ARSHILA'S POV
Morning is hell.
I don't want to get up. My bed feels like the last safe zone between me and that arrogant bastard downstairs. But of course, my body betrays me—pulls me out.
When I finally crack the door, I glance at his room. Empty. Obviously. Of course he's up before me. He's the type who wakes up before the sun just to glare at it for being late. Perfect, disciplined, untouchable prick.
My legs drags me into the bathroom, forces me to face the mirror. I brush my teeth, fix my hair, but all I see staring back is a girl rehearsing excuses she knows won't work on him.
I pad down the stairs, whispering in my head like a prayer. Please don't be in front of me. Please don't let me see him first thing. Please—
"Good morning, Ms. Pervert."
I freeze mid-step. My stomach drops.
And then I see him.
Sitting on the couch like he was carved out of sin itself—legs spread wide, arm draped across the backrest, a shirt stretched over that body like it was made for him. Smirk sharp as a knife. Face unfairly beautiful, like God had nothing better to do but flex His skills on this one man.
My teeth grind so hard my jaw aches. Fuck.
"What about Mrs. Pervert?" I shoot back, glaring.
His smirk deepens, like I just gave him a present. "Nah. That's not how it works."
"How does it work then, genius?"
"Simple. Only one of us sneaks around sniffing shirts and parading in them like a creep. That's you, Ms. Pervert."
My cheeks burn so hot I'm sure the room feels it. I cross my arms like armor. "You're fucking insufferable."
"Mm. And you're predictable."
God, the nerve of this man. I squint at him, force sweetness into my voice like poison in honey. "Mr. Adam Zayan Tavarian."
He tips his chin, eyes gleaming. "Yes?"
"Do you know how God made you?"
"Elaborate." His voice drips with amusement, the bastard already enjoying where this is going.
I count on my fingers, eyes locked on him. "A whole tablespoon of arrogance. A cup of cocky. A gallon of control-freak tendencies. Three spoons of smug bastard energy. And a sprinkle of jerk, prick, dickhead—all stirred into one."
He chuckles, low and dangerous, leaning forward just enough to make my pulse stutter. "That's it? That's all you think I am?"
"That's more than enough."
His gaze drags over me, slow, calculated, and my skin prickles like it's on fire. "And what about my physical appearance?"
My eyes snap wide. "What?"
"You heard me." He leans back, spreading his legs wider, lounging like sin incarnate. "You know I've got a great body and a heavenly face. I want to hear you admit it."
I scoff, clutching my arms tighter. "How the fuck am I supposed to know you have a great body?"
He tilts his head, smirk curling sharper. "Liar. You know."
My throat clamps. A pathetic cough escapes me, and I scramble to cover it with sass. "Okay then. Fine. A pinch of handsome. With abs. Happy now?"
His smirk grows, smug and lethal. "Well. I didn't realize you were this observant of me."
My eyes roll so hard I swear they'll get stuck. "You're unbearable."
He leans forward again, eyes glittering with something darker. "And you're cute when you're defensive."
My stomach flips violently, my body betraying me with heat I don't want. I spit out, "Cute my ass."
He ignores it, because of course he does, and lets his words land like a grenade. "Next time you want my shirt, just ask me. Don't be a little thief."
My face flames so hot I want to disappear into the floor. My brain screams curses, insults, murder plots—anything to drown out the truth. Because I can still feel the fabric on my skin. I can still smell him in it.
And worse?
I know he knows it.
My stomach growls loud enough to betray me. Great. Just what I need on top of this smug devil watching me like I'm his morning entertainment.
"Ah, I'm hungry." I mutter it sharp, like the words might cut him, and stalk toward the dining table.
Of course, I hear his footsteps behind me. Heavy. Measured. The bastard doesn't follow like a normal person—he prowls.
I whip around. "Why are you following me?"
His brows arch, lazy as hell, that smirk spreading like wildfire. "Who's following you? I'm going to eat."
I squint. "Then why didn't you eat before?"
He shrugs, slipping past me like he owns the entire house—and me with it. "I eat whenever I want."
I mutter under my breath, "Control-freak dickhead."
He doesn't miss it. His smirk deepens, but he says nothing. Just pulls out the chair across from me like this is a goddamn power game and sits down.
Fine.
Two can play.
I drop into my chair, grab the water, and take a long gulp like I'm drinking away the urge to stab him with a fork.
Silence.
Just the clink of plates. The scrape of silverware. He bites. I bite. He chews. I chew. Like some twisted staring contest made of food.
This is ridiculous. This is torture. This is—
My foot stretches out under the table, looking for comfort. Of course fate hates me, because my toes slam right into something solid. His leg.
Fuck.
I freeze. My foot's still there. Against him.
Slowly, his gaze lifts from his plate to me. Calm. Sharp. Eyes dark enough to swallow me whole.
"Careful, Ms. Pervert," he murmurs, voice low and dangerous. "If you're going to play footsie with me, at least commit."
My throat clogs. Water goes the wrong way. I choke, spit, splutter like a dying engine—right onto the table.
He leans back, slow as sin, napkin untouched, lips curving like the devil himself just scored a victory.
"Interesting reaction."
"Fuck off." I croak, slamming the glass down. My chest heaves, my face burns, and I know I look like an idiot.
He tilts his head, eyes locked on me like I'm already caught. "What? Don't like me pointing out the truth? Or don't like that you're enjoying it?"
I glare daggers at him. "You're disgusting."
"Mm." He smirks wider, tongue sliding over his bottom lip. "And yet… you can't keep your legs away from me."
My pulse slams. My foot jerks back like I touched fire, and I shove more food into my mouth just to stop myself from answering.
He watches, every bite of his taken slow, deliberate. Like he's eating me alive without touching me.
And the worst part?
I can still feel the heat of his leg against mine.
Like it branded me.
The silence stretches again, heavy and suffocating, until the sharp trill of his phone cuts through it.
He doesn't move at first. Just sits there, fork poised, eyes on me like he's debating whether to ignore it. Then he reaches, slow, deliberate, like every action he takes has to be a performance.
And when he sees the screen—he smiles.
Not the smirk. Not the devil's curve that usually has me wanting to throw something at his too-pretty face. This one is different. Soft. Warm. It sneaks onto his mouth like he doesn't even notice it, but I do. God, I do.
It's unfair how beautiful it is. How it makes his entire face change, like someone turned the sharp edges of him into light.
My stomach knots before my brain can stop it. The words snap out of me like claws unsheathed.
"Must be your girlfriend."
He pauses, just enough for me to catch it. Then, slow as sin, he tilts his head toward me. That smile sharpens into something else. Playful. Cruel. The kind of smile that knows exactly what it's doing to me.
"Holy hell," he says, voice low, amused. "You actually guessed it right."
And he twists the knife. He turns the screen just enough for me to see.
Girlfriend ❤️ gleams at me in bold letters.
I feel it—this small, sharp stab under my ribs. Not surprise. Not even shock. Just that old sting. I knew. I already knew. He didn't need to say it. And whatever this… arrangement is between us, I was never meant to mistake it for more.
Still, seeing it spelled out in pixels feels like a slap.
He pushes his chair back, rising with that unshakable calm that makes me want to scream. He doesn't give me a second glance, just lifts the phone to his ear and walks toward the door.
"Hello," he says into the receiver, voice warmer than I've ever heard it. Rich, low, intimate.
It hangs in the air after he leaves, echoing in my head like a reminder. That voice isn't for me. That smile isn't for me.
I sit there, stiff, my hand curling around the glass of water like I might crush it. My chest feels hollow, tight, but I bite it back. I don't get to feel this way. I don't get to be hurt. That would mean admitting something I'm not ready to admit—that I want what I have no right to.
So I scoff. At myself. At the stupid ache climbing up my throat.
"Pathetic," I mutter, forcing a laugh that tastes bitter. Because it is pathetic, sitting here, stung over a man I swore I wouldn't care about. A man who already had someone before this mess even began.
I push my plate away like the food turned to ash. Lean back in my chair, arms crossed, pretending it doesn't matter. Pretending I don't hear the low rumble of his voice drifting faintly from the other room.
But it's still there, lodged under my skin—the smile.
The one that wasn't mine.
The air inside feels like it's choking me, heavy with the ghost of his voice, the echo of that smile, so I shove back from the table and storm toward the doors.
The guards don't flinch when I step outside—they never do. But like clockwork, like a sick little ritual, their movements shift. Silent, seamless. Every single one of them turns, adjusts, positions themselves so that their backs face me.
Like I'm the sun they can't look at.
Or the prisoner they can't allow to escape.
It grates against me, this constant shadow of control. Every day, every step I take outside, they move like this. Always between me and the world. Always reminding me—this isn't freedom. It's a cage wrapped in silk and marble.
I grit my teeth, fists clenching at my sides. I want to scream. At them. At him. At myself.
So I walk. Fast, sharp strides until I'm away from their looming presence, away from the weight of all of it.
The garden unfolds before me, and God—it's beautiful. Ridiculously so. Roses climbing trellises, trimmed hedges lining winding paths, a fountain in the middle where the water catches light like glass. It's too perfect. Too deliberate.
I look at it, really look, and something inside me twists.
This wasn't made for me. None of this was. The careful design, the way the benches are placed just far enough from the fountain for a private conversation, the way the roses frame the walkway like a backdrop for a scene—it all screams of someone else. Someone he wanted here. Someone he built this for.
But fate had its little joke, didn't it? And instead of her, he got me.
My eyes sting before I can stop them. God, I hate that. Hate the weakness. Hate the way the burn settles in my chest, raw and bitter.
I sink onto the bench, fingers gripping the cold stone edge like it can anchor me. My gaze drifts to the water rippling in the fountain, and the thought slams into me hard enough to knock the air from my lungs.
How the hell am I going to pay him back?
The Tavarian debt. That massive, ugly chain around my neck. I don't have a job. I don't even have a way to get one here—not with him watching me like a hawk, not with his name shadowing mine. Money? Skills? Nothing. I have nothing.
But still… I have to. I will.
Because the only way out of this is through it. The only way I can stop this aching, stop this cruel cycle of pretending I don't care, pretending I don't notice every glance, every word, every goddamn smile—that isn't mine—is by giving him back what I owe and walking away.
Divorce.
The word sits in my chest like a jagged stone. Heavy. Sharp. Wrong.
Because I don't want that. God help me, I don't. I don't want anyone else. Not another man, not another life. Just him. Always him.
But staying here? Staying in this house where every corner whispers of a woman who isn't me? Staying in a marriage where he smiles like that for someone else? That's torture. For me. For him. For both of us.
And what kind of monster would I be to keep him tied to this mess? To me?
No. I can't. I won't.
I swallow hard, staring at the water, at the reflection that doesn't even look like me anymore.
I'll find a way. I'll pay him back. I'll sign those papers. And I'll let him live his perfect life here, with his perfect girl, in the garden he clearly built for her.
Even if it breaks me.
Especially if it breaks me.
Because maybe that's what love is, when it's twisted and cruel and one-sided—you bleed quietly, so the other doesn't have to.
And I'll bleed.
I'll bleed until there's nothing left.
The garden hums quiet, almost too quiet, except for the soft splashes of the fountain. I'm still staring at the ripples like they might hold some kind of answer when the sound reaches me—footsteps.
Not his.
Zayan's stride is sharp, deliberate, each step weighted like he wants the world to know it's him. This one is different. Easier. Familiar.
I don't turn. I don't have to. I know who it is.
Izar.
"Are you sulking?"
The voice cuts through the stillness, amused, teasing in that low way only he gets away with.
I scoff, eyes fixed on the far end of the garden. "I'm not a kid."
"Yes, you are."
The bench dips as he sits beside me without hesitation. I flick my gaze sideways, narrowing it. "So you do know how to sit without me telling you to."
He chuckles, leaning back like he belongs here. "For my friend? I'll do anything."
The corner of my mouth twitches before I can stop it. I laugh—small, dry, but real.
His eyes narrow like he's already dissecting me, like he sees right through the armor I'm wearing tonight. "So why are you sitting here like a lost puppy?"
I snap my head toward him, glaring. "You have the worst metaphors."
"Maybe." His lips tilt in a grin. "But you still didn't answer the question."
I sigh, tilting my head back to the sky. "Nothing. Just wanted air."
"Oh." He nods slowly, as if that single word carries volumes. "That's why."
I hum, low, dismissive, trying not to think about how transparent I probably look right now. He doesn't press. He just sits there, like he has all the patience in the world.
Finally, I glance at him. He's already watching me. Too closely.
The words tumble out before I can second-guess them. "Did you see Zayan's girlfriend?"
His brows shoot up, eyes widening. "Girlfriend?"
"Yes." My lips twist, bitter, sharp. "The one he loves."
For a beat, silence. Then—he chuckles. Soft. Like he knows more than he's saying. "Yeah. I did."
My chest tightens, but I force the words. "How does she look? Is she pretty? Beautiful? Rich?" I pause, chewing my lip, then push further. "Like a rich-girl vibe? Or soft girl vibe? Or… baddy?"
He leans back, thoughtful. When he speaks, it's slower, careful. "She's beautiful. Very. But not soft. Not the fake kind of delicate, either. And not the kind who needs to be loud to prove herself. She's… stubborn, sharp, says whatever the hell comes to her head. The kind of girl who'll glare daggers and still have everyone turning to look at her anyway."
Something lodges in my throat. Heat crawls up the back of my neck. He doesn't look at me when he says it.
I force out a laugh. "Oh. She must be lucky."
His gaze finally meets mine, steady, unflinching. "But you're the one who married him."
The words land heavy. I snap back, "It's not a marriage. It's a cover-up. And you know that. Don't act like you don't."
He doesn't reply. Just watches me with that same quiet weight that makes me itch under my skin.
I break the silence this time. "Do you have her photo?"
His brows lift. "Why do you want her photo?"
"Just to see her." My voice drops, sharper than I mean it to. "To know."
He shakes his head, lips twitching with something unreadable. "I don't have one."
Disappointment sours in my chest. "I want to see her."
"You will." His tone is calm, certain. "When the time comes."
I stare at him, waiting for more, but he gives me nothing. Just that maddening calm.
So I nod, slow, hollow, pretending that settles it. My eyes drift back to the fountain, its endless ripples mocking me.
He stays beside me, silent, steady. Not pressing, not leaving. Just there.
And somehow, that almost makes the ache worse.
____________________________
ZAYAN'S POV
The key spins against my fingers, cold metal biting into my palm with every turn. I'm halfway to the door, halfway to pretending I still care about the world waiting for me outside these walls—deals, faces, power games that usually consume me.
But then my steps stall.
Through the glass wall, I catch her.
She's in the garden, sitting on that stone bench by the fountain. The sun paint her in soft gold, her profile carved out against the light. Izar's beside her. Not saying much—he never needs to.
She isn't laughing, not the way she usually does when he throws his quiet little lines that somehow disarm her in ways my words never seem to.
She just sits there, staring at the water like it might hold the life she wishes she was living instead of this one.
And I hate it.
I hate that she looks like that with him and not with me. I hate that her silence belongs to him today. Because it should be mine. Every version of her should be mine—the sharp-tongued one, the furious one, the fragile one she hides under all that fire.
God, I wish it was me sitting there.
The key slips from my grip, lands heavy on the console table. My hand lingers over it, but I don't pick it up again. The meeting can burn. The world can wait.
I go upstairs instead. Straight into the room that feels colder no matter how expensive it is, the room that mocks me with its emptiness every night she refuses to fill it. I collapse onto the bed, spread out against the sheets that smell only of me. Too clean. Too untouched.
And all I can think of is her.
I don't want her body. That would be too easy, too hollow. I want her as she is, raw, unpolished, unyielding. I want her sitting here, on this bed, not saying a damn thing. Just being. Just existing near me. She wouldn't even have to look at me. She could roll her eyes, curse under her breath, tell me I'm insufferable—and I'd take it. Gladly. Because at least she'd be here.
Instead, she's out there with him.
And the knife twists deeper because I'm the one who built this cage around her.
.
The manipulation. The staged debt. Every thread was mine. Every trap I laid, every lie I spun—it was all just to bring her here. To bind her to me. To marry her.
And still, she feels a thousand miles away.
I close my eyes, but it's worse in the dark. Her face won't leave me. The stubborn tilt of her chin. The way she folds her arms like she's protecting herself from everything—even me. Especially me.
Is she thinking about him right now?
Her first love. The one she chose. The one she laughed for, fought for, maybe even cried for. The one who isn't me.
Does she miss him when she stares at that fountain? Does she ache for him the way I ache for her?
The thought claws at me until I can't breathe.
Maybe I am cruel. Maybe all of this—dragging her into my orbit, forcing her into a life she never asked for, manipulating every circumstance so she had nowhere else to run—maybe it's too much.
But what am I supposed to do? Let her go? Watch her walk out of my world and back into someone else's arms?
Never.
I roll onto my side, fist pressing against my mouth, like I can trap the storm boiling inside me.
She'll hate me for this. Maybe she already does.
But I can't undo it. I won't.
Because even if she feels like she's oceans away, even if she never looks at me the way I look at her—I'd still burn the world to keep her here.
Even if all she ever gives me is her silence.
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