Arshila's POV
The second my eyes land on him, my stomach drops like an elevator cut loose.
Kamal Rashid Tavarian. Seventy-six. Looks like Brad Pitt got frozen in time,thawed out, and somehow upgraded. He doesn't just look at me—he dissects me with those glacier eyes, steady and sharp, like he could peel the skin right off my thoughts. My spine goes rigid. My mouth dries up. Terror. Pure, unfiltered, makes-me-wanna-pass-out terror.
I blink too hard and stumble, colliding into Zayan's arm. His head snaps down, those unreadable eyes slicing into me, and I croak out the weakest "sorry" in history.
My ears? They're ringing like someone stuck me in a bell tower. Whatever Kamal mutters to him, I can't hear it. Doesn't matter. The weight of it crawls across my skin anyway.
Then the staff appears, bowing, voice low, guiding us forward. And suddenly, I'm moving again.
Corridors. Endless fucking corridors. Hallways that shine like oil-slick marble, steps that feel like they were carved just to flex on the rest of humanity. Chandeliers the size of cars. Portraits of dead Tavarians who look like they'd eat me alive if they could climb out of their frames. I keep walking, but inside I'm thinking I shouldn't be here. I should've run when I had the chance.
Finally, the monster doors. Two staff push them open, and my breath snags.
The table. Jesus Christ. It stretches so far I'm convinced it's designed to humiliate. Head chair gleaming like it was dipped in diamonds and arrogance. I want to scream. Nope. Send me home. Uber me out of here. I don't belong in this shitshow.
But there's no escape.
We're led in. And that's when I feel it—the silence. The weight of it. The way every single head swivels, eyes locking onto me like I just walked into a courtroom where the verdict's already been decided. My legs want to fold, but somehow I make it to the chair. Sit down. Pretend I'm fine.
I risk a glance up. Mistake.
Dozens of Tavarians, beautiful and terrifying, dressed like they own galaxies, staring at me. Their gazes are scalpels. Some cold, some curious, all of them pressing down. My pulse is insane, chest drumming like a bass.
I drag my eyes to the first pair of familiar faces—Zayan's parents. Sitting close to the top. Untouchable. Blank as stone. No recognition, no warmth, not even disdain. Just… nothing. That hurts worse than hate. Like I don't even exist in their dimension.
And then—lightning.
Shadin.
My breath hitches. A face I know. A face that doesn't make me want to crawl under the table and die. His eyes catch mine, steady, warm. He smiles, and I swear I feel my shoulders unclench for half a second. Reflex takes over—I smile back. It's tiny, fragile, but it's real. A sliver of familiarity in this room built to eat me alive.
I look away fast.
Back to the table. Back to the endless sea of Tavarians, this dynasty of power and perfection, every single one of them staring at me like what the fuck is she doing here?
And here I am. Sitting next to Zayan, my pulse hammering, my palms damp, trying not to breathe too loud, trying not to exist too loud.
God. I don't belong here. They can all see it. They're going to devour me. And the worst part? They won't even need to raise their voices. All it'll take is a look.
My chest tightens. My stomach twists. My brain won't shut up.
This is it, Arshila. Welcome to the lion's den. Try not to bleed.
The dinner starts like a fucking funeral. All silver, glass, and silence. I'm hyper-aware of my heartbeat, of how loud my breath must sound in this cathedral-sized room. The clink of forks, the faint hum of expensive air-conditioning, the weight of too many eyes on me.
Kamal leans back in his throne-like chair, his voice deep, smooth, cutting through the stillness.
"How are you doing, Adam?"
Zayan—stone cold, unreadable, doesn't even lift his gaze from his plate. "Good." Just that. One word. No warmth. No crack. No… nothing.
From down the table, someone scoffs, soft but sharp, like the sound of a knife leaving its sheath. My stomach flips. I keep my eyes glued to the plate, refusing to look up, because I know if I meet anyone's gaze, I'll combust.
Then—light. A soft nudge against my arm. I jolt, glance to my right, and there she is. Rania. Zayan's sister. The only Tavarian who doesn't look like she's debating my execution. She tilts her head, lips curving into this easy smile, mouthing cool.
For a beat, my chest loosens. Fuck. I smile back. It's weak, crooked, but it's real. She's gorgeous—like, unfairly gorgeous—and it hits me again how she and Zayan don't look alike at all. It makes me wonder if she even feels like his sister or if she's just… her own star.
But then Kamal turns that ice-glacier stare on me, and the oxygen in my lungs bails out.
"So. Arshila, right?"
My head whips to him, like I'm on strings. My voice comes out tiny. "Yes, sir."
He hums. Low. Like he's filing me into some mental cabinet labeled inadequate. My throat burns. I want to cry, but I choke it down. Then—another blow.
"Tell me," he says, each word heavy as marble, "what do you enjoy in your days? When you are not… here."
Oh, fuck me. My hands shake. My mouth goes Sahara dry. They'll hear me stutter. They'll see me crumble. Words refuse to come out—until I feel it.
A hand.
Under the table. Warm, steady, wrapping around mine.
I freeze.
Holy shit.
Zayan.
He doesn't look at me. Doesn't break his façade. But his hand? His hand stays. Firm. Immovable. Like he's tethering me to this earth while my insides spiral out of control. I don't dare breathe too hard.
And somehow, that weight steadies me. My tongue unsticks.
"I… I read. And write. Mostly." My voice is slow, fragile. "I like… making things with my hands."
A silence falls. Too heavy. Too thick.
And then—the first dagger. Yasmin. His aunt. All diamonds and venom, leaning forward with a smile that's sharp enough to slit throats.
"Isn't it funny," she purrs, "that the heir of this empire marries someone who isn't even in our league?"
My heart stops. Blood drains from my face. Humiliation burns, crawling up my neck.
Her son, Ebrahim, leans in, voice smooth but dripping with poison.
"Funny? I'd say tragic. She doesn't bring anything to this table. No alliances. No assets. Not even pedigree."
Laughter ripples from a few places. My chest constricts.
Ravza, Yasmin's daughter, flicks her nails against her glass, eyes glittering.
"It's… adorable though. Like a stray kitten dragged into the palace. But kittens scratch furniture, don't they?"
Another chuckle. I grip my lap with my free hand so tight I might bruise.
Zaima, from the other side, her voice quiet but slicing:
"At least kittens are trained. She looks like she might break the crystal if she breathes too hard."
The table hums with cruel amusement. My insides twist.
Ebrahim again, sharper, leaning forward:
"Imagine it—Tavarian blood diluted. Our legacy, tied to someone who doesn't even know how to sit properly at a formal table."
Heat prickles behind my eyes. My head screams don't cry. Don't give them the satisfaction. But my skin feels like it's burning under their words.
Then, a voice I didn't expect. Alyan. Zayan's father. Calm, measured, but with an edge that makes the laughter die down.
"Enough. She is here because zayan chose her. That is reason enough."
The table stiffens. My head snaps to him. He's never looked at me before. Never spoken to me. And yet here he is, shutting down his sister with a steel tone that brooks no argument.
Maireen, Zayan's mother, tilts her chin, voice cool but precise.
"League or not, respect is owed. She sits here as his wife. That seat means something. Do not forget."
My throat aches. Holy shit. They're defending me. The people I thought couldn't care less if I choked.
Shadin suddenly cuts in too, his voice sharp, louder than I've ever heard it.
"She's more than any of you will ever admit. Maybe that's the problem—you're scared someone outside your bubble could matter."
Gasps. Scoffs. A ripple of outrage.
But Yasmin just leans back, smiling like she's won anyway.
"Defensive, aren't we? All this passion for a girl who has… what? A nice smile? Cute hobbies? Hardly the makings of a Tavarian."
Her words are acid. They eat through me. But under the table, Zayan's hand never moves. His grip stays, steady, grounding, like he's silently saying don't you fucking move, don't you break.
I swallow hard. My voice is gone. My courage is gone. But my heart? My heart is hammering, not from their words, but from his hand.
Because even in the middle of this storm, with venom dripping from every direction, that single touch is the only thing keeping me from drowning.
Yasmin's laugh is like glass breaking, too sharp, too cruel.
Her voice cuts through the silence.
"Everyone here knows why he married her! This marriage is just a cover-up for the accident."
Her words sink straight into my chest, like she just slid a knife between my ribs and twisted it slow.
The worst part? She's not wrong.
Not completely.
I feel the weight of every stare, every pair of judging eyes burning holes into my skin. My pulse hammers so loud it's all I can hear. This marriage isn't a fairytale—it's survival. For him. For me. For everyone watching.
My fingers twitch in his grip, and I try to pull my hand free, but Zayan's hold doesn't loosen. If anything, it tightens. Painfully tight. His thumb presses into my wrist, locking me in place like he owns me.
Before I can even catch my breath, Yasmin's husband chimes in, shaking his head, voice dripping with pity that isn't meant for me.
"Zayan is so young… he didn't have to do this just for family. He should've rejected it. Shouldn't have been forced into this."
My chest caves. Every word feels like another nail hammered into me.
Of course. Of course, he wouldn't want this.
Why would he? He's Adam fucking Zayan Tavarian. He could have anyone—women who'd crawl on their knees just to touch his hand. And me? I'm the burden, the excuse, the cover-up.
I try again to tug my hand away, desperate to escape, but his grip is brutal now. My wrist throbs under his hold, and I bite the inside of my cheek to keep the sting in my eyes from spilling over. I hate that I'm hurting more from the truth than from his strength.
Then his voice cuts through, deep, slow, dragging the air down with it.
"It's so fascinating that everyone in this room is worried about my life."
The room goes silent. His tone isn't raised, but it doesn't need to be. Every syllable is laced with mockery, sharp enough to make people flinch.
"You speak as if you know my choices. As if you understand my decisions. You don't. And you won't. What I do, who I marry, how I live—none of it is your fucking business."
He tilts his head slightly, that subtle movement that makes him look both amused and dangerous. His eyes are unreadable, scanning the room like predators do before striking.
"If this marriage is a cover-up, then let it be. If it isn't, you'll never know. What matters is one thing—you don't get to question me."
No one dares to breathe. My hand is still trapped in his, his fingers clamped around mine like a chain. My pulse races under his skin, but he doesn't let go. Doesn't even blink.
"So unless anyone here suddenly holds my bloodline, my crown, or my fucking name—shut your mouth."
The silence after his words is suffocating. Heavy. Everyone stares but no one dares to respond.
And that's when I see it.
Kamal.
His grandfather.
The old man smirks. He actually smirks. A slow, dangerous curve of his lips like he's watching his heir prove himself right here, right now. His eyes gleam with pride, with power. That's my boy.
I want to look away, but my gaze collides with another. Shadin.
He's staring at Zayan, jaw clenched, something dark flashing in his eyes. Then he looks at me. Not once, not twice—back and forth, like he's piecing something together he doesn't want to see. My stomach twists.
Kamal's voice finally breaks the silence, smooth and final.
"Everyone gets the point, right? Then eat."
It's not a suggestion. It's an order. Forks scrape plates nervously, conversations restart in low murmurs, but the air is still thick with what just happened.
And then, finally, Zayan lets go of my hand. The sudden release burns more than his grip did.
By the time Kamal finishes with that sly smirk of his, chairs scrape back like a slow wave pulling out to sea. One by one, they rise, some with forced dignity, some with barely masked humiliation.
Yasmin's heels click sharp as gunshots as she storms off. Ebrahim and his father trail after, their shoulders hunched. Ravza keeps her chin high but her face blotches red like she's been slapped. They scatter, all of them, like predators slinking away after being reminded who the real apex is.
And then it's just us. Him and me. Sitting at that ridiculously long, glittering table with untouched food and silence heavy enough to choke on.
He breaks it first.
"Don't ever make their words into your heart."
I blink at him. My chest hurts because… god, part of me already did. But the way he says it—low, steady, like a command rather than comfort—makes me look at him. Really look. His eyes catch mine, unreadable, stormy but firm, like he's daring me to argue.
I just nod, because I can't speak without cracking.
He nods once too, curt, final. "Come on. Let's go."
We stand, and walking out beside him feels surreal, like I'm still carrying invisible bruises from every venomous word Yasmin spat. But his hand doesn't touch me now. He keeps distance, always distance.
The hall we step into is massive, ceilings arched like a cathedral, chandeliers dangling gold light that makes everything glow like old money sanctified in stone. Before I can breathe it in, one of the Tavarian men steps forward, stiff-backed.
"Sir, the Chairman is calling you."
Zayan's gaze slices to me, unreadable again. "I'll be back."
I just nod, and then I watch his back as he walks away, tall, sharp, unreachable. God, he confuses me—sometimes he makes me want to scream, hate him, push him as far as I can.
And then there's tonight, when he held my hand under the table like he was staking a claim, when he silenced the whole family like they were ants under his boot. Hate. Distance. Coldness. And then protection. It's dizzying.
I wander. Corridors that smell like history, portraits of men who all look the same in their arrogance, walls dripping with quiet power. Until I find it—the balcony.
The night spreads out like velvet, the estate lights glowing faint against endless darkness. It's beautiful in a way that hurts.
And then—
"Here you are."
I spin. My heart jumps until I see him. Shadin. Relief floods me so quick I almost sag against the railing.
I force a grin. "Here comes, Shadin Raizal Tavarian!"
He chuckles, low and easy. God, even his laugh feels like oxygen. "Are you really hating me now?"
I cross my arms, trying to look mad even though I'm relieved. "I'm pissed at you. You stuck with me for two fucking years and never once mentioned you're a Tavarian. Two years, Shadin."
His face softens, guilty. "I didn't want to lose you. That's why I never said it."
The words punch me, heavier than I expect. I swallow. "So Cassandra knew? Back then?"
He sighs, nodding. "Yeah. She knew. That's why she was so obsessed with me."
I bark out a laugh, sharp, almost bitter. "It's so funny. God, this is insane."
But he doesn't laugh. He watches me too closely. "Are you okay?"
My laugh dies like someone blew it out. "Yeah, I'm okay." Lie. My smile cracks but I force it anyway.
"Don't pretend, Arshila." His voice gentles, but it cuts deeper than any insult at that table. "I'm sorry they made you feel like that. They're wrong about you. You belong here."
I shake my head instantly, the words tasting bitter. "Nope. I don't belong here and never will. I hate being here."
He exhales, frustrated, eyes searching mine. "How's Zayan? Is he okay to you?"
I blink, confused. "Yeah… he's okay."
He clenches his jaw. "I hate that. I don't like him being with you. He doesn't deserve you."
And the knife twists in my chest because the truth slips out before I can stop it. "I don't deserve him."
Silence. His eyes lock on mine like he's trying to pull me back from drowning.
"Don't ever pretend to be his wife. If it's tough, leave him. I'll be here with you."
I laugh, but it's shaky. "You make decisions like you're my boyfriend, not my best friend."
But he doesn't laugh. He doesn't say anything.
So we talk instead. About the past, about stupid little things that make us laugh until my ribs ache. For a moment it feels normal, safe, like I can breathe again.
Until the air shifts. Heavy.
I feel it before I even see him. A figure behind me. My laugh dies. I turn.
And there he is.
Zayan.
Unreadable face, unreadable eyes, but his presence slams into me like a storm front.
"Are you having fun with my wife, cousin?"
His tone—god—it's not loud, but it's lethal.
Shadin doesn't flinch. "No. I'm having fun with my best friend."
Zayan scoffs, low and sharp, like a blade being unsheathed. He doesn't even look at Shadin when he steps forward. His eyes pin me, ice and fire, and then his hand snaps around my wrist. Warm, firm, unyielding.
"Funny. Because it looked like more than fun."
The air is electric. Shadin stands taller, his stare burning into Zayan's, hatred naked in his eyes.
"She deserves better than you," Shadin says, low but firm.
Zayan doesn't even blink. He tugs me closer, his grip biting into my skin, making my pulse thunder. His voice drops, cold enough to burn.
"And yet, she's mine."
He doesn't look back when he pulls me away, dragging me from the balcony, from Shadin's piercing gaze. My chest is a storm, torn between the burn of his grip and the look I saw in Shadin's eyes.
Shadin stays behind, his stare following us, hatred so thick I can feel it even as we disappear into the shadows of the hall.
I stumble a little when we reach the stairs, mostly because his hand slips out of mine so suddenly. One second he's tugging me along like I'm some fragile piece of glass, the next he drops it like my touch burns.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?" I hiss, keeping my voice low so it doesn't echo. "Why are you mad at Shadin? What did he even do?"
Zayan doesn't even look at me, just keeps striding down the stairs with that infuriating arrogance in every step. His voice drops, low and sharp. "You really want to defend him right now?"
"I'm not defending him, I'm asking you!" I snap, my heels clacking against the marble as I try to keep up. "God, you're so—"
"Annoying? Arrogant?" he cuts in smoothly, tilting his head, that damn Tavarian smirk tugging at his mouth. "Add it to the list. You'll need a whole fucking notebook for me."
My blood boils. I officially hate him in this moment. Not the cute kind of hate. The rip his stupid perfect chain off his neck kind of hate.
We finally reach the bottom, and my annoyance freezes when I see them—his parents. Maireen and Alyan Tavarian. I expect stone faces, the famous Tavarian frost. But instead, they're smiling. Soft. Gentle. It's so disarming, I almost trip again.
"You two look good together," Maireen says, her voice carrying the kind of warmth I never thought a Tavarian could have.
Zayan and I instantly separate like magnets repelling each other. My arm burns where his hand held me seconds ago. He doesn't even acknowledge the compliment, of course. Typical.
Before I can escape, Maireen steps closer to me. Her smile is delicate, but her eyes are steady, sharp enough to slice through glass. "How are you doing, dear?"
I straighten, nerves kicking in. "I'm good, ma'am."
Her brows lift, amused. "Ma'am? That's what you call your mother-in-law? Call me mom."
For a second, I just… stare. She's smiling at me like she means it. Like she wants me to. The woman I pictured as cold, untouchable Tavarian steel is asking me to call her mom.
My throat goes tight. "Yes… mom."
Her hand brushes my arm, light but grounding. "Don't ever let their words break you, alright? They're cowards. You—" her smile deepens— "you're bold."
And just like that, my eyes sting. Fuck. It's too much. I glance at Zayan instinctively, like maybe he'll notice this lump in my throat. But of course, he looks away, jaw tight.
Alyan's voice rumbles, calm but firm. "Are you leaving already?"
"Yes," Zayan answers before I can. His tone is clipped, dismissive, like staying another second might strangle him.
But then—click. Heels on marble. Everyone turns.
It's her. Rania aleeza Tavarian. She looks like she just stepped off some glossy magazine cover, confident as hell, eyes shining like she owns the air we're breathing.
"Where are you going this early?" she asks, arching a brow at her brother.
"Home," Zayan says flatly.
Her laugh is sharp, incredulous. "Home? You rarely show up to family dinners and now you're leaving early? Dude!"
My lips twitch. Dude? She just called him dude.
Zayan narrows his eyes. "Why are you here? Weren't you supposed to be abroad?"
She steps closer, smirking, and smacks his arm like it's nothing. "You're not the only one who can surprise people, brother."
His parents exchange a glance, shaking their heads with that universal parental expression of we're so done with these two. And honestly? It's fascinating. They're not venomous or cruel like I expected.
They're… human. A family. They laugh, they tease. It's messy and soft in a way I didn't think the Tavarians could ever be.
And maybe that's what throws me the most.
Zayan catches me watching. His dark eyes pin me for half a second before he tilts his head toward the door. "We're going."
I exhale, forcing a smile at Maireen, Alyan, and even Rania.
Then I turn and walk beside Zayan, my pulse still uneven.
The moment we step out, the air shifts. His family's warmth fades behind us, and the arrogant, maddening Zayan Tavarian takes his throne again.
And I hate—fucking hate—that part of me already misses the version of him that only shows up in front of them.
We're almost at the car when two of his guards step out of nowhere. They don't even look at me—just lean in close to him, whisper something fast and sharp. I see Zayan's face still, unreadable, that terrifying mask sliding into place. The warmth he showed me at dinner is gone, but not in the way that cuts. This is different. This is him locking something away.
He presses his hand against his temple, sighs like the weight of the fucking world just dropped on his shoulders, and then—he turns to me.
"I'm sorry," he says, voice low, not cold, not sharp. Almost… human. "I have something to deal with. I'll be right back. Can you please stay just a few minutes?"
Please.
God, that word in his mouth feels illegal. He's not commanding me, not dragging me with that iron grip of his presence. He's asking. His tone isn't clipped—it's almost soft, like velvet stretched over steel. I can feel it crawl across my skin.
"Yeah," I nod quickly, trying not to look like my bones just melted. "No problem."
His gaze flickers over me, assessing, then he says, "Stay at the east drawing room. Wait there for me."
"Of course," I answer, way too fast, way too eager.
He exhales, jaw tight, and then his mouth softens just a fraction. "I'm sorry," he repeats, and fuck—he never says sorry. Never. "I'll be back. Okay?"
"Okay," I whisper.
And then he's gone, rushing up the staircase with the guards at his side, movements sleek and lethal.
I stand there like an idiot, still buzzing from his voice. That word please rolls around in my head like he carved it into me. How the hell does he sound so… good when he lowers himself to asking? Like his restraint is more dangerous than his power.
I drift through the corridor instead of heading to that stupid drawing room, because my legs take me where they want: outside. The night air is sharp, cool against my skin. The gardens stretch endlessly, silent but alive, and I find a stone bench under an arch, half hidden in the shadows.
I sit, pull my knees close, and press my palms against them. My chest is still racing.
God. His voice. I can't stop replaying it. The way he said please, like it wasn't beneath him but it still cost him something. The way sorry dripped like molten iron, heavy, rare.
I bite my lip.
Fuck, Arshila. Don't think about it. Don't.
But my mind's already running straight into the fire. How would he sound if he wasn't just asking me to wait? What if he yearned? What if his voice broke on my name, what if he pleaded? What if the cold, commanding Zayan fucking Tavarian ever had to beg me?
Holy fuck.
I bury my face in my hands, laughing at myself. "God, I need holy water," I mutter under my breath. "And not the regular kind—the kind that's been triple blessed by every damn prophet."
I'm grinning like a lunatic, cheeks burning, the kind of smile you don't admit to anyone.
And then—footsteps. Slow, deliberate, coming closer.
My heart stutters. Already? He's back?
I turn around too fast, breath caught in my throat—
And freeze.
It isn't Zayan.
It's Ebrahim.
Shit.
_____________________
Author note
Okey, what's happening next?? Ebrahim is coming to her??? With his venom to her?? Or something else?? Beneath his venomous? Is he kind or just like his mother ,spitting venomous?? What will happen?? Don't forget to stick around tomorrow and don't forget to add to collection and comment, share, support.