The car idled low, engine humming like a beast that didn't want to sleep. Darkness pressed against the windows, broken only by the distant gleam of the yacht. From here, it looked like a floating city, too polished, too staged—Veynar's kind of theater.
Izar's eyes flicked toward me from the driver's seat. He didn't ask because he doubted, only because that's the ritual between us.
"You ready?"
I slid my cuff into place, slow, deliberate, watching the yacht's glow spill over the water. "Of course I'm ready."
The handle was cold under my hand when I stepped out, night air rushing in sharp with salt. Two men were already waiting at the dock, tailored suits, stiff shoulders. Their professionalism ended in their eyes—they weren't hunters, just dogs told to stand still.
"Mr. Adam," one greeted, flat and practiced.
I gave him a single nod. Nothing wasted.
The wood underfoot creaked as they led me across the dock and up the ramp. The yacht swallowed me whole—steel, glass, the faint hum of engines below the surface. And silence. No music, no clinking glasses. Just the waiting.
And then the waiting ended.
"Adam."
Marcus Veynar appeared at the top of the steps. The man had the kind of smile that had been sharpened in mirrors—perfect on the outside, jagged on the inside. A glass of amber liquor glowed in his hand like a torch.
"Marcus." My voice carried level across the deck, no rise, no dip. Just enough weight to remind him I wasn't here as a guest.
He descended slow, deliberate, that predator's walk men like him rehearse until it feels natural. "A week ago, you turned me down in front of half the city. Last night, you accept my invitation. I must say, you're hard to predict."
I studied the reflection of the city lights against the glass railing. "Predictability is for men who want to be forgotten. I don't."
That earned a chuckle. "Still, I'm glad you came. I find conversations more honest when they happen on water."
I arched a brow faintly. "Honesty, Marcus? On your yacht? That's a contradiction."
He smirked, gesturing to the seating tucked into the corner of the deck. "Then let's lie to each other with a little civility."
We sat opposite one another, glass between us. His shoulders angled forward, testing, waiting. Mine leaned back, a picture of calm.
"You built Falconridge," he said, voice threading between admiration and suspicion. "A company without roots, without dust, appearing full-formed like Athena out of Zeus's skull. That's not something a young man does by accident."
I let my gaze meet his. Unblinking. "Accidents are the province of amateurs. Falconridge is not an accident. It's a skeleton built to carry weight—my weight, and the weight of what comes after."
"Legacy," he said, tasting the word. "I heard you mention it once before. A heavy word for someone barely older than my son."
"You mistake age for authority," I said quietly. "Old men have dynasties in their blood and fear in their bones. Legacy doesn't belong to the old. It belongs to the ones ruthless enough to carve their initials into history before it sets."
His smile thinned, sharpened. "And what initials would those be, Adam?"
I didn't answer. Instead, I leaned forward, elbows resting lightly on my knees, voice sinking low. "Legacy isn't letters carved on buildings. It's control—so absolute that even men like you, Marcus, wake up one morning and realize the choices you made weren't yours at all. They were mine. Patterns you didn't see, strings you didn't notice, all leading back to me."
He let out a short laugh, but it didn't reach his eyes. "You sound like a ghost writer who wants to sign the whole play."
"No," I said. "I'm not writing plays. I'm building the stage."
He studied me now, long and unblinking. His hand tightened slightly on the glass, the only betrayal in his composure. I'd struck where I wanted.
"You think Falconridge is the stage?" he pressed.
I smiled faintly, but it wasn't kindness. "Falconridge is the scaffolding. Men who tie themselves to it climb higher. The rest? They fall. And Marcus—" I let his name hang there like a blade, "—you've built too much to risk a fall."
The silence between us was alive, humming. He wasn't smiling anymore, but he wasn't recoiling either. He was leaning in. Caught.
"You're dangerous, Adam."
"Not dangerous," I said, letting the words breathe, letting him feel them. "Inevitable."
For a long moment, the only sound was the slap of water against steel. Then he set the glass down with a soft click, straightened, and gave me a look men reserve for equals—or enemies they can't measure.
"You don't make small moves," he said finally. "I like that."
"I don't make moves at all," I corrected. "I create gravity. The pieces fall toward me."
His laugh this time was softer, thoughtful. Fascinated. The laugh of a man already pulled too close.
I stood, slow, controlled, the night air catching my words. "Legacy doesn't build itself, Marcus. Decide if you're climbing, or if you're falling. I won't ask twice."
Marcus leaned back, the sound of his laughter low and rolling, not the kind men give away easily. His teeth caught the light when he smiled, but there was something sharpened in his eyes now.
"I like you, Adam," he said, voice warm but threaded with steel. "You're not like the rest. You don't bow, you don't chase. Men like you… I want them close. Mine."
His pause was deliberate, calculated. Then the edge of his smile curved wider.
"You know, I have a daughter. Smart girl, raised in power. I should introduce her to you."
Inside, my mind cut clean. Fucker. I'm not here to marry your daughter. I'm here to bleed you dry until your empire is nothing but smoke. And God help us if my wife hears this—you'd all be corpses before the yacht touched shore.
But outside, my smile stayed easy, faint, unbroken. "I'm already married."
The words landed like a stone dropped in still water. Marcus's expression froze, then cracked in surprise.
"Married?" he echoed, studying me as if he'd missed something obvious. "At your age? That early?" His chuckle was incredulous, a man trying to square his calculations with reality. "Men like us… we don't tie ourselves down until we've conquered enough to keep it safe."
I let the silence stretch, let him fill it with his assumptions. My face gave him nothing. My eyes gave him less.
His smile faltered just slightly when I didn't rise to the bait, and he leaned forward, lowering his voice. "So be it. Marriage or not, I respect the steel in your spine. And I've decided, Adam—" his words sharpened, "—I will climb. With you. With Falconridge. No hesitation."
I smirked then, slow and deliberate, the kind of smile that wasn't an answer but a verdict. "Good."
His gaze burned hotter, but he wasn't offended. If anything, he was more drawn in, the way moths press closer to the fire that will kill them. He nodded once, firm, then reached into his jacket and pulled out his phone.
He didn't excuse himself, didn't turn away. Power moves are never hidden; they're displayed. He dialed, eyes on me the entire time. The faint glow of the screen lit his face as the line connected.
"Yeah," he said when the voice on the other end answered. His tone carried weight now, not charm. "It's Marcus. I want the move pushed. Not tomorrow—tonight. No delays. Consider it signed."
Silence on the line, then a quiet agreement. Marcus's jaw set, and he nodded once before cutting the call clean. No thanks, no pleasantries.
He set the phone down on the table between us, the screen dark. His fingers tapped it once, idly, but his eyes stayed locked on me.
"You see?" His voice was calm, but laced with the thrill of a man who'd just rolled dice on a game bigger than he should have touched. "One conversation with you, Adam, and I'm already moving pieces I swore I'd keep untouched. That's what you do. You bend the board."
I leaned back in my chair, watching him like a man watching a match catch fire to dry wood. My pulse didn't change. My voice didn't rise.
"Marcus," I said quietly, "that's not what I do. That's what legacy does."
The silence after was alive, hot, stretched taut across the water. He studied me, his smile returning slow, like he couldn't quite help himself.
And I sat there, calm as the sea, knowing with every second that passed he was walking deeper into the cage he didn't even see me building around him.
Marcus's fingers drummed once on the phone before he leaned back, eyes still locked on me.
"How much money can Falconridge make?" he asked, casual but sharp—like a man tossing a knife just to see how I'd catch it.
I let the question hang in the air, pretending to weigh it, though my answer was already formed. The smirk broke slow across my mouth, deliberate, precise. "Money isn't the question, Marcus. Falconridge doesn't make amounts. It makes weight. You build with me, and you stop counting bills—you start counting leverage. The kind of leverage that makes banks lean forward, that makes ministers pick up calls after midnight, that makes whole governments adjust policies without even knowing why."
His eyes glinted with that hungry admiration, the kind men try to hide but can't. He leaned in, fascinated, like he was looking into a fire and couldn't decide if it was warmth or destruction that pulled him closer.
"You know…" His voice dropped, lower now, carrying that conspiratorial weight. "I will introduce you to someone."
Inside, my pulse clicked once, hard. I already knew where this bastard was steering, but I tilted my head faintly, feigning interest. The smirk stayed on my lips, unreadable. "Who?"
Marcus's grin widened, predator-slick. He leaned forward, elbows on the table, voice cutting sharp against the night air.
"DC Group's former director. Damien Cross."
The name landed like glass breaking inside my skull. My blood surged, hot and black, but my face didn't move. Not a flicker. Not a twitch. The bastard thought he was dropping a treasure in my lap. He didn't know he'd just handed me the reason I came here.
Marcus mistook my silence for intrigue and pressed on, eyes gleaming.
"Like you, Adam, he doesn't just want wealth. He wants permanence. He wants to etch himself into the stone of history. Legacy. He's been through the fire, and he came out alive. Men like him don't break."
I let my smirk tilt just slightly, like a man weighing an offer. Then I asked, my tone perfectly even, "He was allegedly in a sexual harassment case, wasn't he?"
The words were soft, almost curious, but inside I was coiled tight, a storm beating against bone.
Marcus laughed—loud, unrestrained, the sound of a man dismissing the world's filth like dust off his cuff. He shook his head, grinning wide. "Adam… men like us, we hook with a lot. Fraud, embezzlement, corruption—it's the game. But when they really want to ruin you? When they're desperate? They pull out the easiest card. Sexual harassment. Rape. You know why? Because it sticks without proof. Because all it takes is an accusation. And the world eats it up. Doesn't matter if it's true."
He leaned closer, lowering his voice, his grin sharper now. "The case doesn't matter. The man matters. Damien Cross didn't fall, Adam. He walked free. That tells you everything you need to know."
My hands stayed relaxed on the armrest, but inside my head I was a hair's breadth from putting a bullet through his smile right then and there. You smug fuck. You think the screams of a minor are just paperwork. You think courts erase blood. You think walking free means being clean. You don't know shit about what sticks. You don't know shit about what it means to really fall.
Out loud, I said nothing. I just let the faintest ghost of a smile cross my lips, controlled, deliberate. Let him think I agreed. Let him think I admired this filth. Because Marcus wasn't the target. Not tonight. Damien was.
And if Marcus wanted to play matchmaker, I'd let him. I'd let him walk me straight to the bastard's table.
Marcus chuckled again, smug, satisfied with my silence. "You'll like him. Men like us recognize each other."
I leaned forward then, slow, my smirk sharpening into something colder, something that made his smile falter just slightly. My voice dropped low, steady. "Maybe. Or maybe men like us only recognize who's already standing on the edge."
Marcus's grin twitched—uncertain now, but still hungry. He thought it was just another move on the board. He had no fucking idea the board was already burning.
And me? I sat there, calm, controlled, while inside the storm only whispered one thing:
Damien Cross is a dead man walking.
I rose from my seat, slow and smooth, letting the chair scrape back just enough to echo against the hum of the sea. Marcus's brows lifted, that sharp grin tugging at his mouth.
"You're in a hurry?" he asked, tone amused, like he'd caught me breaking character.
I adjusted my jacket, smirk still in place. "Legacy doesn't wait, Marcus. Neither do I."
His laugh rolled out again, rich and heavy, but there was a trace of something else now—respect, maybe even caution. "You'll have your time with Damien. I'll send you the details—when, where, everything you need."
He leaned back, spreading his arms like a king granting favors. "Trust me, Adam. You and him? You'll carve the world."
I paused just long enough to let my smile twist faintly, as if considering his words. "We'll see," I said, voice low, measured. And then I turned.
The yacht groaned as it edged against the dock, ropes flung, lights spilling sharp over the shore. Marcus stayed behind, still smiling at his own brilliance, still thinking he was the puppeteer pulling strings.
The fool had no idea he'd just handed me his friend's throat.
I stepped down onto the pier, salt and diesel thick in the air. The night was cold, quiet, but my blood was a furnace. The sleek black car waited just beyond the dock, engine humming low. Izar leaned against the door, cigarette glowing between his fingers.
When he saw me, he stubbed it out and opened the back door without a word. I slid inside, leather swallowing me whole, silence stretching.
And then—fuck—I laughed. A low, dangerous laugh that started in my chest and bled into the air.
Izar's eyes flicked up in the rearview, sharp and steady. "What?" he asked, voice flat but edged with curiosity.
I leaned back, smirk cutting hard across my face. "Didn't I tell you?" I said, my voice rough with amusement and venom. "Didn't I tell you Marcus would hand me Damien Cross on a silver platter?"
Izar's brow arched slightly, waiting.
"He just did." My laugh cracked again, darker this time. "That arrogant fuck actually thinks he's doing me a favor. He doesn't realize he just gave Damien to his own predator. He thinks he's pulling me closer, but all he did was throw his friend into the fire with me. Marcus doesn't even see it—he's Damien's reaper, and he doesn't even fucking know it."
Izar gave a small grunt, a sound halfway between agreement and dark amusement. "So it begins."
I nodded, eyes fixed on the black window, reflection staring back at me like a stranger I could barely leash. My voice dropped, softer, lethal. "Damien thinks walking free makes him untouchable. Marcus thinks he's the kingmaker, passing me names like gifts."
I leaned forward, resting my forearms on my knees, the smirk gone now, replaced by steel. "But I don't play their game. I burn their board."
Silence stretched in the car, the hum of the engine low, the city lights flickering as we pulled away from the docks. My hands flexed once, tight, my jaw locked.
Marcus. Damien. Both of you. You've already been sentenced. You just don't fucking know it yet.
I sat back, calm settling over me like a blade being sheathed. On the outside, composed. On the inside, nothing but the promise of cruelty sharpened to a fine edge.
I'll kill you both. Not quick. Not clean. Cruel. Slow enough for the world to finally hear every scream you've buried. And when I'm done, your legacies won't just end. They'll rot.
_________
Arshila's pov
It's 2:13 in the morning. I know because I've been staring at the stupid digital clock glowing in my room like a smug little asshole for the last hour.
And here I am, perched on the balcony of the upper foyer, hair messy, sweatshirt sliding off my shoulder, wide awake when the rest of the world is blissfully unconscious.
Why?
Because I made the brilliant decision to nap at noon. Noon. Like a child.
I rub my temple and hiss at myself, "Never again. Tomorrow—noon naps are fucking banned. You hear me, brain? Done. Over."
I don't even trust myself, but the vow feels necessary, like some desperate midnight contract signed in blood.
The house doesn't help. It's too quiet. Too big. The kind of quiet that makes you feel like you're being watched even though you're supposedly alone.
I hate it. The silence in this mansion has a pulse, a weight.
The place is obscene. All sleek glass, steel, and stone. Modern architecture flexing like it's in a magazine spread. The kind of luxury that makes you feel poor even when you're dripping in silk. Every hallway could be an art exhibit. Every room could swallow a family whole.
And then there's the west wing. Don't get me started on that creepy fucker. I swear, every time I walk past, the temperature drops.
Massive door, carved dark wood, this brutal snake-shaped handle curling like it's waiting to bite. Whoever thought that was a good interior design choice deserves jail. It doesn't fit with the rest of the "luxury porn" vibe. It feels… wrong. Like if you open it, the house itself will eat you alive.
I stick to what I know: my bedroom, my bathroom, the living room. That's it. The rest? A labyrinth of pretty nightmares I don't touch.
I'm about to spiral further into ghost stories when headlights cut across the gate.
My stomach drops.
The giant black iron gates crawl open, slow as hell, and a car glides inside. Smooth. Expensive. Predatory.
The headlights carve across the garden, up the long driveway, and land right in front of the mansion.
I sit frozen, breath held, watching from above.
Zayan isn't home. Right? Or… maybe he is? Who the hell knows. This house is too big to ever really know if he's here. He could be working three floors down, or in some hidden office, or hell, in the creepy west wing—and I'd be none the wiser.
The car stops. Engine low, purring. A door shuts. Loud. Final.
And then—the front door opens. Shuts again.
Footsteps.
Sharp, deliberate, echoing off the glass staircase. Climbing. Getting closer.
My throat tightens.
It's him.
Zayan.
Where the fuck was he until now? This late?
Yeah, fine, he's a Tavarian. Of course there are meetings. Deals. Power games. But here's the thing—Zayan doesn't go to meetings. Not boardrooms, not public showings. His face is hidden. He's the heir no one can touch, no one can even put on record. Every deal he makes happens from within these walls. Through encrypted calls. Through firewalls and shadows.
So if he's been out tonight… what the fuck was he doing?
I grip the railing tighter, heartbeat ticking faster than it should. I shouldn't care. But I do.
And, of course, because my brain is a traitor—it throws me sideways. Catherine. His secretary. GOD, Catherine. That woman is lethal. Perfect suits, voice like silk, face carved by the gods themselves. And those legs? I'd sell my soul. She could crush me with one look, and I'd say thank you.
Too bad she's engaged. A waste. A crime, really. If I had any power in this household, I'd sign an executive order: Free Catherine.
And now here I am, at 2:23 in the morning, realizing I'm not just lusting after my husband's secretary—I might actually be into girls. "What the fuck is wrong with you, Arshila?" I whisper to myself, pressing a palm to my face. "Get it together."
The footsteps grow louder. Each one feels heavier, sharper, like a countdown aimed at me.
I straighten, still pressed to the railing, pulse hammering.
Zayan.
And for one insane second, I don't know if I want him to appear in front of me—or if I'd rather stay hidden in the shadows, watching him like the ghost of his own house.
Maybe he's coming from his girlfriend. Has to be. Because where the fuck else does a man like him disappear to at two in the morning? Men like Zayan don't exactly go bowling or grab a midnight coffee. No. They fuck. They fuck women with red lips and secrets in their eyes. They fuck in shadows and leave the scent of sin on their shirts.
The thought makes bile crawl up my throat. And something else, too—something I don't want to name.
"You didn't sleep?"
I flinch so hard I nearly bite my tongue. His voice slices through the silence, deep and unexpected, like it was born in the walls themselves. I whip around, hand on my chest, pulse wrecked.
And there he is.
Leaning casually against the railing like he owns not just the house, but the air I breathe. His shirt is half-buttoned, collar loose, sleeves rolled, veins coiling along his forearms in the moonlight. He looks carved from sin itself—sharp jaw, mouth too cruel, eyes too damn steady.
And my traitor body? It's on fire.
God bless me, I'm ovulating.
I narrow my eyes, choking the heat down into something jagged. "Why do you care?"
He pushes off the railing, steps closer, each movement slow, deliberate, like a wolf circling prey. "Because you're awake. And when you don't sleep, it means your head's too loud. And I need to know what's inside it."
I let out a sharp, ugly laugh. "Oh, please. Don't feed me that controlling husband routine. You don't care if I lose sleep—you probably pray I do."
His mouth curves. Not a smile. More like a dare. "Maybe I do. Maybe I like knowing you're restless because of me."
"You're delusional." My nails dig into the railing behind me. "You think I lie awake waiting for you? Dream on, Tavarian."
"Not dream," he says, another step closer. He's in front of me now, shadow swallowing mine. "Reality. You hear my car, my steps, my voice—and your body reacts. Every fucking time."
My breath catches, and I want to scratch that smugness right off his face. "Or maybe I hear your car and wonder which bed you crawled out of this time."
Something sharp flickers across his eyes. Not guilt—he doesn't do guilt. Possessiveness, maybe. Anger.
"Say it again."
I bare my teeth. "Girlfriend. Mistress. Whore. Pick your poison, Zayan. Because it sure as hell isn't me."
His jaw ticks, and for a second I think he'll snap. Instead, he leans down, his lips a breath away from my ear. His voice is gravel and smoke.
"Don't test me, Arshila. I don't crawl into anyone's bed. If I wanted a woman, I'd drag her into mine. And she wouldn't sleep for days."
My thighs clench, betraying me. Rage roars to cover it. "God, you're disgusting."
He chuckles low, dangerous. "And yet, look at you. You'd kill me with your eyes if you could, but you can't stop staring. You hate me so much it tastes like hunger."
"I'd rather starve."
He finally straightens, towering over me, eyes locked on mine, voice a steady blade. "Careful, wife. Hate is just lust with sharper teeth. And I don't mind being bitten."
The air is molten, every inch between us tight as a pulled trigger. My heart's thundering so hard it hurts, and still—I don't step back.
I refuse.
Because if I do, he wins.
"I'd rather stab you, fucker."
The words slice out of me, jagged, meant to draw blood.
He doesn't retreat. Doesn't even blink. Instead, he moves in, slow as a loaded gun being cocked, and then his arms slam against the glass railing on either side of me.
I'm locked in, his body a wall, his shadow swallowing me whole. The cold glass presses against my spine; his heat scorches my front. There's nowhere to go, and he knows it.
"With what?"
The words aren't a question. They're a demand. A challenge. A blade pressed against my throat without ever touching skin.
My teeth grit. "Don't tempt me."
"I already am." His voice is molten, low, cruel. "So tell me—what would you use, hm? A knife? Your claws? That sharp little tongue you love to cut me with? Because here's the truth, Arshila—none of it works. Not on me. You don't get to wound me. I decide when I bleed."
"You're so fucking sure of yourself."
"No. I'm so fucking sure of you." He leans closer, his breath brushing my cheek like a brand. "You stand here, spitting hate, swearing you'd gut me, bury me, choke me—and yet you never step away. Why is that, wife? Why do you always stay exactly where I want you?"
My throat tightens, but I force my glare sharper. "Because moving would give you the satisfaction."
"Exactly." His lips curve into something cruel, deliberate. "You'd rather be trapped in my cage than give me the win. And that's the problem with you—you hate me, but you can't live without the hate. It feeds you. I feed you."
"You feed me nothing but rot."
"Then why are you still breathing it in?" His knuckles tighten against the glass, the cage firming around me, his voice a blade carving into my ribs. "You hate me, but every time I get close, you spark. You hate me, but every time I speak, your pulse stutters. You hate me, but hate this sharp? It's just obsession with better teeth."
"You're fucking delusional."
"No." His eyes burn into mine, dark, unyielding. "I'm inevitable."
My chest heaves, fury rattling my bones. "God, you're poison."
"And you drink me every night." His voice doesn't rise; it doesn't need to. It cuts, steady and merciless. "So don't stand there and lie, Arshila. Not to me. I see the truth in your eyes every time you spit my name like it's venom—you can't stop swallowing it. You can't stop circling me. You can't stop."
"You make me sick."
"And you still crave the sickness."
"Fuck you."
The silence is razor-thin, every inch between us humming like a live wire. His eyes cut into mine, his mouth curving slow, dangerous, until I can feel the ground tilt beneath me.
"When?"