Zayan POV
The room breathes with me. Low hum of servers, quiet pulse of machines, the faint glow from monitors painting the glass walls in restless blue. Shadows stretch across the office like they're alive, waiting for orders. My hands don't hesitate. They move across the keys with precision, carving existence out of nothing but numbers and code.
Adam is being born.
Not Tavarian. Not a legacy tied to a dynasty. Just Adam. A name clean, sharp, invisible enough to slip through cracks and strong enough to stand on its own.
"The name is Adam," I say, my voice steady, cutting through the silence like a blade. "Nothing more. Nothing less. Anything else is a burden. And burdens leave trails."
I don't look at Izar, but I feel his eyes on me—steady, patient, assessing. He doesn't interrupt until the silence demands it.
The cursor blinks. With every line of code, Adam grows. Backdated tax records. Shell accounts seeded with fabricated wealth. Transactions folded into digital history so seamlessly they look older than memory. Adam isn't a ghost. He's flesh, ambition, hunger. Real enough to touch. Real enough to tempt.
Izar finally speaks, his voice even but weighty.
"Damien doesn't meet strangers. Not directly. He won't let anyone close unless Marcus Veynar allows it. Veynar runs Veynar Capital—on paper, it's just another advisory firm. In reality, he's Damien's shadow. Every deal, every introduction, every whisper passes through him first. Without Veynar, Damien is unreachable."
Marcus Veynar. The name tastes like arrogance. A man who thinks contracts and money make him untouchable. They all think that. None of them understand that ink burns as easily as skin.
I lean forward, watching Adam's life take shape across the screens. The reflection looking back at me isn't mine anymore.
"Then we start with Veynar," I say, low and deliberate. "You cut the hand before you go for the throat. Damien isn't power—he's scaffolding. Break the frame, and the whole structure collapses. But it has to be flawless. No trace. By the time Damien even hears Adam's name, Adam will already own his trust."
I let the words hang, the glow of the monitors sharpening the edges of my thoughts.
"This isn't profit, Izar. This isn't business. Damien is just another predator who believes money erases blood. But silence isn't erasure. It's waiting. And I'm here to collect every debt they thought they buried."
On the monitors, Falconridge Holdings breathes to life. A corporation flawless in its architecture—investors, ledgers, board members, all fabricated, all untouchable. A tower built from illusion but solid enough to lure the greedy.
I press the final keystroke, watching the company seal lock into place.
"Falconridge is live," I murmur. "Veynar will see it, and he'll want in. Greed blinds faster than trust. That's the door. Through him, Damien. And when Damien falls, his empire falls with him. Nothing left. No legacy. Just silence."
Izar doesn't answer. He only nods once, sharp, and that's enough. His silence carries weight—it means he understands.
I turn back to the screens. Adam's world gleams back at me, flawless, undeniable. Every document, every transaction, every trace of digital breath making him real.
"Adam steps into their world," I whisper to the hum of the machines, letting the words root themselves in the dark. "And Damien will never step out."
The office exhales around me. The servers hum like a countdown.
Izar's eyes stay on me, heavy but questioning. The hum of the servers fills the pause until he finally breaks it.
"Why Adam?" His voice is even, but I catch the edge of curiosity beneath it. "That's your real name. You could have picked anything else. Why make it harder?"
I don't stop typing. Fingers glide over the keys, code streaming like veins across the monitors. Adam is breathing through every line I write. Still, my words slice through the quiet, deliberate.
"Because simplicity survives," I answer. "Every fake identity collapses under the weight of too many details. A name that doesn't belong, a birthdate that doesn't align, a middle name buried in some record nobody bothered to erase—it all leaves cracks. Cracks invite questions. And questions get men killed."
I lean back, eyes narrowing at the glowing blue screen.
"Adam is clean. Sharp. Invisible enough to slip through, but strong enough to stand. If I choose another mask, I carry its weight. But Adam?" I pause, the corner of my mouth pulling into something close to a smile. "Adam is already mine. I don't have to learn it. I don't have to pretend. The truth makes the lie unshakable."
Izar studies me for a moment before giving a slow nod. "Understood." His tone drops lower, steady. "So what's next?"
I let my gaze sharpen, the name already solid on my tongue. "Marcus Veynar."
Izar tilts his head. "You'll meet him?"
"I have to."
A faint smirk tugs at his mouth. "Easy for you."
I let out a quiet breath that sounds close to a laugh, though it isn't. My smirk is sharper, colder. "Easy is dangerous. I'll have to be careful."
His brow pulls, just slightly, as though he's catching something different in my tone. "Careful? First time I hear you say it like that. Why?"
I let the silence breathe before I answer. My smirk lingers, but there's weight behind it. "Because your friend is smarter than most men I've buried."
Izar's lips twitch upward, the ghost of amusement lighting his face. He knows exactly who I mean.
"She is smart," he says, almost teasing. "Smart enough to notice you're never in bed at night."
My jaw tightens, but the smirk doesn't fade. "She noticed." I lean back in my chair, fingers steepling as the glow of the monitors paints my face in steel-blue light. "But she doesn't see the whole picture. Not yet."
Izar gives a low chuckle, shaking his head. "She doesn't think you're the vigilante everyone whispers about."
The word vigilante hangs in the air like smoke. A curse to some. A legend to others. To me—it's neither. It's survival.
I meet his eyes, my smirk curling sharper, darker. "Let's see."
The words land soft, but edged, a promise buried beneath them.
Silence settles again. The hum of the servers is louder now, pressing against the walls like a pulse counting down. Falconridge Holdings gleams on the screens—alive, breathing, flawless. Marcus Veynar is waiting, though he doesn't know it yet. Damien's empire is standing, though its foundation is already fractured. And me?
I'm not just Adam. I'm the storm walking toward them.
------------------------
The house is quiet when I leave the office. Too quiet. My footsteps echo low against the marble floors as I move through the hallway, the weight of hours spent in front of the servers still burning in my bones. The taste of Falconridge, of Veynar, of Damien—it's still sharp on my tongue. But here, in these walls, silence breeds something different.
Then I hear it.
A sound, faint, slipping under the door of one of the side rooms. Breathing. Fast, uneven, like someone's running without moving. My eyes narrow. No one should be here this late—except her.
I stop. For a moment, I just stand there in the dim light of the corridor, listening. The rhythm of her breath. The soft scrape of fabric against skin. Curiosity sharpens into something darker before I even realize my hand is already on the handle.
I push the door open.
Cold air hits my face first, the hum of the air conditioner rushing out like it's guarding whatever's inside. Then my gaze slides in, cutting through the shadow, and—fuck.
My lips part before I can stop them.
She's on the floor.
Not fragile. Not composed. A mess. Sweating, panting, like she's been fighting her own body into exhaustion. Her hair clings to her face, strands plastered against damp skin.
A shirt—oversized, swallowing her frame—hangs off her shoulder, darkened in places with sweat. Pajama pants loose around her hips. She's wrecked from effort, and it's the most dangerous fucking thing I've seen all night.
She doesn't see me.
Not yet.
I stand there, every muscle pulled taut, watching as she leans back against the wall, chest rising and falling like she can't catch herself. Then—GOD—she takes the corner of the shirt, drags it up, and wipes her face, her neck, slow, careless. Skin flashes in the low light, a strip of her waist, damp and flushed, and my jaw tightens so hard it aches.
Heat burns through me, fast, violent.
I shouldn't be here.
Every instinct I've sharpened into control, every wall I've built to keep myself from crossing that line—it all cracks the moment I see her like this. Vulnerable. Human. Fucking beautiful in a way she doesn't even know.
My hands curl into fists. My pulse kicks against my throat. And for a split second, I imagine walking in, shutting the door behind me, pinning her down right where she's sitting. My name in her mouth, her sweat against my skin. The thought sears through me like fire, and it takes everything I have not to move.
Because if I step further into that room, I won't walk out the same man.
I shut the door. Quiet. Final.
The air conditioner hum cuts off, muffled. The sound of her breathing stays behind the wood, chasing me down the hallway even after I've left.
I drag a hand across my face, jaw clenched, a low curse breaking past my teeth.
"Fuck."
I can bleed men dry. I can build empires from ghosts. I can rip Damien's world apart piece by piece without losing a second of sleep. But one moment in a room with her, sweat-soaked and wrecked from nothing more than her own discipline—and I almost lose control.
Almost.
Not yet.
---------------------------------------------------------
The shower scalds me first, then cools, but none of it burns out what's in my veins. Steam wraps the room, water hammers down, and I stand under it longer than I should, jaw tight, trying to rinse her out of me. It doesn't work. She's still there—on that floor, sweat dripping, breath breaking. My body remembers every second I stood in that doorway.
By the time I step out, skin still damp, towel rough against my shoulders, I'm not calmer. I'm worse.
The bed creaks when I drop back against it, shirt clinging damp across my chest. The silence presses in, heavy. For the first time tonight, I let myself lie still. But still doesn't mean peace. Still means waiting.
The handle clicks.
The door opens.
And there she is.
I freeze without moving.
She doesn't look wrecked anymore. She's clean, fresh. Hair damp, dripping at the ends, clinging soft to her shoulders. Her skin flushed, not with exhaustion now but heat from her own shower. And fuck—there it is again. That scent. Sweet, warm, slipping under my defenses, crawling straight into me.
She doesn't say a word. Just walks in, small, quiet, unaware of what she looks like to me right now. She heads for her door. Fingers light on the handle. She turns it like she always does. Routine. Safe. Untouchable.
But then she stops.
She turns.
Her eyes catch mine across the room.
It's not long—seconds, maybe less—but it stretches out. Thin line. Razor fucking thin. The air shifts, like something snaps between us, silent, sharp, undeniable. My breath locks in my chest, and for the first time all night, I don't trust myself to move.
Then she looks away. Opens her door. Steps inside. Closes it.
Gone.
I let the air out slow, harsh, like I'd been holding it the whole damn time. My chest rises, falls, heavy. My gaze stays on that door, burning holes through it, imagining things I can't afford.
How easy it would be. To get up, cross the room, open it. Drag her out of that bed, into mine. Her body against me, her warmth pressed into every line of me until neither of us can breathe. Just one night. Just one slip.
But it's unreachable. I know it. If I touch that line now, I won't stop at just having her in my arms. And one day—one fucking day—she will be here anyway. On this bed. With me. But not like this. Not yet.
I drag a hand down my face, fingers pressing into my eyes until spots spark behind them.
And then my thoughts turn sharp.
Izar.
She talks to him. She laughs with him. I allow it. I make space for it. Because she's here alone, because I won't let her sit in silence, drowning in emptiness. I've made sure there's always someone near her—Izar, staff, the housekeeper himself—because the idea of her sitting mute, unseen, untouched, eats at me.
But it doesn't mean I like it.
Every time I hear her voice with his, every time her attention shifts from me to someone else, something in me claws. I allow it because I have to, because she deserves more than silence. But the truth? I can't fucking stand it.
I turn my head toward that door again. Still. Closed.
And I wonder if she has any idea. If she even feels the weight of it. Of me.
She will.
One day, she won't have to walk into that room alone. One day, she won't get to close that door between us. One day, she'll stay. Right here.
And when that day comes, I won't let her leave.
Not ever.
-----------------------------------------
Morning comes sharp.
The study smells like paper and ink, like leather and stale coffee that no one bothered to clear out. Catherine stands at the edge of my desk, voice clipped, professional. She lists projects, details, deadlines. Words about acquisitions, contracts, partnerships—things that matter to every man in my position.
I barely hear them.
I skim the documents, hum low in acknowledgment, sign where I need to. The pen scratches over paper. Deals worth millions reduced to a flick of my wrist. It feels weightless today. Catherine doesn't notice—she wouldn't dare. When she finishes my schedule, I wave her off, and she leaves as quickly as she came.
Silence drops over the study like a curtain.
Then my phone rings.
I don't check the screen. I don't have to. The weight in my chest already tells me who it is. I swipe, lift it to my ear, and say nothing.
I don't need to.
A voice fills the line, rough but steady, holding years and authority in every syllable.
"How you doing, Adam?"
My grandfather. Kamal Rashid.
My lips press into a line before I answer. "I'm doing good."
"You sound tired." His tone isn't questioning—it's observation. He's always seen too much. "Did you check into the Tavarian Aero renewal project?"
"Yes," I answer smoothly, eyes flicking to the folder stacked on the corner of my desk. "It's ready. I reviewed the drafts last night. The engineers pushed the final designs, and the financial model clears projection."
A pause hums through the line. Then he grunts softly, approving. "Good. The board will ask questions. Be prepared."
"I'm always prepared."
We go back and forth—numbers, risks, global partners, fuel systems, strategic expansions. Straightforward. Efficient. Business clipped down to its bones. He speaks, I answer. I keep it clean, professional, like zayan is supposed to.
The call ends as quickly as it started. His voice disappears. Silence again.
I lower the phone, set it on the desk, and drop my head forward against the polished wood. The cold hits my skin, grounding me. But the only thing I want isn't in contracts or projects or in the voice of a man who built empires.
It's her.
Not deals. Not legacy. Not the weight of Tavarian Aero or nothing .Just her. And the way last night nearly pulled me apart.
I push back from the desk and stand. The chair wheels scrape against the floor. My steps carry me out of the study, heavy, decisive, echoing through the corridor. The house feels too big, too empty, until—
Her laugh.
It cuts sharp through the hall.
Raw. Messy. Free. Not the polite laugh she gives when she wants to brush someone off, but real. Alive.
I stop. My chest tightens. My feet turn before my head does, following the sound like it's a fucking magnet.
And then I see.
The living room.
She's on the couch, legs tucked under her, shoulders shaking with laughter. And across from her—
Izar.
My jaw locks. My face hardens.
Izar catches me first. His eyes flick up, reading me instantly. He shifts, about to stand, but I cut him off with one look. A silent don't. He freezes, sinks back into the couch.
Then she notices me.
Her lips curve into a smile that's trouble disguised as sweetness. "Well, well. Mr. Brooding Tavarian is here."
Her voice digs into me like a hook. I smirk back, low, sharp, because it's the only thing I can do without giving myself away.
I move closer, drop down onto the couch right beside her.
She frowns, tilts her head. "Why are you sitting here?"
I stretch out, leaning back like I own every inch of this space—which I do. My tone is casual, but edged. "Why can't I?"
"You could sit there." She gestures across, where Izar is. "Plenty of room."
"My house. My couch. I can sit wherever the fuck I want."
She scoffs, mutters something under her breath, but I catch the twitch of her lips before she hides it.
I glance across at Izar, and the bastard has the faintest smirk on his face. He's enjoying this. He knows exactly what he's doing, sitting there, pulling her laugh out like it belongs to him.
Izar finally pushes up, straightening his shirt. "I should go," he says lightly, looking at her, not me. "Got work waiting."
She nods, easy. "Okay."
And in my head?
Fucker knows what he's doing.
The air shifts when he leaves. The space is smaller now. Just her and me.
She turns her head, catches me staring. Her brows knit, playful, sharp. "What are you looking at?"
"Nothing," I say, low, voice rougher than I intend.
"Doesn't look like nothing."
I let the silence stretch. My gaze drags over her face, down to her mouth, then back up. I don't look away. Can't.
The air between us tightens, dangerous.
And I don't move.
Not yet.
__________________________________________
ARSHILA'S POV
He's too close.
That's the first thing I feel before I even process the weight of his stare. The couch dips under his frame, heat radiating off him like the air conditioner doesn't exist. His scent—clean, sharp, expensive—slides under my skin, filling the space until it's choking me.
I can't breathe.
Not because there's no air, but because all of it feels like him.
I stand too quickly, like the distance will save me. My feet move on instinct, carrying me toward the hallway, anywhere but here, away from that goddamn stare that burns holes into me.
Then his voice cuts through. Low. Rough. Dangerous in how casual it sounds.
"You forgot something."
I freeze. Slowly, I turn.
And my stomach drops.
He's holding my book.
Not just any book—the one. The stupid romance novel I'd been curled up with, the one with too many dog-eared pages, the one that should've been hidden the second Izar walked in earlier. The one with chapters I can't even think about without blushing.
And now it's in Zayan's fucking hands.
"Give it to me." The words leave my mouth faster than my brain can catch them.
His smirk slices across his face, sharp enough to cut. "Isn't this your… educational purpose book?"
My cheeks burn so fast I want to die. "I said give it to me."
He leans back a little, lazy, cruelly calm. "Nah. I should look into it. See exactly what you're learning for… educational purposes."
Panic spikes through me, hot and violent. "Zayan, I swear—" I lunge forward, reaching for it.
But he stands.
And fuck.
He's taller. Broader. Smug. He raises his hand, holding the book just out of reach, like this is the most entertaining thing he's done all morning.
"Zayan," I hiss.
His smirk deepens. "You want it? Take it."
I jump, fingers swiping at the edge of the cover, but he shifts, stepping back just enough that I miss. My chest slams into him, and I swear the room tilts.
Too close. Way too close.
The bastard doesn't even move, doesn't flinch. He just looks down at me like he owns the floor I'm standing on. My fingers graze his wrist, hot skin over bone, but he's still taller, still impossible to reach.
"Give. Me. The. Damn. Book." My voice is breathless, ragged, nothing like the threat I want it to be.
"You're red," he says quietly, almost amused. "Why are you red, sweetheart? It's just a book."
My heart slams harder. I try again, jumping, pressing closer, too close, my body brushing his. His chest is hard, warm, the kind of solid that makes my stomach coil. His scent curls around me, worse now, sharper, because he's right there.
And then—he does it.
He flips it open.
My breath catches. "Shit."
His eyes drop, scanning the page, and I know exactly which one it is. The one with the scene. Hands, lips, gasps written in ink, sentences I'd been devouring under a blanket like a goddamn secret.
His smirk sharpens into something darker, slow and deliberate. His eyes flick up to mine. "So this is your educational purpose, huh?"
I want the floor to swallow me. I want the book to catch fire in his hands. I want him to stop looking at me like that—like he sees every thought I've ever tried to hide.
"It's—" My voice cracks. I swallow hard. "It's not what you think."
He tilts the book, raising it higher when I reach again, teasing. "Really? Because it looks exactly like what I think." His voice lowers, dangerous and amused all at once. "Pages full of messy little details. Every fucking thing written out for you. You read this and what—take notes?"
"Zayan," I breathe, close enough now that his shirt brushes my face when I stretch for the book again. I'm suffocating in his nearness, in his heat, in his goddamn voice curling under my skin.
"Or," he murmurs, leaning just slightly closer, book still dangling above me, "do you just imagine yourself here? Doing all this. Waiting for someone to…"
He doesn't finish. He doesn't have to. The words hang between us, sharp, heavy, alive.
My chest pounds. My fingers curl into his shirt, not the book. I don't even realize I've grabbed him until I feel the muscle underneath, hard and unyielding.
His smirk deepens, and he lowers his head just enough for his breath to brush my ear.
"Tell me, sweetheart. Do these books actually teach you anything… or do you need someone to show you?"
"Fuck off."
It rips out of me before I can stop it. My palms slam into his chest, shoving hard, like distance could fix the fire curling under my skin.
But he doesn't let go.
His hand snaps down around my wrist, fast, iron-tight, and the next second the world tilts—couch, air, heartbeat—and I land with a sharp gasp.
Right on top of him.
The impact knocks the breath out of me. My palms flatten against his chest, hard muscle beneath thin fabric, his heat bleeding into my skin like it wants to crawl inside me. I freeze, wide-eyed, my hair falling into my face, breaths ragged. His arm anchors around me, steady, controlling, like he planned the whole damn thing.
He doesn't move. He just looks up at me, eyes dark, mouth curved with the kind of smirk that makes my pulse trip over itself.
And fuck—he's beautiful. Too beautiful. Sharp jaw, unfair lashes, lips that look like sin in waiting. He's supposed to be dangerous, untouchable, yet right now he feels like gravity itself, pulling me down until I can't think, can't breathe, can't—
No. No.
I shove against his chest, desperate, my hands sliding over the heat of him, until my fingers catch on the book still clutched in his hand.
Adrenaline spikes. I rip it free before he can react, clutching it to my chest like it's oxygen.
And then I move.
Scrambling off him, stumbling toward the hall, clutching the damn book like a lifeline. My chest burns, my cheeks are fire, my whole body buzzing with something I don't want to name.
I hear his laugh behind me. Low. Dangerous. Mocking.
"If you want to recreate the scenes," his voice cuts through the air, velvet wrapped in steel, "just fucking tell me, sweetheart."
I stop dead. My back goes rigid.
Heat shoots up my spine, a molten mix of anger and humiliation and something else I can't bear to admit.
"Ayshhh, fuck," I mutter under my breath, gripping the book so hard the spine bends. My pulse is wild, my head spinning. I don't even know if I'm cursing him or myself.
I don't look back. I can't.
Because if I do, I'll see that smirk again, I'll hear that voice in my head repeating, just tell me, and I'll know exactly how close I am to doing something I shouldn't.
So I run.
Not because I'm afraid of him. But because I'm terrified of me.
___________________________________
ZAYAN'S POV
She runs.
The sound of her steps echo down the hall, fast, uneven, desperate—like she's escaping something worse than me. Like she's escaping herself.
And I'm left here.
Sitting on the couch, breath still uneven, a smirk tugging at my mouth that I can't wipe off if I tried.
My heartbeat is a fucking drum. Heavy, reckless, pounding against my ribs like it wants to tear free. I should be annoyed—she took the book, ran off like a storm I couldn't cage. But all I feel is heat.
Because I can still taste her.
Not literally, not yet. But the memory is sharp—her hair falling into my face, the soft strands brushing my jaw, her scent curling through me like smoke I can't get out of my lungs. Sweet, sharp, warm. Fucking intoxicating.
And her body—
The way she landed on me, palms spread against my chest, every line of her pressed flush to mine. She froze like she didn't even realize what she was doing, and I swear, for a second, the world stopped. Just her weight on me, her breath quick and shallow, her cheeks red like fire spreading under her skin.
She thinks she pushed away. That she won. But the truth?
She's still here.
In my head. In my chest. In the heat still crawling under my skin.
I tilt my head back, stare at the ceiling, and laugh once, low, dark. A sound that feels too fucking satisfied. My hand lifts, dragging through my hair, trying to shake the image of her out of me—but it doesn't work. All I see is her mouth parted, her eyes wide, her face close enough that one wrong move and I could've stolen everything she pretends she doesn't want.
Her blush. Her scent. Her body on mine.
It's burned into me now.
And I love it.
More than I should. More than I've ever loved anything in this fucked-up world.
I lean back, stretching out on the couch, the ghost of her warmth still clinging to me. My lips curve slow, sharp. A smirk that tastes like hunger.
She has no idea what she's doing to me.
Or maybe she does—and that's the problem.
Either way, I'm not letting her run forever.
Not from me.
Never from me.
I drag a hand over my jaw, exhale slow, and force my mind to shift. There's work. Always work.
And tomorrow—
Tomorrow I'm meeting Marcus Veynar.
And that meeting will decide everything.
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AUTHOR NOTE
Well, well, well. Zayan out here creating digital gods by day and nearly combusting over one stubborn little human by night. Balance, right?
If you thought this chapter was just business and servers humming—surprise, it's also foreplay wrapped in chaos.
Now, here's where you come in. If you laughed at the book scene, if you felt the tension snap in your chest, if you screamed "Zayan, SIT DOWN"—don't keep that to yourself.
Drop your thoughts, theories, unfiltered rants in the comments. I want to know: are you Team "Zayan the Mastermind" or Team "Zayan is One Weak Stare Away from Losing It"?
Your reactions fuel me the way control fuels Zayan (and let's be real, we all know how fast that's slipping). So go on—feed me.