ZAYAN'S POV
The office is silent except for the low hum of the air conditioning and the soft scratch of Catherine's heels on the marble. I lean back in my chair, one arm slung over the armrest, the chain at my throat glinting under the muted light. Papers are spread across the desk, blueprints, numbers, projections—none of them can breathe without my signature.
Catherine stands in front of me, perfectly poised, tablet in her hand, hair pulled into a severe bun that tells me she came prepared for war.
Her voice cuts through the quiet.
"The Tavarian Lux launch in France is pulling international press already. Investors want to know if we're sticking to the May opening. Construction reports say the interiors will need another month. Do we delay, or do we force them to bleed speed out of their bones?"
I let the words hang, watching her. Catherine never wastes breath. She knows I hate fluff.
"Delaying a Tavarian project is not an option," I say finally, my tone flat, lethal. "The name is already fire in their mouths. If we stumble, even once, they'll call it weakness. Push the contractors. Double their teams. If they can't handle it, I'll replace them before sunrise."
Catherine nods, unfazed, and swipes her screen.
"The interior designers are demanding an extra two million for the imported marble. They're claiming exclusivity. Apparently, no one else in the region can source that quality."
I tilt my head slightly, amused. "Exclusivity is another word for extortion." I drum my fingers on the desk, slow, deliberate. "Tell them Tavarian money doesn't beg. We'll source from Italy directly, bypass them entirely. If they threaten contracts, I'll buy their entire damn firm and bury the board in their own signatures."
She smirks faintly—Catherine only smirks when blood is promised.
"Noted. Investors from New York want to arrange a private dinner. They're dangling three hundred million, but only if Tavarian Lux expands to Manhattan within the next two years. Should I accept on your behalf?"
I laugh—low, sharp. "They think they're dangling meat in front of a lion. Manhattan was already mine before they dreamed of the offer. Tell them Tavarian Lux doesn't expand. Tavarian Lux invades. We're not asking for a seat at their table—we're buying the whole damn building."
Her heels click once against the floor as she shifts weight, studying me. "And the Paris project? The unions are threatening strikes unless wages are doubled. Media's sniffing, ready to turn it into a scandal."
My jaw flexes, that familiar vein tightening at my neck. "Let them strike. Tavarian headlines don't read labor wars, they read victories. Offer them incentives for completion speed—penthouse suites, lifetime perks. They'll crawl back, wagging tails, begging to work twice as hard. If they don't, I'll hire every unemployed architect in Paris and still finish before deadline."
I lean forward now, chain catching the light, voice dropping to something colder.
"Catherine, understand this—Tavarian Lux is not just a hotel. It's a declaration. Every city that sees that crest carved into glass will kneel, willingly or not. I don't build places for people to sleep. I build empires for them to worship."
She breathes in, her composure cracking just slightly at the edges. That's the effect I always leave—controlled devastation.
"Then I'll draft the press statement accordingly," she whispers, steadying herself.
I smile, slow, predatory. "Do that. And Catherine—make sure they remember the date. May isn't a launch. It's a warning."
Catherine is still flipping through the files in front of me, her voice polished and steady, rehearsed like every other goddamn professional who comes to me trying to sound unshaken.
She's been briefing me about the Tavarian Lux launch—projections, investor lists, the brand narrative they want to slap across the world. I let her talk. I don't interrupt. I never do unless I want to watch someone crumble.
She closes the folder, clears her throat, and then she hums. "Your wife is so pretty."
The words hang in the air like smoke.
My gaze cuts to her. Cold. Sharp. Deadly. "What?"
She straightens instantly, a flicker of hesitation in her eyes, but she pushes through. "I said… your wife is so pretty, sir."
For a moment I say nothing, only tilt my head slightly—my habit, the one that unsettles people. She doesn't drop her stare, which is either brave or stupid. Then, slowly, deliberately, I let a smirk drag across my mouth. "I know."
Her lips part just a little, but she recovers, pressing them back together. She smooths her skirt, the air suddenly heavy between us, and she bows her head. "Then… may I leave, sir?"
I give a short nod. She doesn't linger. She knows better. The door shuts behind her, the echo fading into silence.
I lean back in my chair, exhale through my nose, and let the smirk turn into something darker.
Fuck.
Her.
My wife.
I close my eyes and that night plays in my head like a film I can't stop. Her rage. The fire in her throat when she screamed at me. The way her voice cracked around the word.
"Bastard!"
GOD.
She was incandescent. Her eyes were knives, her chest heaving like she wanted to rip me apart with her bare fucking hands. And I should've been furious. Any other man would've lost his temper, lashed out, reminded her who she was screaming at. But me?
I let it happen.
Because she was raw. She was unfiltered. She wasn't performing, she wasn't playing safe, she wasn't pretending to like or hate me for appearances. She meant every syllable. And there's nothing hotter than that kind of honesty—the kind that bleeds.
I rake a hand through my hair and laugh under my breath. Quiet. Dangerous.
Fuck, how can I explain to her that I'm obsessed with her?
Obsessed isn't even the word. It's worse. She crawls under my skin, lives there, scratches against my ribs until I can't fucking breathe without feeling her. Even when she's spitting venom, even when she swears she hates me—especially then. She has no idea that every curse she throws is gasoline to me. She's feeding the fire, keeping me alive.
She thinks I'm the devil. She's not wrong. But what she doesn't know is I've already sold my soul to her. Every bit of it.
I open my eyes, stare at the city lights spilling through the glass wall of my office. Somewhere out there, she's pacing, plotting, probably calling me an asshole under her breath. And I'd pay anything—burn the fucking empire I built—just to watch her lips form the word again while she glares at me like I'm the only war she'll ever fight.
I drag my teeth over my lower lip, the taste of obsession bitter and addictive.
Fuck.
She has no idea.
None.
____________________
Arshila's POV
I wake up sprawled on the living room couch, TV blaring some mindless luxury ad with women draped in diamonds like Christmas trees. My eyes sting. My head feels heavy. I blink at the monstrous flat screen mounted on the wall—swear it's bigger than the bed I sleep in.
My lips twitch. God, how much does this TV even cost? Ten grand? Twenty? Hell, if I could wheel this shit out of here and sell it, maybe I could shave off a tiny piece of the debt he shoved in my face.
A thought crawls into my brain, wicked and shiny. What if I stole his black card? Just one swipe. A little transfer. Would he even notice? Man has billions, right? He wouldn't miss a crumb. Or—better—what if I made him sign over this whole fucking mansion while he's sleeping? People do stupider things drunk, don't they?
I drag my palms over my face. Uhhhh, Arshila, what the actual fuck are you thinking? You rob Tavarian, he'll string you up in the goddamn marble foyer. Dead. Gone. Headlines: New Bride Dies of "Mysterious" Heart Attack, Husband Untouched.
With a groan, I snap the TV off and start walking. My bare feet make little taps on the endless marble floor. This mansion feels like it was built to eat people alive—hallways too wide, ceilings too high, silence so heavy it presses against your chest.
I pass room after room, trying not to imagine ghosts in every shadow, until I hit the glass doors of the gym. That's when I hear it—low, guttural. Not a moan, exactly, but that sound men make when they're lifting shit too heavy for their egos.
I freeze. Curiosity stabs me right in the gut.
I peek in. Cold air slaps me in the face—AC blasting like it's cooling a stadium. And then my eyes land on him.
Zayan Tavarian.
Hanging from a pull-up bar, body rising and lowering in perfect, cruel control. Compression shirt clinging to him like a second skin, sweat trailing down the line of his spine. His back—broad, carved, muscles shifting like they were designed to ruin women. My jaw unhinges. I literally forget to breathe.
God. Fucking. Damn.
That back alone could fund a religion.
And then—his voice cuts through the air, rich and low, dripping smug.
"Enjoying the view?"
My heart launches into my throat. I choke on my own spit, scrambling like a thief caught red-handed.
Shitshitshit.
He drops down from the bar, landing like he owns gravity, and turns. Walks toward me slow. Predator slow. Sweat sliding down his temple, dripping down his neck. My eyes betray me, tracing every damn inch. His chest. His shoulders. The veins in his arms. My mouth—wide open like a thirsty idiot.
He smirks. "Still enjoying?"
My brain short-circuits. I snap, too loud, too fast. "You look like shit."
He laughs under his breath. Bastard. I spin, fumbling with the door handle like it's the last lifeboat on the Titanic.
And then—his voice, smooth as sin:
"Wanna look like shit too?"
I freeze. Blink. "What the fuck did you just say?"
He tilts his head, eyes burning with amusement. "I mean… wanna workout? Maybe some cardio."
…
Oh.
Oh no.
Oh, fuck.
My brain does what it always does—dives straight into the gutter. Cardio. Him. Me. Sweat. Skin. My knees almost buckle.
Stop it, you perverted bitch.
He means treadmill. He means running. He does not mean what your goddamn filthy imagination is painting.
I stammer like an idiot, backing away. "N-nooo, thanks, I—I don't do… cardio."
He raises a brow, watching me like he knows exactly where my head went.
Fuck. He knows.
I slam the door open and bolt like a rabbit, heat burning my cheeks, ears, everywhere. His laugh follows me down the hall, deep and low and smug as hell.
I mutter under my breath, "Fucking cardio, my ass."
I bolt. My chest feels like it's gonna explode out of my ribs, and not from running but from the way he just stood there like he owned every inch of air I was gasping in. Fucking cardio with him. That's what it feels like every damn time. My brain doesn't even try to hide it—cardio with Zayan Tavarian is the kind that leaves you dead on the floor, begging for water, and God knows I'd sign up for it every fucking day.
"Stop. Stop. Stop," I mutter, shaking my head so violently I almost give myself whiplash. I stalk to the fridge, yank it open like it just insulted me, and grab a cold water bottle. I tilt it back and chug like I've been wandering the Sahara for a decade. One sip? Nope. The whole fucking bottle is gone in under ten seconds, water dripping down the corner of my mouth like I just lost all control.
And of course, that's when the housekeeper decides to appear like some horror movie jump scare.
"The heirs are here, ma'am."
I choke. I spit the last mouthful of water straight across the marble like a goddamn fountain. "Shit—fuck—sorry," I cough, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand like some barbarian.
The housekeeper just blinks, his face carved out of stone. "It's okay."
It's okay? Yeah, no shit, it's not. Because my brain is already panicking. The heirs?? Why the fuck are they here? Did someone die? Did Zayan send them? Did I do something? Am I about to get murdered Tavarian-style in broad daylight?
I shove the empty bottle on the counter and march toward the living room, adrenaline buzzing in my veins. But when I step inside—
Nothing. Empty. Dead quiet. Like a fucking set-up.
My pulse spikes. Where the hell did they go?
And then—
"Are you Looking for us?"
A smooth voice cuts through the silence, low and teasing.
I whip around and my eyes land on Eshan fucking Rafay Alzirah. Heir to the Alzirah empire. His smirk looks like it was made by a sculptor who got paid too much to create "rich boy menace number one."
I scoff. "I'm not looking for anyone."
His head tilts, that heir arrogance dripping off him like cologne. "Are you sure?"
Before I can even bite back, another voice slithers in, right behind me.
"Where's your husband?"
I spin so fast my hair smacks me in the face. And there he is. Rafaen fucking Nazrani. The prince himself. Regal as hell, dressed like he didn't walk but floated in.
And just like that—I'm sandwiched.
The Alzirah heir in front of me. The Nazrani prince behind me. And me? Stuck in the middle like the fucking filling of a very dangerous, very expensive sandwich.
My lungs forget how to work. I take a deep breath because otherwise, I'm about to scream. "...Gym."
Rafaen raises a brow, his royal gaze sliding over me in that I know everything and I still want to play kind of way. "Oh?"
"Yeah. You can go there." I point toward the door like I'm dismissing delivery men, not heirs.
But Rafaen just lets out a low chuckle. "But fun is here."
I grit my teeth. "Define fun. Because if it's watching me stab you both with the nearest kitchen knife, then yeah, it's fucking Disney World in here."
Eshan laughs, actually laughs, like my rage is his entertainment. His smirk sharpens. "Relax, sweetheart. We're not here to bite. Unless you're into that."
Oh my God. I'm going to commit homicide. "Try it, and I'll rip your jaw off."
Rafaen leans a little closer, voice a dangerous purr. "You've got fire. No wonder Zayan keeps you locked up like treasure."
Locked up. Fuck. My brain short-circuits at that because—does he? Is that what they all think? That I'm just here, chained in his golden cage?
I shake the thought off and snap, "I'm not locked up. I'm not—whatever the fuck you think."
Eshan tilts his head, eyes gleaming with amusement. "Then prove it. Walk out with us right now."
Rafaen smirks. "Or stay. And let us prove we're more fun than your husband."
Oh, for fuck's sake. My stomach knots, heat crawling up my neck. Because this isn't just taunting. This is a game. A Sovereign-level game. And I'm right in the middle.
And the worst part?
Zayan isn't here.
Rafaen leans back against the armrest, one leg stretched lazily across the carpet, that royal arrogance dripping from every inch of him. His eyes flick down and up like he's cataloging every detail of me. His voice cuts through the air, smooth but edged with mischief.
"Is he doing cardio?"
For a second, my brain stalls. Cardio? And then I see that fucking smirk on Rafaen's mouth—devilish, knowing—and my traitor mind goes there. Straight to places it shouldn't. My stomach flips, heat crawling up the back of my neck.
I force a sharp smile, sharp enough to cut. "Go and find out."
The room shifts. Eshan tilts his head, Razmir's brow arches. And then—
"What are you doing?"
That voice.
Cold.
Commanding.
Zayan.
Three heads snap toward him at the same time, like wolves catching the scent of a doe. My heart jerks hard, but it's Zayan who pins me in place. He's standing with Razmir, and God—he looks lethal. Broad shoulders carrying that effortless weight of superiority, dark eyes locked on me like I've already stepped out of line.
I take one involuntary step back. Just one. Enough to slip free of the center, enough to make space between me and them. Alone feels safer. Alone feels less like prey.
Eshan moves first. He lifts his hands slowly, mock surrender, eyes glinting with that sly kind of humor that makes my skin crawl. "Nothing. We were just asking about you."
Zayan's jaw ticks. He doesn't even look at them, just at me. And his words slice clean, without a pause. "Stay away from her."
It's not a request. It's a warning.
Eshan lets his hands fall, but his grin only widens, like he's enjoying this little scene too much. He steps back, eases onto the couch with a predator's calm, legs sprawling wide like the whole room belongs to him.
Zayan's eyes linger on me, just one more second. Heavy. Possessive. Then his voice drops, low and certain. "Wait here. I'll be back."
I want to argue. I want to say fuck you, I'll do whatever the hell I want. But his gaze—dark, unreadable—roots me to the floor. And when he finally turns, climbing the staircase, every step sounds like a countdown in my chest.
The moment he's gone, silence closes in. My lungs feel too tight, the room too small.
Eshan breaks it first, lazy, venom-coated. "How you doing, Mrs. Adam Zayan?"
My eyes flick toward him, and I know he wants a reaction. Wants me to twitch, to crack, to look away. But I don't. My voice comes out clipped, sharp. "Why do you want to know?"
That earns me a low chuckle from Rafaen. He leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, eyes dragging across me in a way that makes my skin feel too thin. His smirk curves, wolfish. "You're not scared of us?"
I scoff, because if I don't laugh, I'll fucking choke. "Why would I? It's not like you guys are gods."
Razmir claps his hands once, the sound sudden, echoing. His smile is all teeth, dangerous and approving at the same time. "I like you."
My stomach knots. I hate the way his gaze burns, hate that every cell in my body is screaming to run. But I don't let it show. Instead, I tilt my head, feigning confusion, spitting the words out like poison. "Is that a compliment?"
Razmir chuckles low, dragging out the sound, like he's rolling it around his tongue before answering. "Depends. Do you want it to be?"
The air feels heavier, charged. I swear the walls are closing in. My pulse hammers at my throat, but I keep my arms folded, chin high, even though my insides are trembling.
Eshan shifts, leans forward, eyes narrowing with a kind of quiet challenge. "You've got fire. Let's see how long it lasts."
Every instinct in me screams escape. But my feet stay planted. Because if I move, they'll smell blood. And right now? I can't afford to bleed.
The room feels like it's closing in on me. Too many eyes. Too much power dripping from the air like smoke. My lungs are working double time, screaming at me to get the fuck out, but my body is nailed to the spot.
Then the sound of water stops.
A door clicks open.
He walks back in.
Adam Zayan Tavarian.
Shower-fresh, damp hair pushed back, jaw sharp enough to carve me open. A plain black t-shirt, dark jeans, nothing extravagant—yet it makes every other man here look like a supporting actor in his play. He doesn't glance at anyone, just walks to the couch with that unhurried predator pace and sits down like he owns the oxygen.
His eyes find me. Pin me.
"You can go if you want."
The words are flat, not kind. Not generous. A dismissal, like he's flicking ash from a cigarette he doesn't even smoke.
My pulse jumps. My body wants to obey. Wants to bolt. Finally, a way out. I stand, shaky, and turn toward the door.
But a hand catches mine.
"Don't go."
Eshan's voice is smooth, but his grip is firm, dragging me back like I'm nothing more than a misplaced thought. He pulls me down onto the couch beside him, his arm brushing against mine as though it's intentional.
I stiffen. Suffocated.
Zayan's voice cuts through the tension like glass shattering.
"Eshan."
One word. Low. Dangerous. A warning coiled like a blade against a throat.
Eshan smirks, unfazed. Still holding me there. The smirk isn't friendly—it's mocking. Like he's poking a beast with a stick just to watch it bare its teeth.
Razmir leans back in his seat, voice calm but sharp as he pivots the conversation.
"How's the Tavarian Lux project going?"
Zayan doesn't look away from me. Doesn't even blink. His reply is smooth, measured.
"It's going well. Ahead of schedule."
The room feels heavier. Like every word carries a weight none of them are saying out loud.
The silence itches at me until I snap.
"What are you guys even doing?" I blurt out, voice sharper than I mean it to be. "You lied to me in the hospital, didn't you? You said you were doing numbers, doing geography, and you—" my finger points toward Rafaen before flicking toward the rest, " prince. Doing nothing. Just—" I swallow, nerves crashing into my throat, "just sitting here pretending you're gods."
The words hang there like broken glass scattered on the floor.
Eshan chuckles, deep and unhurried. His arm shifts lazily behind me on the couch, not touching, but close enough to burn.
"We didn't lie to you, sweetheart. That's the fact."
I blink at him, fury bubbling in my chest.
"What?"
He leans closer, his breath brushing near my ear, still chuckling.
"Numbers. Geography. Titles. That's all this world runs on. We don't do jobs. We don't clock in and clock out. We are the fucking clock. The world ticks when we let it."
Razmir smirks at my stunned face, his voice low but sharp enough to slice through the air.
"You thought you stumbled into men with hobbies, little one? No. You're sitting in the middle of the Sovereigns. And every empire outside this room bends to us whether they admit it or not."
The room vibrates with unspoken danger. Their gazes heavy, their words thick with truths I don't want to touch.
And Zayan—he just sits there, watching me, silent, unreadable. His hand flexes against his thigh, veins straining against his skin like he's one second away from cracking.
But he doesn't move. Doesn't correct them. Doesn't save me.
He just watches.
___________
ZAYANS POV
I sit there like a fucking statue, spine against the couch, arms loose on my thighs, but every muscle inside me wants to snap. Drag her off that seat, away from them, and tear the air apart just to remind them who the fuck she belongs to.
But I don't.
Because this isn't about me. Not today.
She's laughing—actually laughing—her voice curling warm and light, and it's with them, not me. Eshan leans a little closer when he talks, Rafaen lets his gaze linger on her longer than I allow anyone to, and Razmir—Razmir doesn't even bother to hide his boredom, thumbing through his phone like none of this matters.
And the worst part? She doesn't look uncomfortable anymore. Not like before. No stiffness in her shoulders. No awkward glances in my direction for permission to breathe. No. She's at ease now, with them. Talking. Smiling. Like she fits in their circle just as well as I always knew she would.
That's the fucking problem.
Because I have to let her.
They'll be around her more than me. She has to learn them, their shades, their ways. She has to find her comfort with them because one day—when this life claws her deeper in—she won't survive if she can't hold ground beside them.
So I stay still. A steel frame wrapped in calm.
I force myself to mirror Razmir, pull out my phone, flick the screen open. A message lights up immediately. Izar.
I tap it, grateful for the distraction, but the second the article opens, the calm I've been building shatters like glass under my boots.
Ex-Director of DC Group Walks Free After Lack of Evidence in Rape Case
After eighteen months in custody, former DC Group director, Damien Cross, has been released. Prosecutors failed to secure sufficient evidence in the highly controversial case, despite multiple claims of sexual assault from a minor. The defense argued that the girl's testimony was unreliable, citing 'contradictory statements' and a 'lack of physical evidence.'
Human rights groups have expressed outrage, pointing to systemic failures in protecting victims and the overwhelming influence of the DC Group in suppressing information. The victim's family, under visible pressure, has remained silent since the trial began.
Legal experts claim this release marks yet another instance of the justice system bending under corporate power.
Damien Cross has already given statements claiming he was "framed" and "slandered," vowing to reclaim his position in the corporate world.
I don't blink. Not once. My thumb hovers over the screen, then I lock it, drop the phone face-down on my thigh.
A low thrum pounds in my ears, steady and violent.
The world thinks this is the end of the story. That the bastard walks free. That a minor girl's screams get erased because the right people paid enough for silence.
But I don't give a fuck about courts, or verdicts, or headlines.
There's no lack of proof. There's no contradiction. There's just one truth carved into my bones the second I read that name:
Someone is about to lose his life.
____________________________
Author's Note:
What will happen next?? Zayan's vigilante face is showing—so he's definitely going to kill him, but how?? Will it be clean and sharp, or slow and brutal? Don't miss tomorrow's chapter, it's only getting darker 👀🔥