ARSHILA'S POV
I'm doomed.
Fucking done.
The thought loops like a curse in my head, eating me alive.
Zayan's eyes are still on me. Heavy. Piercing. He doesn't look away. His gaze drops to my hand still holding his and for a second my chest burns like I've been caught stealing. I jerk back, pulling my fingers free.
"Sorry," I mutter, too fast, too defensive.
He doesn't move back. Doesn't give me space. He just tilts his head the tiniest bit, voice low.
"What?"
My brows furrow. "What what?"
His mouth curves—not a smile, not really. More like something that knows too much.
"Your face." His eyes flicker over me, every line, every twitch. "It's saying you're thinking too much. I'm asking what's it about."
Heat licks at my neck. My pulse jumps. "You don't know shit," I snap, and turn like I'm about to walk out.
But his hand catches mine again, strong, unrelenting, pulling me back. "Say it."
His voice doesn't rise. Doesn't need to. It's a command wearing silk.
I sigh, sharp and shaky, because this fucker—he won't let me breathe unless I spit it out.
"It's about the one-week stay," I blurt, my chest tight. "Isn't it too much? I mean, how the hell can everyone stay in there? All the Tavarians. One house. One fucking week. I hate it."
His eyes stay locked on mine, patient, waiting.
"Why?" he asks, voice low, almost curious, like he already knows but wants to hear me bleed it out.
"You know why!" My voice cracks, anger spilling fast. "You know how they treated me at that dinner. You saw it. The way they looked at me like I was dirt under their heels. The whispers, the digs. I can't—" My throat tightens. "I can't survive that for a week. They'll eat me alive. And your aunt?" I laugh, bitter, sharp. "She'll spit venom until I choke. I don't think I can take it."
"Arshila." His voice cuts through my rambling like a knife. "Look at me."
I hesitate, then force my eyes up, meeting his.
And there it is. That burn. That steady, immovable fire.
"No one," he says, each word slow, precise, brutal, "I mean no fucking one will touch you. No one will spit shit on you. No one will even fucking think about it. You don't have to care about anyone there. You don't owe them shit. You don't have to smile for them. You don't have to fucking pretend. You live how you want. They'll deal with it."
My breath catches. The words hit me harder than they should. My chest aches like he's punched the air out of me.
"Still—" I start, weak, clinging to the edges of my panic.
"Even if it's my parents," he cuts in, eyes hard, steady.
I freeze. The world tilts. My skin prickles all over. He said it so calmly, like it costs him nothing. But the weight of it—the weight of him saying it—roots me to the spot.
I can't look away. His gaze holds mine, relentless, burning, like he's daring me to argue.
"Now," he says softer, the edge smoothing but not gone, "calm the fuck down. It's next week. Not tonight. You don't have to tear yourself apart over it now."
And just like that, he lets go of my hand. Steps back, his expression unreadable again, controlled, untouchable.
Without another word, he turns and walks upstairs. Each step is slow, deliberate, like he knows I'm still watching.
And I am. My chest still burning, my mind still spinning.
I sink onto the couch, staring at nothing. My body heavy, my thoughts louder than my pulse.
How the fuck am I supposed to survive a week in that house?
A week with every Tavarian under one roof.
A week with everyone circling like a wolves with that fucking smirk.
A week with Zayan watching everything, owning every space he walks into.
I press my palms to my face, groaning.
Doomed doesn't even begin to cover it.
I can't sit still. The couch feels like it's eating me alive.
So I get up. Start walking. No plan, no direction, just moving through Zayan's mansion like a ghost who doesn't know where the fuck she belongs.
Every hallway looks the same—high ceilings, shadows swallowing corners, expensive art I don't even recognize. My footsteps echo too loud. My thoughts louder.
One week.
The Tavarian Annual Day.
One week under the same roof as all of them.
God, why does this family have the strangest rules? Who invented this shit? Was Grandfather bored one year and thought, let's trap the entire bloodline in a house and see who kills who first?
A week. Together. No outs. No excuses.
What if I fake sick? Maybe cough up blood, pretend I've got some rare plague. Lock myself in a room with tissues and pity.
No. No way. Zayan wouldn't buy it for a second. He'd see right through me. He'd probably drag me there with an IV drip just to prove a point.
Okay, then… run away? Just vanish for seven days? Yeah, right. Where would I go? The Tavarians probably own the whole fucking planet. They'd find me in an underground bunker in Antarctica.
Dead pretend? Lay in a coffin and hope they don't notice I'm breathing?
Yeah, smart, Arshila. Perfect plan.
"Arshilaaaaaa," I groan out loud, dragging my hands over my face as I wander past some massive painting of a man with dead eyes. "Stop it. You know none of this shit's gonna work."
But my brain won't shut the fuck up.
Instead, it latches onto him.
Ebrahim.
God. Just thinking his name makes me want to vomit glass. I only met him once. Once. And I already hate him more than anyone in that whole poisonous family tree. His filthy, smug mouth. The way he leaned in too close, his breath souring my ear, his words digging under my skin like hooks.
On the bed.
I clench my fists so hard my nails bite my palms. If I could go back to that moment, I'd stab him in the throat with a fork. That's the level of hate we're talking.
And the worst part? Zayan doesn't even know.
He has no idea that while he was busy being… whatever the fuck Zayan is—danger, storm, shield—I was cornered by Ebrahim. And I had to stand there, stomach flipping, pretending I wasn't a second away from snapping his neck.
The only reason I didn't was Izar.
Izar, who came out of nowhere, cool as ice, sharp as a knife. Who slid between me and that snake like it was the most natural thing in the world. Who made Ebrahim's smug face crack for once.
But what happens when we're all under the same roof?
Zayan. Me. Shadin. Ebrahim. The whole damn Tavarian circus.
What if it happens again?
What if Zayan finds out?
What if—fuck.
I stop in the middle of some long, empty hall, press my palms against the cold wall, and drop my forehead against it with a dull thud.
"Think less, Arshila," I mutter to myself. "Or you'll end up insane before the week even starts."
But the spiral keeps going.
Because the truth is, I'm not just scared.
I'm fucking furious.
Furious at them.
Furious at him.
Furious at myself for being scared at all.
And the thought of walking into that house, standing in front of every single one of them with their eyes dissecting me like I'm some stray cat Zayan dragged in?
Yeah.
Doomed.
Totally fucking doomed.
I don't even notice how far I've wandered until my feet stop.
And when I lift my head, I know exactly where I am.
The west wing.
The corridor is quieter here, like the air itself knows this part of the mansion doesn't want to be disturbed. It's colder too—chill sneaking under my skin as if the walls are holding secrets they're dying to spit out.
And then I see it.
The door.
Massive, black wood, tall enough to make me feel small. Heavy enough to look like it could keep out a war. And in the middle, the handle. Carved into the shape of a snake, coiled and gleaming, like it's watching me, waiting for me to touch it.
My stomach flips.
This fucking door.
The only place I've ever been told I'm not allowed to go. Two months in this goddamn house—two months of awkward breakfasts, suffocating silences, Tavarian stares that could peel my skin—and still, this is the only rule that never came with an explanation.
"You can go anywhere, but not there," the housekeeper had said, voice flat, eyes carefully blank.
I'd asked why.
he'd just shook her head. "Zayan doesn't allow it. Not for anyone."
Not for anyone.
Including me.
And of course, instead of leaving it alone like a sane person, my brain latched onto that door like it was some fucking Pandora's box.
At first, I thought—girlfriend's room. Right? Secret lover stashed away in the west wing. Wouldn't that be poetic? But no. Zayan doesn't exactly scream "romantic candlelit affairs." He screams control. Domination. Possession. He wouldn't hide a woman behind a locked door; he'd parade her just to watch the world choke on it.
Okay, then what?
A harem?
I almost laugh out loud at the thought. Zayan, sitting on some velvet throne with twenty half-naked women fanning him with palm leaves? Please. He barely tolerates me. That idiot wouldn't survive two women, let alone twenty.
So if it's not that… what the fuck is it?
Something's off. Has been from the beginning. The housekeeper's tone. Zayan's silence about it. The way this entire wing feels dead, abandoned, like no one dares walk it.
And still… I'm here.
Because of course I am.
My stupid restless legs have carried me straight to the one place I shouldn't be. The one line I'm not supposed to cross.
And maybe that's exactly why I want to.
I stare at the snake handle, my pulse tapping louder than my footsteps ever did. My brain starts running wild, throwing images at me like knives.
What if it's a room full of weapons? Floor-to-ceiling guns, knives, things I don't even have names for.
What if it's a vault, stacked with blood money and secrets?
What if—fuck—what if it's bodies? Actual bodies. A mausoleum of every poor bastard who crossed Zayan and thought they could walk away.
I shiver. And not entirely from fear.
Or maybe it's worse. Maybe it's not death at all. Maybe it's life. Memories. Things too raw for him to show anyone. A past he's buried but can't destroy.
My mouth is dry, my thoughts a hurricane.
I step closer, slow, like I'm testing if the air itself will choke me out. My hand lifts, hesitates, then settles against the cold curve of the snake.
The metal is freezing against my skin.
My breath catches.
What will I see if I open it?
My brain starts whispering before my fingers even curl tighter around the snake handle.
Do you really wanna do this, Arshila?
The voice is sharp, cynical, the one part of me that's apparently sane. Zayan doesn't forbid you from anything in this massive mansion. He lets you wander every corner, open every door, touch every secret. Every fucking wing is yours. But this one? He drew a line. Maybe he has a reason.
I grit my teeth. "Shut the fuck up," I mutter to myself.
The voice doesn't stop. You don't need this. Don't pick the lock no one asked you to pick.
"You're wrong," I hiss under my breath. "I didn't even see the whole mansion yet. Do you know how many rooms are still out there? How many doors I haven't opened? He built this place like a goddamn labyrinth and you think I'm gonna stop here? At one door?"
My fingers tighten around the cold snake. The chill stings my palm, but I don't let go. "Not a fucking chance."
"What are you doing?"
The voice isn't mine.
It slices through me, makes me flinch so hard I jerk back from the door. My heart lurches into my throat.
I spin around fast—too fast—and nearly lose my balance.
And there he is.
Izar.
Standing in the shadows of the corridor, arms loose at his sides, his dark gaze locked on me. Still. Heavy. Watching like he already knows exactly what I was about to do.
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
My throat dries. My hand slips off the handle. I step back, trying to act casual but probably looking like I've been caught with a knife in the cookie jar.
"I—I wasn't—" The laugh that escapes me is weak, awkward. "Nothing. Just, you know… exploring. This mansion is like Narnia, I could get lost for weeks. I was just checking inside."
Izar starts walking. Not rushed. Slow. Each step measured, steady, carrying weight without him needing to raise his voice.
When he's close enough that I can feel his presence settle over me like a shadow, he stops. His eyes flick to the snake handle, then back to me.
"I'm sorry," he says. His voice is low, calm, and absolute. "But no one is allowed to go there."
The way he says it—it's not just a rule. It's final. A wall.
And something in me bristles.
"Why?" I ask. My voice comes out sharper than I intended. "Why not? It's a fucking door. In the house I live in. Why the hell can't I go inside?"
Izar doesn't blink. Doesn't move. Just looks at me. That unreadable stillness makes my stomach twist more than if he'd shouted.
"That's not for me to answer."
"Oh, come on," I snap. My frustration spills before I can catch it. "You really expect me to just… ignore it? Pretend it's not there? Do you know how insane that is? He gives me this whole goddamn mansion, every hallway, every room, every—whatever the fuck is in here—and then one door suddenly becomes off-limits like some cursed fairytale tower? That doesn't bother you?"
Izar's jaw shifts once, barely. His expression doesn't change.
"It's not for you," he says finally.
"Not for me?" I bark a laugh, bitter. "I'm his wife. You hear me? Wife. And I'm standing here asking what the fuck is behind one door in my own house, and I get 'not for me'? That's bullshit."
Silence.
He doesn't rise to it. Doesn't flinch. His calm is like stone pressed against my fire, and it makes me want to scream.
"Look," I press, stepping forward, "if it's that dangerous, then tell me. If it's that private, then say it. But don't stand there feeding me cryptic half-answers like I'm a fucking child who doesn't get to know what happens under her own roof."
Izar's eyes hold mine. There's no heat in them. No cold either. Just… steel.
"Some doors," he says, voice even, deliberate, "are not meant to be opened. Not by anyone. Not even you."
The words land like a blade.
I freeze, lips parting, but no sound comes out.
Because the way he says it—it isn't a warning. It's a verdict. Like the universe already decided, and I'm just late to the announcement.
Then his hand comes forward. Not rough. Not fast. Just firm. His fingers close around my wrist, steady and unshakable.
"Come," he says.
I pull back, weakly. "Izar—"
He doesn't let go. He doesn't tighten either. He just holds, patient and immovable, until the fight drains from me like water from a cracked cup.
Then he turns, guiding me down the hall. Not dragging. Not shoving. Just leading, step by step, back toward the main house, away from the door. Away from the snake staring after me.
And I let him.
Izar doesn't say anything at first when we reach the main hall. Just stops, releases my wrist slow, like he's testing if I'll bolt back toward that forbidden wing. His gaze lingers for half a second, unreadable as ever, before he finally speaks.
"I hope you don't… explore anymore."
The way he says explore makes it sound like a crime. Like curiosity itself is dangerous.
I scoff, sharp. "Yeah, sure. No more exploring. I'll sit in one room like a good little doll and knit sweaters all day."
If he hears the bite in my voice, he doesn't react. He just dips his head once—polite, final—and then he's gone. Silent steps fading down some hall, swallowed by the mansion.
And I'm left standing there, pulse still jittering, palms sweaty.
"Okey, then," I mutter under my breath, mocking his tone. "No more exploring. But if I see even one suspicious thing, Izar, I swear I'll tear the wallpaper off this house until I find out what the fuck it's hiding."
I blow out a shaky laugh, rubbing the back of my neck. My brain instantly drifts where it always does when I'm restless.
Zayan.
Where the hell is he?
My eyes dart toward the east wing, and I know before I even think about it. His study. It's this time of day—he always disappears there like a shadow retreating to its cave.
So I start walking.
Each step is a little too fast, like I'm scared I'll lose my nerve halfway. The halls blur past. When I reach the double doors of his study, my hand hovers for a second before I push one open just enough to peek.
And there he is.
Zayan.
Behind his massive desk, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, hair a little too messy like he's been dragging his hands through it. And—fuck me—the glasses. Thin, sharp frames perched on his nose as he leans over paperwork.
My stomach drops. No, scratch that. My stomach falls through the floor. Because how dare he? How dare he sit there looking like every fantasy I never wanted to admit I had.
Specs. On him. Like he wasn't already a weapon. Now he's upgraded to nuclear.
I must've made some tiny sound, because his voice cuts through the room before I can even breathe.
"Don't peek like a creep," he says, casual as sin. His eyes never leave the paper, his hand still moving with the pen. "Come inside if you like the view."
My chest stutters.
He didn't even look up. He just knew. Like he felt my gaze crawling over him from the doorway.
I clear my throat, trying to shake off the static buzzing in my head. "Ahm." Smooth, Arshila. Very smooth. I push the door open wider and step in, forcing my chin up like I belong here.
Zayan finally leans back in his chair, slow, deliberate. And then—finally—he looks at me.
Straight into my eyes. Unblinking. Like he's pinning me to the floor without moving a muscle.
"What do you want, my lady?"
The words drip with mockery. Not sweet mockery either—knife-edged. He knows exactly how much I hate that phrase. My lady. He might as well call me stray cat.
I scoff, crossing my arms. "Don't call me that. It's not funny."
His mouth curves. Not a smile. A smirk. The bastard knows exactly what he's doing.
And then he closes the cap of his pen with a sharp click. Doesn't break eye contact once.
My pulse stumbles. God really took his sweet fucking time on this one, didn't He? Crafted Zayan Tavarian like a warning label slapped on a storm. And now he's sitting here with that smirk, rolled-up sleeves, and glasses that should be illegal.
I swallow, shifting my weight. "Nothing. I was just… curious about your study."
"Curious," he repeats, leaning back further in his chair like the word amuses him. "That's a dangerous trait, Arshila. But you already know that, don't you?"
I roll my eyes so hard it's a miracle they don't get stuck in the back of my skull. "Don't turn it into a lecture. I just wanted to see what's so special about this room. I've seen every other corner of this house."
"You're free to explore," he says smoothly.
The tone makes my skin prickle. Free to explore… except the west wing. Except the snake door. My jaw tightens, but I force myself to look unbothered.
"Thanks for the permission, Your Majesty," I mutter.
And then I start pacing, slow, letting my eyes drift across the study. The walls lined with shelves, books stacked like soldiers, the heavy curtains pulled half-shut against the dying light. Everything screams Zayan—controlled, sharp, a little suffocating.
I can feel his gaze on me as I move, heavy as chains, tracking me with that predator stillness that makes the back of my neck itch.
And the worst part?
I like it.
The shelves tower, endless rows of heavy spines stamped with titles that could break my brain just by existing. Political theory. Economics. War history. All hard and rigid, nothing close to what I read—filthy romances I'd never admit to owning.
But one book stands out. Dark cover, faded gold lettering, wedged too high.
I reach. My fingers catch nothing. I tiptoe, straining, refusing to quit.
Behind me, his voice is low, threaded with amusement.
"You're not built for that shelf."
I grit out, still reaching. "I can handle it."
A pause, then softer, closer:
"Let me handle it."
I freeze, glancing back as he rises. The scrape of the chair. The quiet, unhurried way he moves. He's already walking toward me, sleeves rolled up, eyes fixed like he knows exactly how this ends.
I step back, but not far.
He doesn't slow.
When he stops behind me, the air shifts—charged, heavy. His arm lifts easily above my head, his body brushing mine as he plucks the book free like it was nothing.
The spine slides out with a whisper.
He lowers it—
And I turn at the same second.
His hand.
My step.
And then—
My lips are on his.