ARSHILA'S POV
I knew every single Tavarian face by now. Yesterday Izar sat me down like a damn teacher before an exam and drilled them into me. The uncles, the aunts, the cousins. Their names. Their poison. Their little histories. And if there was one name that came with a red flag stapled to it, it was Ebrahim Sameer Qadri.
Yasmin's son. The only one who acted like he was the Tavarian heir when he wasn't even fully in the bloodline. A Qadri masquerading in Tavarian gold. Izar's words still ring in my ears—"that fucker is the worst one. Watch out."
And here he is, walking straight toward me like he smelled weakness in the air. His smirk ugly in intent but sitting pretty on his face. Yeah, he's good-looking in that obvious, glossy way—but his eyes ruin everything. There's no warmth, no spark. Just entitlement.
He stops in front of me, towering, and tilts his head with a mock sweetness that makes my stomach twist.
"Are you lost, baby girl? Like a kitten?"
My jaw tightens. I say nothing. Silence feels safer than letting my tongue run loose.
He chuckles, stepping closer, the scent of his cologne sharp, invasive. "What's the matter? Did Zayan abandon you already?" His lips curl cruelly. "Yeah… predictable. Everyone knew the heir of the empire would toss his little stray cat eventually."
Stray cat. The words scrape down my spine like claws.
My fingers itch. God, I want to flip him off so bad. Or spit right in his face. But I keep my hands still, my jaw clenched. Because I'm not just me here—I'm tied to Zayan, whether I like it or not. One wrong move, and it isn't just me who looks weak.
Ebrahim leans down, so close I can feel his breath against my ear, voice dropping to a whisper meant to slice.
"Don't worry. I like little pretty things. I'll treat you better than him."
A pause. Silence. My heart spikes. Then—
"On the bed."
My stomach lurches. I whip my head toward him, rage bubbling hot. My palm aches to crack across his smug face, but I don't move. I stay still. Because if I hit him, it becomes a scene. A scandal. And he knows it. He fucking knows it.
He leans back just enough to smirk wider. "What's your take on that? Hm? Wanna get treated like a princess by me… or stay his stray cat?"
"Fuck off," I hiss before I can stop myself.
He laughs, deep and ugly. "I said I'll treat you better."
"Me too."
Another voice slices the air.
We both whip around.
Izar.
He's walking toward us, unhurried, his posture loose but his eyes burning cold fire. Ebrahim's jaw clenches hard enough to crack.
Izar's lips twitch into a half smile as he closes the distance. "I can treat you better than everyone, sir."
Sir. He spits the word like it's an insult.
Ebrahim's eyes went black. Darker than Yasmin's venom ever tasted.
Izar stopped just inches away, shoulders loose, hands relaxed at his sides — but the kind of relaxed that screamed: go ahead, swing, I dare you.
Then Izar smiled, lazy, sharp. "With handcuffs. And guns."
A laugh nearly tore out of me, but I swallowed it.
Ebrahim's gaze darkens, venom pooling in his stare. "Tavarian dog's got the guts to threaten me?"
Izar chuckles, stepping right between me and Ebrahim like it's nothing. Now they're face to face, two wolves circling the same territory.
"If I'm a Tavarian dog…" Izar's voice drops low, lethal. "…then what about you? Are you even a Tavarian?"
Ebrahim's nostrils flare. "My mother—"
"Don't." Izar cuts him off, voice sharp as glass. "If I kill you right here, no one would question me. You know why?"
He leans in, lips curling. "Because You're just your mother's excuse."
The words slam into the air like gunfire.
Ebrahim's face twists, rage boiling under his skin. "Didn't know you had this much guts. Being with Zayan makes you God, huh?"
Izar's smirk deepens, cold and perfect. "Being with God makes me powerful."
Ebrahim snaps. He grabs Izar's collar, knuckles white.
Izar doesn't even blink. His voice stays polite, infuriatingly calm. "Remove your hand. Or else you won't have one anymore."
For a second, I swear Ebrahim's about to swing. His fist twitches, his jaw flexes. Then—he doesn't. He lets go. Steps back. His chest heaves once before he turns that fire onto me.
His eyes burn venom straight into mine. Promise. Threat. Warning.
I swallow hard, pulse skipping. Who the fuck is he?
And then, without another word, he spins and stalks away, fury still crackling behind him.
I realize I've been holding my breath.
Izar glances back at me, his face smoothing into something almost casual. "Shall we go?"
I blink at him, still shaky. "How did you even know I was here?"
He raises a brow like the answer's obvious. "It's my duty to protect you. And I was very aware you wouldn't sit in that drawing room like a good little guest. Predictable."
I scoff, the sound shaky but also amused. "Predictable, huh? You're cocky."
He smirks as we start walking. "Cocky's why I'm still alive."
I glance at him sideways. "You actually just threatened a Qadri. What if—like—anything happens?"
He doesn't even flinch. "Nothing will happen. He can bark all he wants, but at the end of the day—he's not Tavarian. Remember that."
I let out a short laugh, shaking my head. "You guys are insane. Like genuinely, lock-me-up kind of insane."
"Welcome to the family," he deadpans.
And despite the lingering fear, despite the burn of Ebrahim's words still under my skin, I laugh. Too loud, too real.
Because holy fuck—Izar just dragged me out of the lion's mouth like it was a Tuesday errand.
By the time we hit the waiting hall, my pulse has finally slowed. But in my chest, there's still that tiny shake, the realization that in this family, danger isn't whispered—it's promised, with a smile.
And god help me—I'm in the middle of it.
I lean back against the velvet couch, the sound of cutlery clinking faintly from the dining hall still echoing in my head. My throat is dry, but I don't dare move, not yet. Across from me, Izar stands like a goddamn shadow—arms behind his back, posture sharp, eyes colder than the marble floor beneath his shoes.
And that's when it hits me.
He isn't just Zayan's bodyguard. No, this man isn't the type you hire to open car doors and fetch guns. He's the kind of man who makes other men shut the fuck up with one look. I know because I just watched it happen—Ebrahim Qadri, with all his fucking arrogance, shrank like a dog under Izar's stare. I almost didn't catch it, but the way Ebrahim's jaw locked, his throat bobbing as if he swallowed acid—that wasn't respect. That was fear.
Why the fuck is he scared of him?
Izar can't be older than his late twenties, early maybe. Young, but he stands higher than the rest of Zayan's guards, and it isn't just his position—it's in the way he breathes, steady, unshaken, like he could kill you and go back to drinking his coffee without blinking. My pulse hammers, but I don't look away. For the first time, I realize Zayan doesn't just surround himself with loyalty—he surrounds himself with monsters.
My fingers tighten against the fabric of my dress.
And then, like he always fucking does, he appears.
Zayan walks into the waiting hall, the air shifting instantly, like even the walls know who he is. He doesn't look at Izar first. He looks at me. His eyes drag over me—sharp, unreadable, too heavy for me to breathe properly.
"Is everything alright?" His voice is smooth, calm, but it cuts through the silence.
Before I can open my mouth, Izar steps forward. "Yes, sir. Everything is alright." His tone is firm, final, like he just stamped the truth into existence.
I glance at him again, and this time he doesn't glare, doesn't scowl. He just nods at me—once—like he's silently telling me, don't ask. Then he turns and strides out, his presence filling the hallway even as he leaves.
I stand, smoothing my dress, and walk beside Zayan. His cologne lingers in the air, expensive, dark, infuriatingly good. Izar takes the car behind us, a black shadow following in silence.
Inside the car, Zayan drives. His hands grip the wheel with quiet control, his gaze fixed forward, not sparing me even a glance. I should say something, anything, but I don't. And neither does he. The silence isn't empty—it's suffocating.
My mind spins instead.
The way his family looked at me tonight. Some with judgment, some with curiosity, some with nothing at all, like I didn't even exist. His parents treated me so kindly .Shadin—fuck—Shadin shielded me like he knew what those looks would do to me. And then there was Zayan—his hand under the table, sliding against mine, steady, burning, grounding me when I was drowning in their eyes.
I clench my jaw, refusing to let the memories soften me.
The mansion gates swing open like a mouth ready to swallow me whole. The car rolls to a stop. Staff rush to open the doors—too polished, too rehearsed, too Tavarian. I step out, heels stabbing the gravel, and force myself to walk inside, fast, almost running.
Each step sends a jolt of pain up my calves. I was never this girl. Sneakers were my armor, not these fucking heels that make me stumble like a child learning to walk. But now I have to wear them, smile with them, bleed with them.
I reach our room, almost yanking the door handle open, when his voice cuts through the hallway.
"Don't hold back next time," Zayan says, low, firm, dangerous in its softness. "Be you."
I turn, my chest tight, and he's standing there—calm as if he didn't just rip the floor from under me. His eyes hold mine for a moment too long, and then he walks past, into the walk-in closet, his figure swallowed by shadows.
I slip into the room, shut the door, and lean my back against it. My chest rises and falls too fast.
I don't want to be there next time. But I have to. And if I have to, then I have to protect myself—even from him.
---------
I don't even know when sleep caught me last night. One second I was staring at the ceiling replaying every venomous word they threw at me, and the next, I'm jerking awake to the pale morning light stabbing through the curtains. My head feels heavy, like it's been dunked in concrete, but I force myself up because—apparently—my body decided it likes to wake up early in this fucking house.
I rub my face, groaning, hair sticking to my cheek. God. I'm not a morning person. Never have been. But here I am, padding across the soft carpet half-asleep, one eye barely open. Maybe if I move slow enough, time will rewind and last night won't exist.
My hand finds the massive double doors of the bathroom. I push one open without thinking.
And then—
Fuck.
No.
I freeze.
Zayan.
He's in the water. The bath pool, massive, gleaming, steam curling like smoke around him. His arms rest on the edges like he owns the world. Only his collarbones show, skin wet, droplets catching the light. His shoulders are broad, muscles sharp and unapologetic, chest half-submerged but the outline—God, the outline—there's no mistaking the shape of him under the surface.
And his eyes. His fucking eyes.
He's not startled. Not even a little. He's just looking at me, calm, unreadable, like he knew I was going to walk in. Like he let me.
"—Ayyshhh!" The sound rips out of me before my brain catches up. I slam the door shut so fast it rattles, clutching the handle like it just burned me.
Holy. Fucking. Shit.
"Why didn't you lock the door???" I shout, my voice embarrassingly high-pitched. Heat slams into my face, my chest, pooling low in my stomach until I can barely breathe. "Ayshhh!"
I sprint back to my room like my ass is on fire, heart in my throat. Slam the door. Lean against it, palms pressed flat.
God. His eyes. His posture. The way his arms stretched wide, claiming space like he is space. That calmness—fuck, it was hotter than if he'd actually reacted. Like he was daring me to keep staring.
And his body—
God.
Big mistake letting my brain go there.
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying not to picture the sharp ridges of his collarbones, the way his wet skin glistened, the water sliding lower where I couldn't see but sure as hell could imagine. My mind goes dirty instantly—what else was hidden under that water? What would it feel like if—
"Stop. STOP," I groan, burying my face in my hands. Too much for the morning. Way too much.
And to make matters worse, my bladder is about to explode. Great. Just great. I can't even go back in there. So I bolt out again, rushing to another guest bathroom, muttering curses under my breath. Freshen up. Splash cold water on my face. Pretend I didn't just see the heir of the Tavarians lounging half-naked in a pool like a fucking god out of marble.
By the time I creep back to our rooms, hesitation nearly kills me. I stand at the threshold, fingers trembling on the handle. My brain is a warzone: Don't look weird. Don't bring it up. Don't imagine him naked. Don't—
I open the door.
He's there. Standing by the glass wall, dressed now. Loose-fit jeans, a simple t-shirt that somehow still looks sculpted on him. Casual, effortless, untouchable.
I freeze again, words tumbling out of my mouth before I can stop them.
"Uhh—I… I didn't know you were there… and of course I didn't see anything."
Smooth. Fucking smooth. Kill me now.
He turns, slowly, his gaze pinning me like he has all the time in the world. "There was nothing to see."
My brain short-circuits. Nothing to see? NOTHING? That was the most to-see I've ever seen in my life. My laugh bursts out, awkward, sharp, too high.
"Yeah. Of course. Nothing. Haha. Nothing at all. Nothing!" I sound like a clown. A desperate clown trying to erase images from her head that won't stop replaying.
He doesn't even flinch. Just keeps looking at me with those eyes that feel like they strip me raw.
My mouth goes dry. My heart is pounding. And somehow, I still whisper, "Why didn't you lock the door?"
His reply is immediate, firm. "No one is going to barge into my bathroom."
My stomach twists. "But I did."
The corner of his mouth doesn't move, but something flickers in his eyes, something I can't name. His voice drops a notch, steady, lethal.
"You are an exception."
The words hang heavy in the air. Not like a compliment. Not like an insult either. Something else. Something worse.
An exception.
What the fuck does that mean?
I stand there, pulse thundering, and he doesn't give me more. He just walks past, his presence brushing against mine, casual and devastating. The door shuts behind him with a soft click, leaving me alone with my racing thoughts.
I press my forehead to the wall. An exception. An exception to what? His rules? His control? His…everything?
Heat coils low in my belly again, and I want to scream at myself. This morning was supposed to be normal. Coffee, maybe. Silence. Pretend life is fine. Not this.
Now all I can think about is his body in that water, and the way his voice wrapped around me when he called me an exception.
Fuck.
I'm pacing my room like a fucking lunatic. My feet are burning tracks into the floor, hair all over my face, palms sweating like I'm about to commit murder. Because how the fuck am I supposed to go downstairs now? I'm starving.
My stomach is growling like a wild dog but every time I think of the dining table, my brain throws me straight back to that scene. That pool. His body. My sinful imagination doing cartwheels like a fucking circus act.
"Shit," I mutter, dragging my hands through my hair. "I need food. Food, not dick. Coffee, not cock." My stomach growls again like it doesn't give a shit about my dignity.
I stop dead, glare at my own reflection in the glass wall. "You'll eat alone. Like you always do. He's never at the breakfast table. He doesn't sit with you. You'll sip your coffee, eat your bread like a normal, civilized woman, and pretend nothing happened.
Great. Perfect pep talk. Except my knees are still weak and my brain is still running reruns of him dripping wet and shirtless like some forbidden porn channel I never subscribed to.
Fuck it.
I square my shoulders, march out, and head down the glass staircase. Each step feels like it's echoing through my skull. My mind is spinning. Not in the poetic "my world is spinning because I'm in love" shit. No. It's spinning like a washing machine stuck on sin cycle.
I finally reach the dining room. Thank God, it's empty—just the staff moving around, setting plates, pouring coffee. My lifeline. I drop into a chair, grab the nearest cup, and gulp down coffee like it's oxygen.
Bitter, hot, saving my pathetic soul.
And then—like the devil himself heard me thinking—he walks in.
No warning. No sound of footsteps. Just suddenly there, moving like some silent panther from the shadows, and then he sits. Across from me. As if he's been doing it every day of his life.
My spine stiffens so fast I nearly snap in half. What the fuck is this? Why is he here? He's not supposed to be here. This is my one safe zone, my lonely breakfast island, and he just sits his beautiful, terrifying ass right across from me like it's the most casual thing in the world.
I stare at my cup. I stare like it's the most interesting object in existence. Coffee. Yes. Focus on the coffee. Coffee is safe. Coffee doesn't have broad shoulders and sharp jaws.
Then the bastard picks up his own cup, and says, casual as a fucking breeze—
"Hot."
That's it. One word. But it detonates like a grenade in my skull.
I choke. Literally choke. Coffee sprays from my mouth like a fountain. I cough so hard I nearly die on the spot. My lungs are on fire, my dignity in ashes.
He doesn't even flinch. Just slides me a tissue with those long fingers like this is normal, like me looking like a dying walrus is part of his routine.
I snatch it, mutter something that might be "thanks" but sounds more like "fuck off," and keep my eyes firmly glued to the table. If I look up, if I meet those eyes, I know I'll see Him. The water. The body. That vein on his neck. My filthy brain replaying the way how his collarbone looks sexy.
God, why is my imagination so unholy? Why am I picturing myself sliding into the pool, the water clinging to my clothes, my hands—nope. Nope. Not going there. Abort mission.
I shake my head so hard the staff probably think I'm exorcising demons. Which isn't wrong.
I lift my cup again with trembling fingers. Sip. Hot, bitter. Focus. Normal. Just coffee. Not sin. Not sex. Coffee.
But my damn eyes betray me. I sneak a glance up, just quick, and he's still looking. Calm. Composed. One corner of his mouth twitching like he knows exactly what's happening inside my head.
I want to scream. I want to throw the coffee at him. I want to crawl under the table and hide until my brain shuts the fuck up.
Instead, I sip again. Pretend I don't feel my pulse hammering in places it shouldn't. Pretend I don't feel the air between us so tight it's choking me. Pretend this is just breakfast and not a full-blown mental breakdown disguised as caffeine.
My fingers are trembling against the coffee cup, and it's ridiculous because I didn't even see him naked. Not even close. Just his collarbones—sharp, sinful lines I could bite if I lost my mind—and those arms. God, those arms. The way they flexed when he stretched them against the edge of the pool, muscles alive under wet skin.
The rest of him? Hidden. Water covering everything. Just a mystery. A secret. And somehow that makes it worse.
Why am I like this?
Why, God? Why did You make me this horny little bastard? Is this punishment for living my life like some cloistered nun? Because I never held hands? Never kissed? Never let anyone close? And, the only man who's ever made my blood burn is this motherfucker—this arrogant, dangerous, beautiful Tavarian heir.
And I can't even pretend it's normal.
But he can. He just sits there across from me, calm, collected, sipping his coffee like the devil sipping holy water. Not even a twitch. Not even a smirk.
Well, fine. Two can play that game.
I push back from the table, the chair legs screeching against the marble floor, loud enough to make one of the staff flinch. My body is shaking, but I keep my chin high. Walk away before I crumble. Before I say something humiliating, like "Can you drown me in that pool again but naked this time?"
And then—of course—his voice follows me. Smooth. Icy.
"You done already?"
I pause, spine locking.
My laugh comes sharp, bitter, snapping out of me before I can stop it. "Why you care? That's new. Coming from you."
The silence that follows is heavy. I don't look back. I don't want to. If I look at him, I'll fall into those eyes, and if I fall, I won't get back up.
So I walk faster.
The doors open, and the second I step outside, the guards react like a single machine. They pivot, shoulders squared, backs to me now. Every single one of them. Like always. Like I don't even exist.
I almost laugh. Almost. Because the sting is too sharp, pressing against my ribs.
Invisible wife. Useless wife. The girl who only sits in his shadow.
My feet carry me into the gardens, where the world feels softer, less suffocating. I sink onto the grass, knees tucked under me, palms pressing into the earth. It's cool, grounding. I tip my head back, stare at the sky stretched wide above me, endless and painted in light.
It's beautiful.
Like him.
And there it is again—the thought that slips through every wall I try to build.
Yesterday, at the Tavarian dinner table, I noticed it properly for the first time. The whole family is gorgeous. Men, women—every single one of them looks like they were sculpted with impossible precision. But him—Zayan Tavarian stands apart.
He doesn't just belong to this world—he bends it. Too sharp, too striking, too unreal.
Like he's a punishment straight from heaven. Or a gift dragged out of hell.
Either way, he is too much. Too much for me.
And I know it. I know I don't deserve him. I know I shouldn't even want him.
Because his heart—it's not mine. It belongs to someone else.
Someone untouchable. Someone unforgettable. Someone he looks at with that expression he's never once turned on me.
And I hate it. I hate how much I want to see her.
The girl who has the Tavarian heir's love.
What does she have that I don't? What makes her so special? So worthy? So unforgettable that even a man like him—a man who could own the entire world—chose her?
And why does it make me burn, knowing it will never be me?
I squeeze my fists into the grass, claws of jealousy scraping through my chest. My heart pounds, ugly and raw, because the truth is this:
I don't just want his attention. I don't just want his body.
I want everything.
And that's the cruelest thing of all.
The sky splits open without warning. One second the garden is this calm, perfect prison, the next it's chaos—wind ripping through the trees, rain hammering down so hard the grass bows under it.
My heart kicks up, and instinct drags me to my feet. I run, dress snagging on the damp earth, feet slapping against the marble path until I shove through the heavy garden door.
And suddenly, I'm inside the cube.
The glass cube. This ridiculous, breathtaking space he designed like he wanted to trap beauty and lock it in. A whole damn room made of glass in the middle of the garden, storm raging around it, but me? I'm dry. Safe. Watching lightning rip across the sky like veins of fire.
God—it's beautiful. Too beautiful. Like he built this space just so people could feel small. Just so I could stand here, forehead against the cold glass, and think: Of course. Of course Zayan Tavarian would design something like this. A sanctuary to watch the world destroy itself, while he stays untouched.
And I hate him for it. Hate how much sense it makes. Hate how it fits him too well.
The thunder cracks so loud I flinch, my palms pressed flat against the glass, breath fogging up the pane. My reflection stares back at me—messy hair, storm in my eyes—and I almost laugh. Because this? This storm? This chaos outside? That's me. That's what he's done to me.
Then—
Click.
Click
Click
The sound cuts clean through the thunder. Sharp, deliberate. The sound of heels.
I whip my head around so fast my neck cracks.
Heels. Here.
No one wears heels here. Not the staff, not the guards. The staff wear their quiet, uniform shoes. Always quiet. Always invisible. Heels don't belong here. They don't belong in my silent, suffocating prison.
But they're here now.
And the sound grows closer.
My pulse leaps. I step back from the glass, chest tight, moving toward the archway that leads into the main hall. The marble floor gleams, lightning spilling through the windows, and then—
I see her.
Her.
She moves into view like she's stepping out of some glossy magazine spread, like the storm outside is just her dramatic entrance cue. Designer clothes sculpted to her body, heels clicking a perfect rhythm, hair smooth and glossy enough to blind me.
Her face—holy fuck. She's the kind of beautiful that makes you believe in myths. Like some goddess who accidentally fell down to earth but decided to stay because mortals kept worshipping her.
Confidence radiates off her with every step. She doesn't walk, she owns. The hall bends around her presence. And I just stand there, rooted, every inch of me buzzing with something ugly.
Is she the one who belongs to him?? The one who owns the heart I'll never touch?? The one I've been dying to see??
If it's her—I won't even blame him. How could I? I might actually give him a fucking handshake. Maybe even a standing ovation.
Because look at her. Look at this goddess walking toward me like she just broke out of heaven and decided earth was her runway.
If she's the one…
Then I've just come face to face with the girl I wanted to see.