RAFAEN IZAAN NAZRANI.
The fucking royal prince.
Tall, built like an expensive sin, and of course—fucking dimples. The kind of dimples that shouldn't legally be allowed on a man's face. And now he's standing right in front of me.
I automatically step back.
"Uh… sorry."
Nothing. Not a smile, not a smirk—just a slow look, like I'm a detail he's filing away for later. Then he walks past me.
What the actual hell?
God, I hate this place.
Everyone here is rude. Not like "oops I forgot to smile" rude—no, the kind that drips money and power and that silent I own the fucking air you're breathing kind of rude. And yeah, maybe they actually do own it… but that doesn't mean they can act like I'm a mosquito they're tolerating for sport.
And why the hell is he here?
Did he come to see Zayan? If so—alone? No way. The other two fuckers must be here too.
I take the stairs down and head straight for the living room, keeping low like I'm on some low-budget spy mission. I peek around the corner.
Yep. Of-fucking-course.
Eshan Rafay, the Alzirah heir, lounging like a damn king, with that mole under his left eye making him look both dangerous and annoyingly photogenic. And Razmir Khalid, Idrakhan's heir—those mismatched eyes (one dark, one amber) pinning the room like he's bored but still watching everything.
So why's the royal fucker upstairs? What's he doing? Searching Zayan's drawers? Breathing in my oxygen?
"What are you looking at?"
The voice is right behind me. I whip around. Rafaen. Of course. Staring.
"Uh… nothing. Haha."
Yes, I actually said "haha" out loud like an unhinged child.
I turn to walk away before my embarrassment kills me, but then his voice follows.
"How you doing, Mrs. Adam Zayan Tavarian?"
Freeze.
That name. That sharp reminder. His.
Without looking back, I manage,
"Good."
I'm about to speed away when—
"I hope you do."
I turn my head—mistake. His gaze locks on mine. Heavy. Intense. Like he's dissecting me. My stomach does this stupid drop before I can shove the feeling away. He walks off toward the living room, leaving me staring like a frozen idiot.
I take a step back, still watching where he went—slam into something. No, someone.
Oh no. Not again.
I look up.
Zayan.
Fucking Zayan.
I nearly give an awkward laugh, but his face is stone.
He grabs my hand.
"Come."
"Where?"
"To meet them."
"Why?"
Nothing. Just drags me along like I'm not even part of the decision-making process.
We enter the living room. All three heirs look up. I instantly feel my skin heat under the weight of those gazes. Rafaen's eyes drop to where Zayan's holding my wrist, then climb back to my face. Nope. Too much. My brain short-circuits, and I look away like a coward.
Zayan lets go.
Eshan smirks.
"How you doing, newlyweds?"
Neither of us answers. The silence is so thick it could choke a small animal.
Zayan leans on the wall, arms crossed.
"What the fuck are you guys doing here?"
Razmir answers lazily, his mismatched eyes glinting.
"Of course we came to see you… and her."
I glance at him—wrong move. That amber eye practically burns through me while the dark one stays unreadable. Jesus.
Eshan chuckles.
"You look… uncomfortable, Mrs. Tavarian."
"I'm fine." I lie so hard I'm surprised lightning doesn't strike me.
Rafaen finally speaks, low and even.
"You sure?"
I nod, even though my pulse is doing a sprint.
Razmir tilts his head.
"We didn't think we'd be meeting you so soon."
"Lucky me." The sarcasm slips out before I can catch it.
Eshan laughs, slow and knowing.
"She's got a mouth on her, Zayan."
Zayan doesn't even look at me.
"She's got more than that."
Okay. Nope. That's my cue. My face is probably the color of a murder scene.
"Can I go to my room?" I ask, turning to Zayan.
Nothing at first. Then—
"Okey."
I get out of there like my life depends on it, heels clicking, door slamming behind me.
Back pressed to the wood, I exhale.
What the fuck was that?
Those four together… Jesus Christ. Like someone genetically engineered them in a lab for "hot, dangerous, untouchable." And me? Standing there like a wrinkled grocery bag someone forgot to throw away. No, thanks. Staying here is survival.
----------------------------------------------------------------
ZAYANS POV
She's gone.
Not even a glance back.
But my eyes… my eyes stay locked on that spot in the doorway like she left part of herself behind in the air.
That pale look on her face keeps replaying—like she's still standing there, awkward, trapped between me and them. And now it's just empty space.
I drop into the couch, legs apart, leaning back like I own every damn inch of this room. Because I do.
Eshan's the first to break the silence.
"Why the hell does she look pale?"
I don't look at him.
"She had a fever last night."
Razmir's mismatched eyes narrow—one dark, one amber—like he's scanning for a lie.
"It's only been three days… and she's already sick?"
I exhale, slow.
"I pushed her into the pool."
They freeze.
Not even a twitch. Just three sets of eyes cutting into me.
Eshan leans forward, disbelief carved into every line of his face.
"Are you… are you fucking out of your damn mind?"
"Probably."
"This—this is what you meant by 'I'll make her hate me'?"
"Yeah." My voice is flat. No defense, no justification.
"God, Zayan…" He scrubs a hand over his face like I just gave him a headache.
Razmir's voice is lower, almost dangerous.
"Don't be cruel to her. You love her."
I look at him. Long enough to make him shift slightly.
Love.
That word isn't soft for me—it's a blade you don't pull unless you're ready for blood.
Rafaen finally speaks, calm as always, dimples hidden.
"What will you do next?"
"I don't know."
Eshan's eyes sharpen.
"Did you even talk to her?"
"No. I'm avoiding her."
Razmir snorts.
"This is what happens when you marry at twenty-five. Still a boy, still playing games."
"Fuck off. It's not like that."
Rafaen doesn't blink.
"Then what is it?"
I don't answer.
Because the truth?
The truth is a fucking mess.
I want her. More than I've wanted anything in years.
And the second she's close, I want to tear that closeness apart because I'm not built for soft. I'm not built for someone who looks at me like I could be better.
She's warm. I'm a razor. And razors don't hug—they cut.
But the thought of her turning cold to me? That makes my chest tighten in a way I'll never admit.
The door shifts.
Izar walks in. All black. Eyes cold enough to put the sun out.
He nods to the three, then comes close enough for me to catch the faint smell of smoke on him.
"We got the guy."
I nod once. That's all he needs.
He greets them with the bare minimum, then leaves.
Eshan exhales hard.
"Four years with you, and that fucker still scares the shit out of me."
Razmir's smirk is lazy, but his eyes aren't.
"He's scary because he looks at you like he's already picturing the coffin."
Rafaen's mouth curves slightly.
"No. It's because if he buried you, nobody would ever find where."
I stand, adjusting my cuff like I've got all the time in the world.
"I'm sorry, but I have business to do."
Razmir chuckles.
"Of course you do. We knew the moment Izar walked in."
Eshan tilts his head.
"What's the matter?"
"Someone grew a second head and actually got the nerve to try me."
Rafaen doesn't flinch.
"RIP to him."
They rise too. Smooth. Unhurried. Like men who don't rush for anyone.
Rafaen meets my gaze, voice steady.
"We'll meet next time. But be sure you're kind with her, okay?"
I nod once. That's all they get.
They leave.
And the second they do, the silence comes back—but it's not empty.
It's heavy.
Her face in my head again, pale, quiet, avoiding my eyes.
Kind with her.
They don't understand.
Kindness is the thing that makes people think they can walk away.
I'd rather she hated me… as long as she never left.
-----
The hallway to the room is narrow and silent, the kind of silence that eats sound instead of holding it.
This mess? Didn't even need me. Izar could've closed it in under an hour — quick, clinical, forgotten by sunrise.
But I wanted to see him.
The bastard who thought poking at me was worth the risk.
The door is slightly ajar. I take my time turning the handle, letting the hinges groan in warning before I push it open.
The stink of fear hits me first. Sweat, metal, something stale and sour.
Then my eyes adjust to the dim, and there he is — tied to a chair, wrists bound tight behind him, ankles locked to the legs. His head jerks up at the sound of the door.
I step inside. Izar follows and shuts it with a quiet click, then stations himself against it, arms crossed, gaze fixed on the man like a wolf waiting for the signal.
I don't bother rushing. My steps are slow, deliberate, my shadow stretching across the floor until it swallows his.
"Hi," I say, voice even.
He flinches hard, eyes wide, breath shallow.
I stop a few feet in front of him, tilt my head.
"What's your name? … Actually, I forgot. Remind me."
His throat works as he swallows.
"J–Jacques… Jacques Moreau."
A French name. Fancy enough to suggest a family that used to have money but not enough brains to keep it.
Cute
"Wahh…" I give him a small, amused smile. "You've got a fucking name, and still had the nerve to challenge me?"
"I didn't— I didn't do anything, sir. Please. Don't kill me."
I crouch so we're eye-level.
" I'm here to play with you, not kill you. If you get noisy, maybe I will. So… be careful."
He nods quickly, eyes dropping. Good.
"What did you do?"
Silence. He hesitates. Wrong answer.
"Jacques," I say softly, my tone slicing through the air, "don't make me ask twice."
He breaks fast.
"I leaked your Southeast Corridor acquisition strategy," he blurts, voice shaking. "The— the buyout schedule, the port tariff negotiation details— all of it."
I keep my face blank, though inside, a part of me burns.
"And who'd you leak it to?"
"The Demont Group," he says, almost choking on it. "They offered me… eight hundred thousand."
I let out a low laugh, sharp.
"Eight hundred thousand. That's what you think my work is worth?"
"I didn't think you'd notice—"
"You didn't think I'd notice when you tried to undercut a deal I've been building for eighteen months? You didn't think I'd notice when you tried to walk into my market and sell my own leverage to my rivals?"
"I— I needed the money—"
I straighten, stepping behind his chair.
"You had debts. So you made a bigger one with me. That's… interesting math."
He glances toward Izar, but that's a mistake. Izar doesn't save anyone.
I come back into his view, reaching into my jacket. The weight in my hand is cold and familiar. I spin the revolver's cylinder lazily, letting the sound cut through the room.
"You know Russian roulette, Jacques?"
His breathing spikes.
"Please… please don't—"
"You know the rules, right?" I ask, ignoring him.
"One bullet. Six chambers. You spin, you pull. Luck decides."
"I'll pay it back, I'll—"
"You won't," I cut him off, calm but absolute. "Because you can't. What you owe me isn't money."
I walk up close, letting the muzzle brush under his jaw for just a second before I lower it and set the gun in his lap.
"You spin first."
He stares down at it like it's a live snake. His hands shake as he grips it.
"That's it," I murmur. "Now point it at your head."
"You're insane—"
"Jacques," I say, voice turning to steel, "do it."
His lips tremble. He spins the cylinder. Brings it up.
Click.
No bullet.
"Again," I say.
His eyes snap to mine. "What?"
"Again. Until you understand."
He spins, slower this time. The barrel comes up.
Click.
I give him a faint smile. "See, fear is a funny thing. Most people think it keeps them alive. But it doesn't. Fear kills you before the bullet ever does. Makes your hands shake. Makes your brain stupid. Makes you forget there's always a way out—if you're smart enough to see it."
His knuckles are white around the grip.
"One more," I tell him.
He spins. The cylinder ticks.
Click.
I chuckle under my breath. Then, without warning, I take the gun from his hand, spin it myself, and put it to my own temple.
His eyes go wide. "No—"
Bang.
The shot cracks through the air—empty chamber. I lower it slowly, watching him.
"That's the difference, Jacques. I'm not scared of the chamber. Because the chamber's scared of me."
I set the gun back in his lap. "Your turn."
He's shaking, breathing ragged. His eyes flick to Izar, then back to me. And then something shifts. His jaw tightens, a flicker of desperation—or madness—crosses his face.
He spins. Brings it up.
Bang.
The bullet finds him. His head jerks, blood spilling in a dark, hot line down his cheek.
The gun clatters to the floor.
I pick it up, spin the cylinder idly, listening to the echo of the shot fade.
"Burn it," I tell Izar.
He nods, moving past me toward the body.
I leave the room without looking back. The night air is sharp, cold, almost clean.
This wasn't about settling an account.
This was about reminding anyone watching that if you put my name in your mouth, you better be prepared to choke on it.
---
The door shuts behind me with a final metallic thud.
The smell of gasoline is still in the air, faint but clinging—smoke already curling up from somewhere behind the warehouse. My men work fast. Efficient. They don't need instructions when it comes to cleanup.
I step into the cool night, the city lights glinting off the hood of the black Tavarian car waiting for me. Izar's already in the driver's seat, engine running. He doesn't look at me when I slide into the back, doesn't need to. The moment my door clicks shut, the wheels start turning, gliding us away from the heat and into the dark.
In the rearview mirror, I catch one last glimpse of orange flames licking up into the night sky, shadows moving like specters around them. Somewhere inside those flames is a man who thought he could try me. Thought he could take something that was mine, play me for a fool, and walk away breathing.
People like that never learn.
Not because they're stupid—because they think the Tavarian name is just a word. A brand. A line on a bank statement.
They forget it's a fucking warning.
Izar keeps his eyes on the road, his posture calm as ever, but I can feel the charge in the car—the unspoken knowledge of what we just left behind. My shirt's still warm against my skin from the warehouse heat. My hands smell faintly of steel and gunpowder.
That's when my phone buzzes.
The name on the screen makes my chest go still. Not from fear—no Tavarian fears another—but from the weight.
Grandfather.
The man who built our empire from the bones of weaker men. The man who taught me that mercy is just another way to lose.
I answer.
"Adam." His voice is smooth, but it carries the kind of weight that makes entire boards of directors shut up mid-sentence.
"Yes," I say, leaning back, letting my head rest against the leather.
"There's a family dinner tomorrow night," he says, like it's an unchangeable fact of the universe. "Eight sharp."
My jaw tightens. "Alright."
"With her," he adds, each word precise.
A muscle in my temple ticks. Of course. This isn't about food or conversation. This is about parading her in front of the entire Tavarian dynasty—letting the wolves sniff at her, circle her, measure whether she's worth standing beside me.
"She's coming," I say flatly.
"Good." There's a pause. I can hear the faint clink of glass on his end, the slow exhale of someone who owns too much to be in a hurry. "Adam… you know why this dinner matters."
I do. It's not just family—it's the empire. Every branch of it. Every alliance, every calculated smile, every hidden dagger. The Tavarians don't do casual gatherings. We only meet when there's blood in the water.
"I know," I murmur. My reflection in the tinted glass looks like a stranger—cold eyes, jaw carved from stone.
"Then remember," he says softly, which is worse than when he's loud, "we don't show weakness. Not even to each other."
The line goes dead.
I sit there, phone still in my hand, the hum of the engine low and steady. Izar doesn't ask what the call was about—he already knows. Everyone in our world knows that when Grandfather speaks, you don't repeat it.
I slip the phone into my pocket, my mind already on tomorrow.
I hate it.
Not because I can't handle them—but because I already know they'll try to handle her.
And I'll burn the world down before I let that happen.
-----------------------
ARSHILA'S POV
I'm sprawled on the couch like a cat that's claimed the whole damn kingdom—legs propped up over the armrest, head hanging off the other side, phone in one hand, zero shame in the world. My hair's falling toward the floor in a lazy, messy wave, and I'm so deep in whatever mindless scrolling I'm doing that I don't even notice him at first.
Then I feel him.
That shift in the air.
That slow, deliberate presence that makes you straighten your spine even when you're upside-down.
I tilt my head back, and—God help me—my view of him is inverted. Which should look ridiculous, except it doesn't.
No, Zayan Tavarian doesn't do ridiculous.
He does lethal.
Black shirt rolled up to the forearms, shadows clinging to him like they're scared to let go, jawline cutting sharper than my willpower, eyes locked on me like he's debating whether to touch me or strangle me.
"You look comfortable," he says, voice smooth enough to make my toes curl where they're dangling in the air.
"Yes," I answer, because I am. "Any problem?"
His mouth twitches—half smirk, half something darker. "Tomorrow there will be a family dinner at Grandfather's place."
I blink. "Your family? Like… mom and dad?"
"No," he says, like the word is beneath him. "Whole family."
Something in my gut does a nosedive. I sit up so fast I nearly knock my phone to the floor. "Whole Tavarian? You mean—everyone?"
"Yes." He doesn't even blink. "And you're coming with me."
I laugh. Not because it's funny—because the alternative is screaming. "Why would I?"
That's when he moves.
One slow step forward, then another, until he's standing right in front of me, close enough that the air between us feels electric. His shadow swallows mine.
"Because you are my wife," he says. Low. Certain. Like the word wife is a crown he's just placed on my head, and I don't get to take it off.
I scoff, because what the hell else am I supposed to do? I can't exactly tell him I just forgot how to breathe.
God, this man.
It's so unfair.
I'm ovulating, my hormones are throwing a damn rave in my bloodstream, and he's standing there smelling like danger and expensive cologne, looking at me like he's one thought away from pinning me to the couch.
Have mercy on me, Lord. Actually, no—don't. This might kill me, but what a way to go.
He holds my gaze for one more beat, then turns and walks away like he didn't just ruin my evening and possibly my life. The audacity. The arrogance. The sex appeal.
I sit there, staring at his back until it disappears into the hallway, brain officially fried.
And then it hits me.
Family dinner.
The Tavarian family dinner.
Every single member of his family—those cold-eyed, rich-as-God, business-shark bastards who could buy and sell countries like chewing gum—are going to be there. Watching me. Judging me. Measuring me like a stock option.
"Fuck," I mutter into the empty room.
Because I'm not tense.
No.
I'm terrified.
I swear, the Tavarians aren't just rich — they're biblically rich. Old money. Power that makes presidents sweat. The kind of family where every headline with their name in it can tank a market or start a war.
And at the very top of the food chain? Kamal Rashid Tavarian. My husband's grandfather. A man so terrifying, he could probably have you erased from existence with one phone call and still make it to his 7 p.m. wine tasting.
And the heir to all that? The man I'm married to. Zayan Tavarian.
Which means tomorrow, when I walk into that dinner, I'm basically walking into the Thunderdome with no armor.
I'm going to get roasted alive. Not like, "haha, she's new" roasted. No. More like spit-on-a-stick, slow-turn-over-an-open-flame roasted. And I'll have to sit there smiling like I'm not dying inside.
So yeah. Tomorrow's looking… grim.
But then a lightbulb goes off in my head. I might not be able to win in their world, but I can at least know the battlefield. Which means knowing exactly who I'm dealing with before I step into that dinner.
I find Izar — Zayan's personal shadow and the human embodiment of a locked vault. He's standing in the hallway, all stiff posture and neutral face, scrolling on his phone like he's planning a quiet assassination.
"I need the names and faces of every Tavarian at tomorrow's dinner," I tell him, no preamble.
His eyes snap up to me. Blank. Then, I don't know why, but I grab his wrist because apparently my brain has decided I'm in a spy movie and this is how intel is transferred.
He freezes. Like, literally freezes. Staring down at my hand on his wrist like it's the most dangerous thing that's ever happened to him. His ears — oh my god — his ears actually turn red.
"This is… not appropriate for you and me," he says, voice tight, like we're caught in some Victorian scandal.
I blink at him. "What? You think I'm hitting on you? Relax, James Bond. I just need to know who the hell I'll be facing tomorrow so I don't call someone's terrifying aunt sweetie and die on the spot."
The red in his ears creeps down to his neck. I drop his wrist because fine, maybe grabbing a man built like a bulletproof wall in public is a little weird.
"Balcony," I say, tilting my head toward the glass doors. "Now."
"Yes, ma'am." His tone is all formal, but his eyes dart away, like I just threw him off-balance.
We step out into the balcony. The air is sharp, cool, smelling faintly of the gardens below. I lean against the railing, crossing my arms.
"Okay. Tell me," I say. "Who's going to be there tomorrow?"
He hesitates, hands clasped behind his back like he's standing in front of a firing squad.
"It is… complicated," he says slowly. "These are not people you simply meet. They will be… evaluating you."
I groan. "Evaluating? Great. Can't wait to be treated like a contestant on Who Wants to Survive This Dinner."
He doesn't laugh — not fully. But the corner of his mouth twitches. "They are powerful. Very powerful. And they are… particular."
"Particular how? Like they want to know if I can use the right fork for the salad, or particular like they'll read my entire soul just by how I say hello?"
"Both," he admits.
I drag a hand down my face. "Jesus Christ. This isn't a dinner, this is a test. And if I fail, what? They throw me into a pit? Send me into exile?"
He just looks at me. Doesn't answer. Which is worse.
I start pacing the length of the balcony. My brain is spiraling. I can already see myself tomorrow — some polished, sharp-eyed Tavarian turning to me mid-bite and asking me a question I don't understand, and me blinking like an idiot while Zayan sits there, sipping his drink, pretending not to watch me drown.
"I'm telling you right now," I say, "if tomorrow goes south, I'm blaming you for not warning me about… all of this."
"I am warning you," he says evenly.
"Yeah, but you're doing it in your mysterious 'I know a lot but will only say three words' way, which is not helpful when I'm trying to survive a room full of sharks."
His eyes narrow slightly, but he doesn't bite back. Instead, he says, "Do not underestimate them. They will not underestimate you."
For some reason, that lands heavier than I expect.
I stop pacing, grip the railing, and take a breath. "Okay. So… what's my move?"
He pauses. "Be quiet. Be polite. Do not let them see you flinch."
I snort. "Oh, cool. So basically — be the exact opposite of myself. Got it."
And yet, under all the sarcasm, there's this crawling heat in my stomach — not just from the thought of tomorrow, but from the fact that in that room, with those people… Zayan will be the only one on my side.
If he decides to be.
And that thought? That's the one that terrifies me more than the whole Tavarian clan combined.
---
---
God.
No one warned me. No one could've prepared me.
Zayan's place is… modern, slick, sinful — all sharp glass, black marble, and the kind of minimalist luxury that feels like it was designed by a man who has sex with power.
But this?
This is old money.
Not just old — ancient. Like the walls have seen secrets that could topple governments. Like every inch has been polished by generations of Tavarians, each one richer and more terrifying than the last.
The car rolls past the wrought iron gates — not just gates, fortresses — and I swear there are more guards than I've seen in some military documentaries. Their suits are black, earpieces in, eyes tracking the car like they could kill me with one look if they felt like it.
And then the yard.
Oh. My. God.
The grass is so perfect it looks fake. There are red roses everywhere — not scattered, not messy. Perfectly pruned, lined in rows like soldiers. The air is so thick with their scent, it's almost dizzying. Fountains sparkle in the sunlight, water catching like diamonds, and I swear I can hear classical music drifting from somewhere.
The mansion itself…
Massive. Not a house. A palace. Pale stone walls, towering pillars, carved archways. Windows so tall they look like they belong in a cathedral. Every detail screams, we've had money for centuries and we will have it for centuries more.
And here I am, stepping into their world in Dior. Modest, expensive — the kind of thing I hope says I'm worthy of breathing your air but also I'm not here to compete.
I glance at Zayan as the car stops. He's already opening his door, movements smooth, controlled. He doesn't even have to try to look like he belongs here — this is his blood, his birthright.
He looks back at me and says, simply,
"Come."
It's not a request.
So I do. I slide out of the car, heels clicking on the pristine stone driveway. My heart's beating in my throat, and I already know I'm about to get slaughtered — verbally, mentally, maybe spiritually.
Every step toward those massive double doors feels heavier. It's not just the building I'm walking into — it's their world. And I know I'm not walking in here as myself. Not fully. I can't. I'm going to have to slip into some alternate version of me, one who can survive under the weight of Tavarian eyes.
Because if I bring my real heart into this place… it'll get eaten alive.
We pass through the doors into a grand hall that makes every luxury hotel lobby I've ever seen look like a cheap motel.
The ceiling is so high I have to tilt my head to take it in — gold moldings, crystal chandeliers dripping with light. The marble floor gleams underfoot, patterns swirling like it's been hand-laid by artists who were probably paid more than most people make in a lifetime. The air smells faintly of roses and something richer — leather, smoke, history.
And then my heart stops.
Because there he is.
Kamal Rashid Tavarian.
Zayan's grandfather.
The chairman. The man whose name alone makes people straighten their spines.
He's standing at the far end of the hall, posture like steel, eyes sharp enough to cut. His suit is immaculate, but it's the presence — this crushing weight in the air — that freezes me in place.
His gaze lands on me, and it's like being pinned under a microscope.
I can feel it. Every judgment. Every calculation.
And I realize… this isn't even the dinner yet.
This is just the entrance exam.
°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°
AUTHOR NOTE
So babes… what's gonna happen next?? Does Zayan finally crack and take her side, or does he keep that ice wall up while they throw daggers across the table? Are they gonna keep pretending they can't stand each other when we all know they're one snarky comment away from combusting? Next chapter might just decide if this is war… or something way more dangerous.and don't forget to vote and comment on this chapter and make it to collection.you have my love 🎀