doesn't. Not really. He only cares in the "you're my wife on paper, so I have to make sure you don't die of pneumonia and embarrass the family" way. Nothing personal.
I don't answer Izar. I just stare at the garden, jaw tight. No way am I running back to my room because he said so.
Izar shifts slightly. "You don't look fully recovered."
"Did I ask for a medical report?" I mutter.
That earns me a raised brow. "You don't like being told what to do."
"You think?" I shoot back, then before I can stop myself, the question slips out. "Do you hate me?"
He doesn't even flinch. "I'm not someone to hate you, Madam. It's my duty to protect you. If I have ever made you feel that I hate you, I deeply apologize."
The way he says it is so formal, so careful, I almost snort. But instead, I tilt my head and ask, dead serious, "Are you gay?"
That makes him actually choke. "I—what?"
"You heard me," I say, leaning back on my hands. "Do you like Zayan? Or, like… love him?"
Izar stares at me for a beat, then almost laughs. "Why would you ask that?"
"Because you look at me like I stole your boyfriend," I shoot back, narrowing my eyes.
That does it—he laughs, low and genuine. "I'm not gay, Madam. And even if I was… he is not my type."
I lean forward, curiosity instantly taking over. "Why not?"
Izar smirks faintly. "Zayan is… stubborn. Ruthless. Always in control. He doesn't bend for anyone. He'd chew through glass before admitting he's wrong. That's too much for me."
That makes me chuckle despite myself. "Yeah, that sounds about right."
His eyes flick toward me, and the tiniest hint of amusement lingers. "Do you like him?"
My whole body freezes. His voice is calm, but his eyes—God, he's looking straight into mine like he's searching for something.
"No," I say instantly, way too fast. "I don't like him."
Inside, my brain is screaming the truth: I love him. Even though he hates me. Even though he'd probably laugh if I said it.
Izar just hums. "Mm." Like he's filing that away for later.
We keep talking after that—about nothing important. The weather. Etc. Somehow it feels… easy. Which is weird, because this man's usual vibe is "silent assassin."
Eventually, he glances toward the house. "I should get going. Madam."
I roll my eyes. "Can you not call me Madam? Just call my fucking name, bro."
Something shifts in his expression—just slightly. "Yes… Arshila."
And I don't know why, but hearing my name in his voice feels strangely grounding.
Izar glances toward the gravel path like someone just called him on an invisible walkie-talkie. Then he looks back at me.
"Then… I'll see you around," he says. His voice is lighter now, almost casual. But there's that subtle weight in his eyes when he adds, "Don't try to run."
I arch a brow. "I can't promise that."
For the first time since I've known him, he actually smiles. Not that polite, one-millimeter-upward twitch I've seen when he's dealing with guests—no, this is the real thing. It's quick, sure, but it's there.
And then he just turns and walks away.
I'm left staring at his retreating back, blinking like an idiot, because… what the actual hell just happened?
All this time, I've had Izar pegged as the guy who secretly hated my guts. The guy who watched me like I was a suspicious package left on his doorstep. The guy who, if he had to choose between saving me from drowning or rescuing his sunglasses from the pool, would probably grab the sunglasses.
But now?
Now I'm sitting here wondering if I've been dead wrong.
Turns out, he's actually… nice? Not "let's-braid-each-other's-hair" nice, but like… decent-human nice. Which, around here, is basically sainthood. And he apologized. To me. Voluntarily. No gun to his head, no Zayan looming behind him like "do it or else."
And yeah, maybe my brain's still a little fried from the fever, but that meant something.
God, I hate this. I hate that it throws me off balance. I've been so sure about the whole hierarchy in this place:
Zayan—stone cold bastard.
Izar—stone cold bastard's enforcer.
Me—the unwanted wife who's tolerated because divorce papers would be too messy.
And now Izar's out here ruining my perfectly stable narrative by being… human. Friendly, even. Like maybe, just maybe, not everyone in Zayan's orbit wants to see me crash and burn.
I lean back against the bench, staring at the pale morning sky like it's going to give me answers.
The truth? I don't know if I'm relieved… or more fucked up than before.
Because if Izar—the guy who's supposed to be Zayan's wall—can be nice to me, then what the hell does that say about him?
------------------
ZAYAN POV
The study was dead quiet except for the faint ticking of the clock and the scratch of my pen against paper. I'd been buried in procurement contracts and shipment logs for the past hour, trying to drill my head into work.
Trying.
Because every time my focus steadied, I'd get that flicker of her face last night—flushed and pale at the same time, breathing uneven, shivering under the blanket. The way her eyes cracked open for a second and landed on me like she couldn't figure out if I was real.
I forced my attention back to the column in front of me.
Shipment from Singapore delayed. Docking rescheduled.
Fine. Adjust. We'll compensate with the France batch.
The door opened without a knock. My eyes stayed on the page.
"Izar," I said, already knowing it was him.
He shut the door with that quiet click of his. "Sir. As you said, I talked to her. She's fine now."
"Good." I made a note in the margin of the paper. "And?"
He stepped closer, a single sheet of paper in hand. "Regarding the warehouse—you were right. The delay is weather-related. No security breach."
I nodded. "Good. Redirect the trucks accordingly. No point in holding up the inland route just because port schedules are messed."
"Yes, sir." He glanced down at his own notes. "Also, the France shipment—we're short two crates of electronics."
My pen paused. "The customs logs?"
"They're clean. Which means it's internal."
I let out a slow exhale. "Then start the audit today. No one moves cargo without clearance, I don't care if it's my own blood."
He didn't even blink. "Understood."
We went through the rest—the security rota for the next week, the incoming supplier contracts, two personnel issues I barely listened to because they were small enough for him to handle without me.
It was almost wrapped up when he cleared his throat.
"One more thing."
"Say it."
"She asked me if I'm gay."
That made my pen stop dead on the paper. I looked up so fast I nearly knocked over my coffee.
"…What?"
His face was dead serious, which made it even worse. "She thinks I'm in love with you."
For a second, I just stared. Then—
"What the actual fuck, Izar?"
He shrugged, a hint of amusement ghosting over his expression. "She's imaginative."
I leaned back in my chair, eyebrows drawn. "Imaginative? God. I leave you alone with her for five minutes and suddenly she's shipping us?"
He didn't respond, which told me he found it hilarious.
"And what did you tell her?" I pressed.
"That I'm not gay. And even if I were, you wouldn't be my type."
I narrowed my eyes. "Not your type?"
His mouth twitched. "Too much of a control freak. Too intense. Too… you."
I almost laughed but caught myself. "Good. Because if you were into me, I'd have to shoot you."
"I'm aware," he said flatly.
He turned like he was going to leave, but paused at the door. "For what it's worth—she seemed lighter after the conversation. Thought you'd want to know."
When the door shut, I sat there for a long moment, staring at the spot where he'd been.
I can't make her go through this place alone. She's surrounded by people who answer to me, not her. If she doesn't have someone she can talk to without wondering if it'll get back to me… she'll drown here.
That's why I told Izar to talk to her. If I didn't, the bastard would stay mute around her—not because he doesn't like her, but because he knows if he says the wrong thing, I'll put a bullet in his skull without losing sleep. That's not paranoia. That's fact.
But she needs someone who's safe. Someone who isn't me. I let her think I'm the bastard in the room because it keeps her from looking deeper. From seeing the parts I can't let anyone see.
Still… gay? In love with me?
GOD.
__________
Arshila pov
I'm sprawled on my bed, hair still damp from the shower, the evening light bleeding through the curtains in this deep, burnt-orange glow. My head's heavy, throat scratchy, and my body feels like I've been run over by a damn truck. I'm scrolling aimlessly when my phone starts buzzing against my pillow.
Shaiza.
I sigh, swipe the screen, and put it to my ear. "What's up, bitch?"
Her voice comes loud and chaotic, like always. "Bro, finally. How you doing?"
I plaster on my best I'm not dying tone. "I'm fine, bitch." Total lie. But I'm not about to dump my drowning-in-the-pool-twice misery on her.
"Fine?" She sounds unconvinced already. "Right… so how was your night?"
I groan, rolling onto my side. "Not this again, bitch."
"Oh, shut up and give me the details, fucker."
I smirk at the ceiling. "Details about what?" I play dumb, because I know exactly where her nasty little mind is going.
"Don't start with me. I want the post-wedding, private-bedroom tea. Did he—"
"Nope," I cut in. "Not telling you a damn thing."
"Why?" She drags the word out suspiciously. Then her tone shifts. "Wait… why is your voice hoarse? Did you—"
"I have a fever, that's all," I say flatly.
There's a pause, and then she gasps. "Fever? Oh my god… maybe it's because it was your first time."
My eyes snap open. "…What?"
"You know," she says in that dangerous, drawn-out tone, "your first time having sex. It's a thing, babe. The body freaks out, immune system dips, you get all wobbly and weak after—"
I choke on a laugh, turning my face into the pillow. "You're out of your damn mind."
"I'm not wrong," she insists. "Did he wreck you so bad you can't walk? Bet your thighs are sore. Bet you—"
"Shaiza!" I cover my mouth before my laugh turns into a cough.
"What? I'm just picturing him bending you over—"
I close my eyes, shaking my head, trying not to snort. If she had any idea the only thing he bent me over was my own pride when he let me freeze in a pool—twice—she'd drive here with a baseball bat. But no. Let her stew in her filthy little daydream.
So I hum into the phone like I'm totally guilty. "Mmhm… yeah, maybe you're right."
She squeals so loud I wince. "Ohhh my god, you are blushing. Aren't you?"
"I'm not blushing," I lie.
"You so are. Tell me—was it slow? Fast? Did he talk dirty? Did you—"
"I'm hanging up."
"Don't you dare," she snaps. "If you don't tell me whether he made you scream—"
I grin, twisting the bedsheet between my fingers. "You'll just have to keep imagining, bitch."
And I hang up before she can drag me deeper into her X-rated fantasy.
Inside, though, I'm still laughing. Laughing… and a little pissed. Because if she knew the fever came from being dumped into freezing water by my husband—twice—she'd burn the whole place down. But for now? Let her think I've been thoroughly ruined in bed.
I toss my phone onto the bed and just lie there for a second, staring at the ceiling, the soft whir of the AC filling the silence. Shaiza's words are still buzzing in my ears—her filthy little theories, her over-the-top squealing. But if I'm being brutally honest with myself? I don't want him to touch me.
Not like that.
Not to press me against walls, not to whisper filthy shit in my ear, not to drag his hands all over my body like I'm some trophy he's claiming.
No.
All I want is for him to… talk to me. Like a normal human. Like a friend. Or even just someone he tolerates. A look, a conversation, something.
But he treats me like I'm… contagious. Like if he stands too close, he'll catch whatever disease he thinks I am.
And god, I don't even know how I'm surviving this. Every day feels like being locked in a glass box—he's right there, but I can't touch him, can't break through.
I blow out a breath, push myself up, and swing my legs over the side of the bed. Screw this. Lying here in my own head is worse than the fever.
I pad over to the door, twist the knob, and pull it open—half-expecting him in his room, maybe reading, maybe glaring, maybe just existing in that infuriating, beautiful way he does.
But nope. Empty.
A weird, stupid disappointment punches me in the chest. "Figures," I mutter under my breath, stepping inside. I make my way toward the stairs, already planning on raiding the kitchen for tea when—
Something gets in my eye.
It's instant, sharp. My lashes clamp shut on instinct, and I groan, stopping mid-step. "Ugh, what the hell…" I rub at it gently, blinking hard.
I start walking again, rubbing at the corner of my eye, head tilted down. And that's when my shoulder smacks into something solid. No—someone solid.
I jolt back a step, blinking through the haze. Whoever it is has their back to me. Tall. Broad shoulders.
And then… he turns around.
My hand freezes mid-rub. My breath just… stops.
It's him.
The one with the razor-cut jawline, sharp as sin, and eyes that carry the weight of a crown but also this lethal, amused glint like he's in on some private joke the world doesn't get.
The Nazrani crown prince.
Rafaen.
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