ARSHILA'S POV
If hell was real, it probably looked like this.
Me.
Sitting in the middle of the living room, drowning in an oversized hoodie that smells faintly like detergent and misery, surrounded by the four hottest men God ever spat into existence. The heirs of the four most powerful families, just chilling like it's poker night, and I'm the idiot stuffed into the middle of their circle like some free Netflix entertainment.
They're in casuals, of course. And by casuals, I mean sin. Zayan in a black t-shirt that clings like it was made for him, forearms inked and veins like ropes under skin. Razmir with his white shirt unbuttoned a little too far, lounging like he owns gravity. Eshan in joggers and a Henley, smirking like he's already bored of the world. And Rafaen—fuck Rafaen—with that loose sweater, sleeves pushed up, hair pushed back like some brooding magazine cover.
And me? I look like a stray they adopted out of pity. My socks don't even match.
They're talking, voices low, deep, filling the room like smoke. I'm not listening at first, too busy fighting the urge to crawl under the couch and die of humiliation. But then the words start clicking.
"If Idrakhan closes the Monaco project this quarter, we can roll Tavarian reserves into it quietly. Alzirah can shift it under development loans; regulators won't blink." Zayan's voice. Sharp, clean. He talks like he owns the air he breathes.
"Luxury coastal builds sell themselves. Idrakhan buyers never ask where the money comes from. They just throw cash at glass towers and call it prestige." That's Razmir, smirk tugging at his lips like he already sees the numbers printed in gold.
"As long as Alzirah cleans the trail. The bank can't falter or the whole thing collapses. We've got too many assets tied into liquidity." Rafaen, calm, clinical, like he's dissecting the future with a scalpel.
"And don't forget Nazrani's role. Without the crown stamp, the regulators in Saudi will come sniffing. You want smooth flow? You need royal signatures." That's Eshan, lazy drawl, tossing it out like it's the most obvious thing in the world.
I blink at them. Holy shit. They're actually plotting world domination in sweatpants. And why am I sitting here?
Oh right. That fucker Eshan. He literally dragged me into this room, sat me on the couch like some prop, and then went right back to planning his billionaire chess game.
I was perfectly fine minding my own business, probably eating chips in the kitchen like a civilized human, but no. He wanted fireworks. Well, congratulations, bitch, you got them.
I snap. "Can I ask you a question?"
Four sets of eyes swing to me at once.
Zayan looks at me like I've just interrupted a war council to ask if they prefer Coke or Pepsi. Pure 'this must be a stupid question' energy. Fucker.
Razmir, on the other hand, leans back, smirk curving his mouth. "Go ahead. Ask, babe."
The way Zayan immediately cuts his eyes to him, then back to me, jaw ticking?
I clear my throat. "You four… come from different families. Different backgrounds. So why the fuck are you discussing your businesses like it's one?"
Eshan chuckles, low, dark. "'Cause it is one."
I blink. "What?"
Razmir's eyes gleam, and he sits forward, voice smooth. "Idrakhan builds. But not for the middle class, not for peasants. We build palaces in the sky. Resorts where billionaires fuck away their midlife crises. Cities inside glass towers. Our buyers are the top one percent of the one percent. We don't sell property—we sell status. And once they buy, they're tied to us for life."
Rafaen picks up without missing a beat, his tone cool. "But buildings don't rise on dreams. They rise on money. Tavarian money. The family provides capital. Discreetly. Billions flow into these projects, but they don't come with Tavarian's name attached. They move like shadows. If Tavarian pulls out, Idrakhan crumbles."
I glance at Zayan. He's watching me like he's measuring how much I can absorb before I choke. He doesn't say a word, but fuck, he doesn't need to. That stare is enough.
Eshan grins, picking up the thread. "But raw money is just dirty cash without someone to wash it. That's where Alzirah Bank comes in. We legitimize everything. Transfers, loans, investments—we make it look clean. No one blinks, no one questions. On paper, it's just business."
Razmir cuts in again, his smirk sharper. "And then there's Nazrani. The royal family doesn't invest, they don't build, they don't launder. They protect. Their seal turns suspicion into prestige. Their blessing makes everything untouchable. They're the face. The pretty mask over the monster."
It hits me like a slap. "So… without one of you, the whole thing falls apart?"
Razmir nods once, sharp. "Without Tavarian? No cash. Without Idrakhan? No foundation. Without Alzirah? No legitimacy. Without Nazrani? No shield. Four pillars, one empire."
I'm sitting there, mouth open, hoodie sleeves swallowing my hands, staring at them like they just explained how they secretly run the Illuminati. "How the fuck do you guys even know this much business?"
Eshan's smirk widens. "'Cause we studied, princess. While you were busy glaring at us like we're your arch-nemeses, we were learning how to run the world."
My face burns. I cross my arms, muttering, "Studied. Right."
Rafaen's eyes lock on me, sharp, probing. "And what did you study?"
I freeze. My mouth goes dry. "…Literature."
The room goes silent. And then—Eshan bursts out laughing. Full, deep, head-thrown-back laughter that makes me want to strangle him with my mismatched socks.
Razmir smirks at me, tilting his head. "So while we learned to turn billions into empires… you learned Shakespeare?"
I glare daggers. "Fuck you. At least I can write a sonnet while you guys count your dirty money."
Zayan's lips twitch. Just the faintest hint of a smirk he's trying to bury. His eyes never leave me, though—sharp, dark, unreadable. Like he's thinking: stupid question or not, you're dumb anyway.
And me? I sink into the couch, hoodie hood pulled up, wondering if there's a trapdoor in this goddamn mansion I can fall through.
A beggar girl in a billionaire's harem. And the worst part? They make it look sexy.
There are moments in life where you look at people and just think: God really does have favorites.
Because what the fuck else explains these guys? They're sitting here, barely past legal drinking age, moving billions like they're counting pennies, and they look like this? Who gave them the right? Who decided the world's richest brats should also be the hottest? There's no balance. No fairness. Just straight-up cruelty.
Meanwhile, I'm here in my mismatched socks, hoodie sleeves swallowed up to my hands, looking like someone's charity case. If life was a video game, I'd be background NPC #47 and these assholes are the main characters who get all the cool cutscenes.
I can't stop myself. The words slip out. "How old are you guys, anyway?"
Eshan doesn't even glance up. Just smirks like he was waiting for me to break first. "That came out of nowhere."
I narrow my eyes. "Just tell me, bro."
That finally gets his attention. He leans back in his chair, grin spreading. "Me and Rafaen are twenty-six. Razmir's twenty-seven. But if you count this year, we're twenty-seven and he's twenty-eight."
Razmir lifts his water glass like he's cheers-ing to being the old man of the group. The smug bastard.
I hum under my breath. They're so young. Too fucking young. And already this? My gaze slides to Zayan, because of course it does. And there he is—looking like sin in human form, tapping at his laptop like he's not the youngest one in the room and already running Tavarian like it's just another Tuesday.
Twenty-five. That moron is twenty-five. Married at twenty-five. My life got cursed by a twenty-five-year-old asshole with that brows and cheekbones sharp enough to slice me in half. Fantastic.
They're back to their screens, business pouring off them in low voices and fast keystrokes. And my idiot mouth decides to jump into the deep end again. "Rafaen. What's it feel like? You know. Being a prince?"
He goes still. Like I just dropped a blade on the table.
The others glance at him, waiting. He doesn't speak right away. His eyes lock on mine—dark, steady, searching like he's peeling my skin back layer by layer. And when he does answer, his voice is smooth but it cuts.
"It feels like wearing chains made of gold. They shine, they glitter, but they're still chains. You smile for cameras, you sign papers, you play the role. But you're not free. You never were."
The room dips into silence. Even Zayan flicks his eyes up for a second before going back to pretending he doesn't give a shit.
My chest tightens. There's something under Rafaen's words. Something heavy, caged. And it isn't for them—it's for me. He said it like he wanted me to hear it. Like he was daring me to notice.
I swallow. "…That sounds awful."
His lips twitch, but not into a smile. More like he's holding back everything else he could say. And then—just like that—his gaze drops back to the laptop, door slammed shut again.
I shake my head, huffing out a breath. "You guys are insane. You're so fucking young. You should be in some club somewhere, drinking yourselves stupid, maybe dating like normal human beings."
That gets me four pairs of eyes at once. Cold, sharp, unblinking.
And in perfect sync, they say it: "We don't drink. We don't date."
I shoot off the couch like I've been electrocuted. "Excuse me—WHAT?"
They just look at me. Four billionaire heirs staring at me like it's the most natural sentence in the world.
"You're telling me," I jab a finger at them, "that the four richest, hottest brats on the planet don't even drink? Don't even date? Not even a sneaky Tinder hook-up? A coffee date? A fucking Valentine's text?"
Razmir smirks, rolling his wrist lazily. "What's the point of drinking when control is sexier sober?"
Eshan lets out a low chuckle, lounging back. "Dating is just noise. And noise is for the weak."
I throw my hands up. "You've got to be shitting me. What are you, monks?"
Silence. Heavy. And then Razmir chuckles. Low, knowing. "That doesn't mean we're saints, sweetheart."
The breath I didn't know I was holding whooshes out. Oh thank God. Because the idea of these men being monks was frying my brain.
I press my palm to my face. "Fine. But Zayan—" I fling my hand toward him without looking, "—has a girlfriend. So explain that."
And the room freezes.
All four heads swing toward me. Even Zayan stops typing.
Eshan is the first to break it. "What?" His voice is sharp, all drawl gone.
I blink. "Wait. You guys don't know?" My eyes go wide. "Is it a secret, Tavarian? You didn't even tell your friends? That mysterious?"
Razmir's smirk returns, sharper than a blade. "He has a girlfriend?"
Rafaen leans forward just slightly, his eyes flicking to Zayan. Tension shadows his face, his tone smooth but edged. "You have a girlfriend?"
And Zayan finally looks at me. Not them. Me.
His stare is murder, clean and precise. His jaw ticks. His voice drops like a gunshot. "Shut your fuck up."
The other three? They break into the same exact expression: pure mischief. Predators scenting blood.
Razmir leans back, smirk growing wider. Eshan's brows lift, eyes gleaming like Christmas lights. And Rafaen… Rafaen doesn't smirk. He watches Zayan like he's trying to map out the cracks in his armor.
I roll my eyes, flopping back into the couch. "Oh, calm down, Tavarian. They were bound to find out sooner or later."
Zayan's glare doesn't soften. If looks could kill, I'd be dust.
And the other three? They look like wolves who just smelled blood in the snow.
Fuck my life.
_______________________________
Zayan's POV
That stupid girl.
No—my stupid girl.
She doesn't know when to shut the fuck up.
She throws the word girlfriend in the middle of the room like it's confetti, then has the audacity to flop back on the couch like she didn't just light a goddamn grenade under my chair.
And now… three pairs of eyes on me.
Razmir with that blade-sharp smirk that always says I see right through your shit.
Eshan, eyebrows arched, already sharpening his words into knives.
Rafaen—fuck him—the one who never rushes, just waits, calculating, silent, until you bleed out on your own.
Yeah. They know. They don't know, but they know.
Razmir leans forward, lips curling like a wolf about to take his first bite.
"Arshila, sweetheart, can you please bring us some water? Don't think I'm trying to dominate—just a favor, huh?"
Fuck.
It's Not about water. Not even close. He wants her out. He wants this room locked down before they cut me open.
She squints, suspicious, but pride wins. "Fine." She storms out, mismatched socks dragging over marble, hoodie swishing, muttering under her breath like she's cursing my entire bloodline.
The silence that follows is thick enough to choke on.
Razmir moves first. Voice low, sharp, no trace of his usual lazy drawl.
"What the fuck was that, Tavarian? Why the hell is she saying you have a girlfriend?"
I stay still. Expression blank. Give them nothing.
Eshan doesn't have the patience for blank. He leans forward, eyes narrowed, voice a low snarl.
"You fucker. You've been in love with her for four years. Four. Years. So tell me—when the fuck did you have a girlfriend?"
My jaw flexes. I finally answer, voice flat. "I didn't."
Rafaen, calm as a noose tightening, tilts his head.
"Then why the performance? Did you lie to her?"
I meet his gaze head-on. "I told her I love someone. That's it."
Wrong move.
Eshan is on me in a blink. His hand clamps around my throat, shoving me back into the couch, knuckles grinding against my skin. His face is close, eyes burning, voice low and lethal.
"Are you out of your fucking mind? You stalk her for four years, drag her into this marriage with your strings, your manipulation, every twisted plan in that head—and now you let her believe there's someone else? Are you trying to destroy her?"
I grip his wrist, steady, voice low and hard. "I'm trying to protect her."
Razmir laughs—sharp, bitter.
"Protect? That's your excuse? Lying to her face while you've had her under your thumb this whole damn time?"
I snap my gaze at him, eyes narrow. "You think she'd survive if she knew the truth? If she knew I've been watching her every step for years? That I pulled her into this so no one else could touch her? She'd run.
Eshan's grip tightens, fury seeping out of him.
"So you'll break her trust instead? That's your fucking shield?"
I don't flinch. My voice is ice. "Better her trust cracks than her neck snapped in some back alley because of me. Better she hates me than she's buried."
The room freezes. The weight of my words hangs heavy.
Rafaen leans forward, elbows on his knees, voice soft but edged like glass.
"So the girlfriend she thinks exists… is her."
I don't answer. Don't need to. The flicker in my eyes is enough. He reads it. He always does.
Razmir whistles under his breath, shaking his head.
"Four years, Zayan. You stalked her, you marked her, you built this entire game around her—and she has no idea. No wonder you're a possessive son of a bitch. You're caged in your own obsession."
Eshan shoves me back, releasing my throat with a disgusted sneer.
"You're going to wreck her, Tavarian. You know that, right? You'll crush her under the weight of this obsession."
I fix my collar, roll my shoulders back, my voice dropping into something dark and certain. "No. I'll crush anyone else. But not her."
Their silence is sharp, like they're all deciding whether to call me insane or just let me drown in it.
Razmir finally breaks it with a chuckle. "One day she's going to find out. And when she does? You'd better pray she doesn't hate you enough to leave."
I look at him, jaw ticking. My voice is low, certain, unshakable.
"She won't leave. She's mine. Always was. Always will be."
And I believe it. Even if it kills me. Even if it kills her.
Her footsteps pad back into the living room, and every muscle in me locks. She's balancing a tray—glass pitcher, four tall crystal glasses—and she has that little frown carved between her brows like she knows she just walked into a room where blood was spilled.
She stops dead in the doorway. Eyes flick from me to Razmir, to Eshan, to Rafaen. Her lips part.
"What's going on here?"
The three of them—wolves who just finished sinking their teeth into me—break into laughter. Not light. Not natural. It's the kind of laugh that tastes like smoke, meant to throw her off the scent.
Razmir stretches his arm lazily along the back of the couch, grin dripping mischief.
"Nothing, babe. We were just making a move, that's all."
She squints, clearly not buying it, but she doesn't push. She walks over, sets the tray on the table, pours out water like it isn't crystal and she isn't sitting in a den of predators. Then she drops back onto the couch, curls into herself, and starts scrolling through her phone like the world isn't collapsing five feet away.
And I just sit there. Staring.
She has no idea.
No fucking clue how much I ache for her. How much I'd carve out my own heart to keep her safe. She doesn't know that every lie I've told, every move I've made, every chain I've wrapped around her—it's all built on four years of obsession that could burn this world down.
She'll hate me when she finds out.
And God, she will find out. One day.
But please—let her hate me here, in this house, under my watch. Let her hate me from my bed, from inside my cage. Not outside it. Don't make her leave. I can take her hate. I can't take her absence.
Her voice cuts through my thoughts, light, casual, like she's throwing a rock in the pond.
"Is Shadin not with you guys?"
The glass in my hand almost shatters.
Eshan's head snaps toward her, eyes sharp.
"How the fuck do you know him? As Zayan's cousin?"
She blinks, frowns. "No. He's my friend. Like… really close."
My chest goes tight. Acid eats through my ribs.
Razmir sits forward, interest sparking in his eyes.
"Shadin is your friend? How?"
She shrugs, careless. "He was my senior in college. We were really close friends."
The room freezes again—but not because of her. Because of me.
Rafaen's tone dips low, curious.
"Shadin was in your college? Really?"
She tilts her head, confused by the shock in their voices. "What's the surprise? Yes, he was. Why?"
Three pairs of eyes swing toward me.
I don't say a word. I just give them a single nod.
And their faces shift—surprise, disbelief, calculation all at once.
I felt the same when I found out three years ago. No way in hell Shadin had been insane enough to pull that double life—studying here with her while running an entirely different major abroad. But he did. And I'd spent nights trying to unravel the why.
But now? None of that matters. Because she just said it—they were really close.
My blood turns venom. I hate him for that. My cousin or not, I will never forgive that closeness. That space he occupied that should've been mine. He breathed her air before I could cage it. That's enough for me to hate him until I die.
Eshan breaks the silence, shaking his head, a bitter laugh slipping out.
"Shadin doesn't hang out with us. he's not… like us. He keeps his distance. Different circles, different…" He waves his hand, searching for the word. "Everything."
I don't hear the rest. My gaze is locked on her.
She's scrolling her phone, bottom lip tucked between her teeth, oblivious to the fire raging a foot away.
And all I can think is—Shadin saw that. He saw that habit before I did. He saw her sleepy frowns, her laughter echoing down cheap college hallways, her little quirks. He saw them first.
That knowledge drives nails into my skull.
I want to carve him out of her memory. Rip his name from her lips. Burn every moment they shared until nothing is left but ash.
Because she's mine. Not his. Not anyone's. Mine.
And the sick part? I'd kill to keep it that way.
----------
The mansion is too quiet once they're gone. A silence that breathes, heavier than the marble floors can hold.
I stay seated at first, my eyes locked on the firelight spilling across the room. It flickers the way my thoughts do—restless, pushing, circling the same image. Her. In the garden with Izar two nights ago.
Not jealousy. That word doesn't live in me. But silence does. And her silence toward me since then has been sharper than any knife. I don't let anyone silence me—not men in suits, not enemies who think they're wolves. But her? She's been doing it. And I let it happen.
Until tonight.
I rise, finally ready to break the distance, to demand her voice, her eyes, something other than the walls she's built—
The door shifts.
Izar.
The timing cuts clean. His shadow falls across the room, and the moment dies between us. Her gaze catches mine for a second—hers unreadable, mine sharpened with a weight I don't let anyone else carry. Then I bury it, because the man who just stepped in never comes without purpose.
I turn from her without a word. Izar follows.
We move through the corridors, the air cooler the deeper we walk into the east wing. My private office waits, wood and steel sealed into quiet. The door shuts, and it's just the two of us—no distractions, no watchers.
I drop into my chair, lean back, and fix him with a look.
"What?"
His voice is steady, but there's an edge. "Marcus sent an invitation."
My jaw ticks once. "When?"
"Tomorrow. After ten. His private yacht."
The corner of my mouth sharpens into something close to a smile, but colder. Not amusement—anticipation.
"Of course he did."
I let the words settle, then lean forward, elbows on the desk, fingers steepled. My voice lowers, deliberate.
"The hook's already in his throat. He doesn't know it yet, but he's been bleeding since the moment he said my name."
Izar's eyes narrow, the faintest trace of a smirk in them. He's seen this before—men thinking they're circling me when in truth, they've already stepped into the trap.
I let out a breath, slow, calm. "Marcus Veynar thinks tomorrow is his invitation. His control. His move."
I shake my head once, eyes glinting under the dim light.
"But what he doesn't know—" I pause, savoring the silence, "—is that I don't step onto his yacht tomorrow night. He's already standing on mine."
Izar's expression flickers—respect, maybe even amusement—but I'm already past it, already seeing the fire lit in the distance.
Marcus Veynar isn't the hunter. He's the fish. And the line? It's wrapped so deep around his neck that when I pull—sharply, suddenly—there won't be air left in his lungs to scream.
And tomorrow… I pull.