ARSHILA'S POV
I hit the mattress with a soft thud, air rushing out of me. His grip doesn't loosen—if anything, it clamps down harder, his fingers banded around my wrist like a goddamn shackle.
"Zayan—" I hiss, twisting, trying to push myself up, but his weight, his hand, everything pins me in place. My face is inches from his, so close I can feel the heat radiating off him like a furnace.
My chest tightens. He's on fire. Not just warm—burning.
"Zayan," I murmur again, softer this time, as if my voice might slip through the fever and pull him back. "You're burning up—"
And then, low, rough, almost broken, his voice comes out, scraping against the silence.
"Don't go."
I freeze.
My body goes rigid, like those two words just cracked me open from the inside. His grip tightens, my bones screaming under his hand, but I can't even flinch.
What? Did he—?
No.
No, I must've imagined that. A dream, a fever, a slip of my imagination. He didn't just say that.
"Zayan?" I whisper, my throat dry. His eyes are closed again, lashes fanning against flushed skin. He looks gone, lost somewhere I can't follow.
I tug at my wrist, desperate now. "Let go—" I mutter under my breath, but his fingers only dig in tighter, hot and unyielding. A sharp sting shoots up my arm.
"Shit—Zayan, you're hurting me," I whisper, trying to pry his hand open with my other one, nails slipping against his damp skin. Nothing. He doesn't budge. It's like trying to break iron.
My heartbeat is chaotic, a storm ripping through my chest. I swallow hard and shift, reaching for the blanket with my free hand. If I can't get free, fine—but at least I can stop him from freezing to death in his sweat.
I yank the blanket up, fumbling, and drape it over him. His face softens a little as the warmth covers him, but he's still burning. My wrist throbs in his hold, the pain dull and steady now, but something about it makes my stomach twist in ways I don't want to admit.
I give up fighting and slide down, sitting on the floor beside the bed, my arm stretched awkwardly up where he's still gripping me. My head tips back against the mattress edge, and I finally let myself look at him. Really look.
God.
Even sick, even drenched in fever, he's—
It hurts, how beautiful he is. His eyebrows twitch in his sleep, his lips parted slightly like he's murmuring something I can't hear. There's a fragility in his face right now I've never seen before, and it makes something inside me ache.
"Zayan," I whisper again, softer, not to wake him but just… to say it. His name tastes heavy on my tongue.
I try once more to slide my wrist free, but his grip is relentless. Too tight, too desperate. It's like he's holding on for dear life. My skin burns under his touch, not just from the pressure but from what it means.
So I stop.
I just sit there, tethered to him, staring at his face in the soft golden glow of the lamp. My body is exhausted, my heart is wrecked, and still I don't move. I can't.
Because part of me—the dangerous part—doesn't want to.
_______
ZAYAN POV
I open my eyes like I've just clawed my way back from somewhere far. Not sleep. Not dreams. Something heavier. Darker. For a moment I don't even recognize the room, don't even recognize the weight pressed into my hand.
Then reality smacks me.
My fingers are curled around her wrist.
And she's here. Head slumped on the edge of my bed, her body awkwardly folded on the damn floor, breathing slow and steady like she owns the right to be that close.
What the fuck is she doing here?
Why the fuck am I holding her like this?
I can't remember.
My grip loosens instantly, like her skin just burned mine, and I push myself upright on the mattress. She twitches, the tiniest movement, lashes fluttering, mouth relaxed. Her face—god—she looks like a goddamn baby with a knife tucked under her pillow. Murderous even in sleep. It's too fucking cute. And it pisses me off that I think that.
Her eyes crack open. Slow. Sleepy. And then she catches me looking.
I harden my voice, colder than ice.
"What the fuck are you doing here?"
She blinks, rubs at her neck, and her voice is hoarse, low.
"You were burning yesterday. Fever. I checked on you. Then you grabbed my wrist and didn't let go."
My jaw tightens. When did I? My mind is blank. Nothing. I don't remember touching her. I don't remember pulling her to me.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed, stand, and put steel into every word.
"Don't. You. Dare. Come to me ever again."
Her brows crease. "I was just—"
"I don't want you near me," I cut in, sharper, crueler. "I don't want your care. I don't want your pity. Whatever fucked-up idea you've got in your head, throw it away."
She opens her mouth, tries again. "I wasn't pitying you, I—"
"Enough." My voice cracks like a whip. "You don't get it, do you? I don't need you watching me. I don't need you hovering around like some fucking savior. Stay in your lane. Stay in your room. And stay the hell out of mine."
Her lips part, and for the briefest second, hurt flashes in her eyes. A punch straight to my gut. But I don't let her speak again. I bury her under every word I don't mean.
Silence drops heavy after that.
She swallows, eyes shining with something sharp and wounded. And then, without another word, she pushes herself up from the floor and walks to her room. No noise. No argument. Just… gone.
The door shuts.
I sit back down on the edge of the bed, elbows on my knees, palms pressed over my mouth.
I don't want her gone. Not even for a second.
I want her to care. I want her stubborn mouth spitting fire at me. I want her eyes cutting through me until I've got nowhere left to hide.
But I can't let her stay.
Because if she keeps being here, if she keeps crawling closer to the edges of me, I'll fucking break. I'll lose the leash I've wrapped around myself, and the truth will pour out. The truth she's going to hate me for.
So I tell myself lies. I tell myself I need her distant. I tell myself she's better off hating me than knowing me.
And I sit there, fists clenched, listening to the echo of her footsteps fading, pretending it doesn't gut me that she's walking away.
_____________
Arshila's pov
I slam the door shut behind me, harder than I mean to, and it rattles the frame. My forehead drops against the wood, and for a second I just stand there, shaking, trying to breathe past the fire clawing up my throat.
And then it breaks.
The tears rip out of me like I've been holding them back for years. Ugly, messy, heaving sobs that leave my chest aching.
God, why does he have to be like this?
Why does every word from his mouth feel like a blade shoved under my skin? I wasn't trying to start a fight. I wasn't accusing him. I was just checking on him. Just fucking caring. And he—he tore me apart like I was nothing.
I slide down the door until I hit the floor, knees pulled up, my arms wrapped around them like that'll keep me from coming undone. My head pounds from crying but I can't stop. Every time I hear his voice in my head, every time I see that cold look in his eyes, more tears spill.
"Goddamn you," I whisper into my knees, but the words come out choked. "Why do you always have to be so fucking cruel?"
When I finally drag myself to the bathroom, my face is wrecked. My reflection stares back at me with red eyes, lips trembling like I've been in a fight—and maybe I have, just not the kind anyone can see. I splash cold water on my face until my skin stings, until I look a little less like a girl who's been broken in half.
But the weight doesn't leave.
I stay locked in my room, curled on the bed with the blankets wrapped tight around me like armor. I don't want food. I don't want air. I don't want to walk out that door and risk seeing him again. The thought of his eyes on me—judging, cutting—makes my stomach twist.
Hours blur together, my thoughts circling the same vicious loop. Why him? Why does he have this power over me? Why does it feel like no matter how strong I act, one word from him is enough to shatter me into pieces?
I bury my face into the pillow and scream, muffled and raw, until my throat aches. Then I just lie there, staring at nothing, drowning in silence. Because right now, it's easier to disappear into my own darkness than face his again.
The staff has been buzzing like flies since morning. One by one, they've tried me. First, the woman calling out gently through the door about breakfast. I ignored it, pulling the blanket higher over my face.
Then, later, the housekeeper himself—knocking harder, his voice polite . "Miss, please, you should open. At least eat something."
I didn't move. Didn't answer.
Now it's nearly afternoon, and the silence feels thick. My stomach claws at me, but I keep my back pressed against the bedframe like the wood can anchor me. I don't want to see any of them. I don't want to be seen.
Then comes the knock. Different. Not frantic, not polite. Firm, deliberate, with a pause afterward like he knows I'm listening.
"Are you really doing this?"
My breath stutters.
I know that voice.
Izar.
Calm, deep, carrying weight. Not staff. Not begging. More like he's already seen through me and is waiting for me to catch up.
I keep my mouth shut. The silence stretches. My nails dig into my palms, pressing crescent moons into skin.
The knock again, softer this time.
"Why are you acting so stubborn?"
His tone doesn't bite—it's steady, patient, almost… coaxing. "You need to eat. At least something."
My lips part, dry, and the words scrape out, rougher than I intend. "I don't want to."
He doesn't sigh, doesn't groan in frustration like the others. He just asks, "Why?" Simple. Quiet.
Why.
The word lodges in my throat. I open my mouth but nothing comes. Nothing I can give him won't sound pathetic. So I say nothing.
Silence. A heartbeat. Then another knock, slower, heavier, like he's pressing the weight of himself into the door.
"You'll make yourself sick," he says. Still no anger. Just fact. "And for what? Pride?"
I let out a sharp exhale and slide down the side of the bed until my ass hits the cold marble floor. My head tips forward until it rests against the wood of the door. The thud is soft, hollow, but it feels like something. My hair falls into my face, my knees pull up tight, and I sit there breathing against the barrier between us.
I don't answer. I don't even move.
The wood carries his presence. I can feel him on the other side—tall, unyielding, the kind of man who doesn't ask twice unless he means it. The quiet stretches long enough that I wonder if he's walked away. But he hasn't. I can sense him standing there, waiting.
And me—I'm pressed to the door like some broken thing, my chest rising too fast, too tight, heat crawling up my neck even as my body screams for food I refuse to take.
I clench my jaw, whisper so low it might be swallowed by the silence, "Leave me alone."
But I don't think he will.
________________
Zayans pov
Izar looks at me like I've grown a second head, standing outside her fucking door like a moron.
"She's not going to open it," he says, arms crossed, shaking his head slow like he's watching a tragedy unfold. "Not after what you said."
I don't even flinch. My jaw ticks, but that's it.
He leans closer, lowering his voice like she can hear through the walls. "You two fight like fucking kids. She's starving, you're starving, and you—" he jabs a finger into my chest "—you had to go and throw those words at her? Why the hell would you do that?"
I let out a low laugh, humorless, sharp. "I had to."
His eyes narrow. "Bullshit."
I don't give him more. If I explain, it loses its weight. She doesn't need explanations right now. She needs to stay pissed, because her anger is the only thing keeping her from walking away altogether.
Izar waits, but I stay silent. He knows better than to push. He shakes his head again, muttering under his breath, then turns away.
"You're both insane," he says, and then louder: "Fine. Starve together." He waves me off like I'm hopeless. "I'm not getting in the middle of this."
"Good," I reply, voice low, final. "Go. I won't eat unless she does. And I won't come downstairs without her."
That makes him pause. His brows lift, and for a second, I catch that flicker of something in his face. Recognition. The way he realizes I mean it. But he doesn't comment. He just sighs like an old man carrying the weight of the world, mutters something about me being impossible, and finally leaves. The door shuts behind him with a dull thud, leaving me alone.
And then it's just me. And her door.
I sit down, back against the wood, head tipping back until it rests against the frame. My hands hang loose on my knees, but my entire body is wired like a bowstring. It's almost evening, the sky outside my windows dimming into that strange blue-grey, the kind of light that makes everything look sharper, heavier.
The silence between us is loud. Too loud.
I close my eyes for a second, listening. Nothing. No footsteps, no movement, no shuffle of fabric. She's probably curled up on the bed, arms crossed, glaring at the ceiling and cursing me under her breath. I can practically see it.
And fuck, the image makes my mouth twitch. She's a menace. Even locked away from me, she manages to crawl under my skin and scratch until I bleed.
My stomach growls low, but I ignore it. Hunger isn't new. What's new is this—me, waiting outside a closed door like some pathetic schoolboy who pissed off his girl and doesn't know how to win her back.
Except she's not just my girl. She's my wife. And that fact alone makes my chest tighten in ways I don't want to admit.
I tilt my head to the side, ear brushing against the door, listening harder. Still nothing.
"Stubborn," I mutter under my breath.
But I'm worse.
The sky outside is bleeding into darkness by the time I finally move. My knuckles drag once against the wood, soft, deliberate, the sound echoing in the silence.
Knock.
_________
Arshila's pov
A soft knock. Barely there. This one is deliberate. Patient. Too patient.
It's almost night now. My stomach is clawing at itself, my throat feels like sandpaper, but I can't bring myself to move. I haven't even touched a glass of water since morning, which is absurd, I know. But this is how I fight—stupidly, stubbornly, until it hurts.
And then his voice cuts through the wood.
"Come outside and eat something."
My pulse stutters. That fucker. That absolute fucker has the audacity to speak to me like that? Like we didn't just—like nothing happened? He thinks he can just stroll back into my airspace and order me to eat like he's my keeper?
I don't answer. I stare at the floor , jaw clenched, breathing through my nose because if I open my mouth, I might scream.
The silence stretches. Then, again, lower this time, "Don't be stubborn, okay?"
Oh, I'll show him stubborn. I'll starve myself into the damn grave if that's what it takes.
And then—
"Eshaal."
I freeze.
Every nerve in my body short-circuits. He said it. My second name. The one no one uses, the one that only lives on old forms and certificates. Hearing it from his mouth feels like he just stripped something bare inside me. And worse? He says it soft. Almost careful.
It's the first time he's called me by my name.
My throat tightens, a mix of anger and something I don't want to name.
"I'm sorry,"
he says, and I almost laugh because what the fuck? Adam Zayan Tavarian doesn't say those words. Not to me. Not to anyone.
"I know I was wrong. I'm sorry. Eat something, okay?"
I actually glance at the door then, blinking like I must've fallen asleep without realizing. Did I slip into some fever dream? Because the great Adam Zayan Tavarian is apologizing? Waaah. Somebody slap me awake. This can't be real.
His voice drops again, rough now, like the apology cost him something. "Open the door."
I stand there with my hand hovering, debating, shaking with the kind of rage that comes laced with something far too close to curiosity.
Finally, I turn the lock. The click echoes in my chest louder than it should.
The door swings open just enough, and there he is. Not standing tall, not leaning arrogant like he always does. No. He's sitting on the fucking floor, his head tipped back against the wall, eyes closed like he's been waiting. His long legs stretched out, his shoulders broad even in stillness.
My breath catches before I can stop it.
Adam Zayan Tavarian, the untouchable, the insufferable, the one who never bends for anyone—
sitting on the floor outside my door.
And for the first time tonight, I don't know if I want to laugh or break.
He opens his eyes the moment he senses me staring.
Those eyes. Not the blade-sharp ones from this morning that gutted me in two sentences flat. No, these are… softer. And that, somehow, feels more dangerous. Because softness from him? It doesn't exist. It's a trick. It has to be.
"Eat something," he says, voice steady, calm, like he hasn't ripped me to pieces just hours ago.
I bark out a bitter laugh. "Why the fuck do you care if I eat or not? Hm? Didn't you just say you don't want me caring about you? Guess what, Tavarian—the feeling's mutual. I don't give a damn about you either."
He doesn't flinch. Doesn't fight back. Just leans his head against the wall like this entire argument is beneath him. His gaze stays fixed on me, steady, unreadable, and I hate it. I hate that I can't tell what's in those eyes. Is it boredom? Annoyance? Pity? Or something else I'm too stupid to name?
The words rush out before I can stop them, sharp and shaking:
"Yesterday you were burning. That's why I came. That's why I stayed. You grabbed my hand, Zayan. You didn't let go. That's why I ended up sleeping there, like an idiot, on the floor next to you. And what do I get in return? You waking up and gutting me with your words. You telling me not to care. You being so goddamn heartless. And you know what? Fine. Congratulations. You win. I won't care anymore."
For a split second, something flickers across his face. Something he doesn't want me to see. But then it's gone, wiped clean. He exhales once.
"Now eat dinner."
I glare at him so hard it hurts my own head. "I'm not hungry."
And like some kind of cosmic fucking joke—
growwwl.
My stomach betrays me, loud enough to echo in the hall.
Heat floods my cheeks. His mouth twitches, just slightly. Like he's holding back a smile. Like my hunger is funny.
I snap. "I'd rather choke than eat because you told me to."
His jaw tightens but he says nothing. That infuriating silence, like he's letting me drown in my own rage.
My voice cracks, ugly, spilling over with every wound I've carried since I got shoved into this arrangement. "I know you don't like me. I know you didn't want this marriage either. Don't even bother pretending. It's only been a week, Zayan. One fucking week. And already—I can't—"
My throat feels raw, my chest tight.
"I can't live like this. Do you get that? I am alone here. Completely alone. I have no one. Not even someone to talk to. And you—" my finger jabs at him, shaking, "—you don't even have to treat me like a wife, fine. I don't care. But at least treat me like someone you've known for four months. Like a human being. Not a piece of furniture in your mansion. Please."
For the first time, he moves. He stands. The motion is slow, deliberate, his height towering over me even from a step away.
"Arshila."
The sound of my own name from his lips makes me scoff so hard it almost tastes like blood. I laugh, sharp and ugly.
"Oh, now you remember? We've known each other for months and only today you decide to say my name? What—did it cost you something? Did it burn, Tavarian?" My voice rises, spilling rage and hurt.
"You are so fucking cruel. Do you know that? Cruel in ways I didn't even know existed. You slice people open with words and then just…walk away like it never happened. Like they're supposed to clean up the blood on their own."
His jaw ticks. His eyes lock on mine, but his silence says more than words ever could. And it hurts. God, it hurts more than anything.
___________
ZAYAN POV
Her chest is heaving, her throat raw. I can feel the air between us, charged, burning. Her words hang heavy, like smoke that won't clear.
I take one step closer, my voice cutting through her storm.
"You done?"
Her laugh is sharp, wet, angry. "Oh, fuck you. That's all you have to say? After everything I just said? After pouring myself raw in front of you like a fool? You think you can just—just wave it away with two words? God, you're insufferable."
I don't move. I don't blink. "Answer the question."
Her nostrils flare, her eyes glassy with tears she refuses to let fall.
"No, I'm not done. Not even close. You don't get to reduce me to silence just because it's convenient for you, Zayan. You don't get to stand there with that frozen face and act like I'm the only one bleeding here. You say nothing, you do nothing, you look at me like I'm a problem you're forced to tolerate, and it's killing me."
I tilt my head slightly, eyes never leaving hers. "So keep talking. Maybe it'll make you feel better."
Her voice rises, snapping. "Don't you dare patronize me! Don't you dare act like I'm some hysterical child throwing tantrums just for your amusement. I'm trying, Zayan. Do you even get that? I'm trying to exist in this fucking mansion without disappearing, without losing my mind, without hating myself for agreeing to this farce of a marriage. And you—" she swallows, broken, "—you make me feel invisible. Like I could vanish right now and it wouldn't even register."
The words hit harder than she realizes. I feel the burn of them in my chest, but I keep my expression locked, unbreakable.
"Then stop trying," I say, low, deliberate.
She recoils like I slapped her. Her lip trembles. "You bastard."
Her fists shake at her sides. "I hate you. I hate the way you talk, the way you stand there like nothing matters, the way you look through me like I'm nothing. I hate that I even care what you think. I hate that I… I hate that I…" Her voice breaks entirely. "I hate that I let you hurt me."
Silence stretches. Long. Heavy. I watch her break herself down in front of me, and every instinct screams to stay stone, to let it pass.
But I don't. Not this time.
I exhale, slow, sharp. My voice comes quieter now, rougher around the edges.
"I know."
She blinks, startled. "You know?"
I nod once. "That I hurt you." My jaw tightens. "That you're alone. That I make it worse."
She stares, lips parting, like she can't decide if I'm mocking her or not.
I drop my gaze for the first time, just briefly, then bring it back to her.
"I'm sorry."
The words are raw, unpolished, dragged out of me like they cut on the way out. No softness, no warmth—just truth, stripped bare.
Her breath catches. She doesn't trust it. She doesn't trust me.
I straighten, reclaiming the steel in my voice, but it's different now—less armor, more command.
"Now eat, Arshila."
____________________
Arshila's pov
. He keeps calling my name.
Again and again.
Like he owns it. Like he owns me.
It coils in my chest until I can't breathe, can't think. Enough.
I shove forward, my shoulder colliding with his chest, a hard hit that burns on impact. I don't stop. I don't look at him. My hand twists the door handle, jerks it open, and I stride out before I suffocate on the weight of him.
Downstairs, the dining room glows soft under the chandelier. I pull out a chair and drop into it, the wood groaning under my sharp movement.
The older maid comes in, carrying plates, her face warm with a smile that feels too gentle for the storm inside me.
"You didn't eat anything today," she says, arranging cutlery with neat precision. "What if something happens to you both when you act like this?"
Both.
The word slams into me. My fork pauses midair. "Both?"
She nods, tone as casual as if she's discussing the weather. "He didn't eat anything either. Because you refused. And now it's dinner and you've both starved the whole day."
My chest tightens.
Why the fuck do I feel guilty? I didn't tell him not to eat. That was his decision. His stubbornness. Not mine. So why does my stomach twist like I'm the one who left him hungry?
I mutter under my breath, "Not my fault. He chose it. I don't carry his choices."
But still—his voice flashes in my mind. That word. Sorry. The way it broke out of him like it cost blood.
Damn him.
The sound of footsteps pulls me out of my head.
He's here.
Zayan descends the stairs with the same lazy command he carries into every room, but instead of heading toward the dining table, he veers toward the living room.
My jaw drops. Where the fuck does he think he's going?
"Zayan," I call out sharply.
He stops. A clean, abrupt halt. Then he slowly turns his head, eyes sliding to mine, black and unreadable.
"Eat, you bastard," I snap. "Don't make me feel like a bitch."
His brows twitch up. "Bastard?" His tone is calm, too calm, dangerous.
"Yes," I shoot back. "Or would you prefer tyrant? Cold-blooded asshole? Ice-hearted prick? Take your pick."
For a split second, his mouth almost curves. Almost. But he schools it back into that infuriating mask. And then, with deliberate steps, he crosses the room and lowers himself into the chair opposite mine, every movement oozing control.
I stab food with more force than necessary, chewing just to distract myself. My eyes flick to him against my will. He's cutting into his food like the blade in his hand is an extension of him. Effortless. Dangerous. Beautiful.
I look away before it strangles me. "How's your fever?"
His gaze lifts, pinning me. "Gone."
I narrow my eyes. "Just like that? Yesterday you were burning up. I thought you were going to die."
He doesn't react, but his fork stills.
"And what if I become a widow, huh?" I push, voice sharper than my chest feels. "One week into this cursed marriage and I'd already be dressed in black."
Finally, his eyes cut into mine. Dark. Piercing. "You won't be a poor widow," he says, voice low, lethal. "You'd be a billionaire."
My jaw drops. "That's your response? Seriously? I tell you I thought you'd die and you're giving me bank balances?"
His jaw ticks once. "Because you don't mean it."
My fork slams onto the plate. "Excuse me?"
"You don't want me gone," he says, leaning forward slightly, voice rough but steady. "Not yesterday. Not now."
My chest squeezes painfully. "You're delusional."
He doesn't blink. "Am I?
Heat shoots across my face. I force a scoff. "You must've been hallucinating with your fever. Don't put words in my mouth."
His gaze darkens, then—unexpectedly—he leans back. His voice drops, quieter, almost flat. "I don't remember holding your hand yesterday. That's why I said what I said this morning."
The words land like a knife.
"You don't remember?" My laugh is sharp, ugly. "That's convenient, Zayan. You don't remember dragging me to the bed with you. You don't remember holding to me like I was the only thing keeping you alive. But you remember enough to twist the knife in the morning. Perfect."
He says nothing. Just watches me, jaw tight, hands still.
I shove another bite into my mouth, chewing like I'm tearing the food apart instead of eating it. "Fine. Forget yesterday. Forget I gave a damn. Just don't forget to finish your food. Because apparently, starving with me is your new hobby."
His lips part, like he wants to say something, but he stops. His eyes linger on me too long, heavy, sharp, dragging me under.
And God help me, even when I hate him, it feels like drowning in fire.
---