ZAYAN'S POV
I sat in the back of the car, legs spread, leather groaning under me like it knew who the fuck it carried. The city smeared past the tinted glass, neon bleeding into black, and every light looked like it was bowing without even knowing why.
Izar drove in silence. Always did. Always steady. That's why he's mine—because when the whole world's on fire, Izar doesn't flinch.
Marcus had played his card earlier. Said if I wanted Damien, I had to go through Damien's right hand. Daniel james cross.
The "trusted one." The gatekeeper. Win his trust, then maybe Damien would come out from his little hole.
I could've laughed in his face. Hell, I wanted to. I don't need Daniel. I don't need anyone. If I wanted Damien dead tonight, I could put his head in a box before sunrise. But that's not the game. A bullet is too quick. Too kind. Damien doesn't deserve kind. He deserves to be unmade. I want him gasping for air while his empire crumbles brick by brick. I want to see him beg for scraps from the same people who used to kneel at his feet.
That's why I'm patient. Not because I can't take him. But because I want to tear him apart in everything.
And then there's Daniel. Right now, he's sitting his ass in Tavarian Lux like he's royalty. Tavarian Lux—my hotel. My family's crown jewel. The place his shoes aren't even worthy to touch. He's drinking my whiskey, breathing my air, thinking the marble under his feet belongs to him.
He doesn't know who he's about to meet. Doesn't know he's waiting for the heir, the man who already owns the room he thinks he controls.
The thought of it cuts through me sharp, wicked. A low chuckle escapes before I even mean it.
Izar glances at me in the mirror. "What's funny?"
I lean forward, grin sharp enough to bleed. "You want to know what's funny, Izar? It's Daniel cross. Sitting in my hotel like a king, not realizing he's just a fucking guest. He thinks I'm coming to him, but he's already under my roof, eating from my plate. He doesn't know the ground he's standing on has my name carved so deep into it, it bleeds Tavarian. And he's about to smile at me like he matters."
Izar doesn't react. That's why I keep him. His silence is louder than applause.
I sit back, drag a breath, let the fire simmer. "Marcus thinks this is me proving myself. No. This is me watching Damien's men line up to hang themselves. Daniel first. Damien next. I'll make them trust me, open their doors, hand me their knives—and then I'll gut them with it. Piece by piece. Until Damien's not feared, not respected, just another rotting story no one gives a fuck about."
My hand clenches into a fist, veins straining. "He'll lose everything. His power, his name, his men. I'll make sure Damien Tavarian dies screaming in silence, with nothing left but the echo of what he used to be."
The car dipped low, the road curling like a serpent into the underground. Lights flickered, shadows stretching across stone. The sound of tires grinding against concrete echoed heavy, steady, like a war drum.
I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, smile cut across my face. Let daniel wait upstairs, puff his chest, play king. Let him think he's the test. Tonight's not about him. Tonight's about me, walking into my own house and letting them choke on the fact they never saw the wolf at the door—because the wolf was already inside.
The car slowed, hissed, and rolled into the underground parking of Tavarian Lux. My pulse was steady. My motive? Sharper than ever. Damien's destruction had already begun.
The car rolled to a stop in the underground garage. Concrete swallowed the sound, a low echo bouncing off steel and stone. Izar killed the engine, didn't say a word, just slid out and held the door like the soldier he is.
I stepped out, the air cooler here, heavy with oil and money. Tavarian Lux. My family's monument to dominance. Every city, every country, the same stamp. Seventy-seven floors. A number carved into the sky like a warning. Lux wasn't just a hotel—it was a reminder.
We crossed to the private elevator, Izar ahead, his hand already swiping the card. The doors whispered open, black glass swallowing us whole. Inside, silence hummed, broken only by the quiet thrum of mechanics pulling us higher, floor after floor after floor.
Sixty. Seventy. Seventy-five.
I stood still, legs spread, hands in my pockets. My reflection stared back at me in the dark glass walls, eyes that didn't blink, mouth set like a scar. Izar stood like stone at my side, every breath measured.
Seventy-seven lit up. The crown floor. The rooftop.
The elevator slowed, a hiss, a drag, like it knew it was carrying something heavier than just two men. The doors slid open—and the silence hit.
Usually, this floor is chaos dressed in diamonds. Oil princes flashing teeth, billionaires with cigars fat as their egos, women dripping in stones that cost more than kingdoms. Deals cut in whispers, alliances birthed in smoke. Always full. Always loud.
But tonight—empty.
Just glass walls framing the city, Tavarian's empire glittering like it owned the night, and one man at the rail, cigarette burning down between his fingers. Smoke curled around him, pale and lazy, wrapping his arrogance like a crown. Daniel James Cross. Damien's shadow.
He didn't turn when the doors opened. Didn't nod. Didn't acknowledge. Just took another drag and let the skyline worship him. That kind of arrogance doesn't come cheap—it's fed. Damien fed it.
Izar didn't move. He knew his place. The entrance. Guard. Silent, steady.
I stepped out, the sound of my shoes on marble slicing the quiet. Each step a claim, a weight, a truth. This was my floor. My fucking family's empire. Daniel was nothing more than a guest playing king.
He flicked his ash over the edge, smoke curling like a serpent. Only then did he tilt his head, slow, eyes cutting at me like I was supposed to flinch.
I smiled instead. Slow. Sharp. Cruel.
"Enjoying the view, Daniel James Cross?" My voice carried, clean, controlled, the kind of tone that strips men down before they even realize they're naked.
Daniel's eyes cut into me, sharp, appraising, smoke still curling from his lips like scripture burning. He didn't smile. Didn't answer my question. He just turned back to the skyline, leaning on the rail as if the whole city was his mirror.
"You know who I am," he said finally. Not a question. A statement. A fact he expected me to swallow like wine.
I let a breath drag slow, let my gaze linger on him a moment too long before answering. "Daniel James Cross. Damien's right hand." A pause, sharp, deliberate. "The man people meet before they meet the man himself."
His mouth twitched, like I'd said something he approved of, though approval from him was as dangerous as contempt. He tapped ash into the wind, then finally looked at me straight.
"And you're Adam ," he said, tone heavy with mock courtesy. "Founder of Falconridge. The company everyone's whispering about, yet no one can put their finger on." His smirk sharpened. "You've been… noisy, Adam. And noise catches Damien's attention."
There it was. The first test.
I didn't flinch. I let the words sit between us like an open flame. "Noise isn't always weakness," I said. Calm. Steady. "Sometimes noise is just the sound of a wolf breaking its cage."
He studied me again, that smirk stretching, as if he was trying to decide if I was clever—or suicidal.
"You talk like a man who thinks he's untouchable," Daniel said, dragging from his cigarette. "But I've seen men who thought the same. They bled quick."
I tilted my head, grin ghosting across my face. "Then maybe you've only seen men who bled wrong."
That earned me silence. A flicker in his eyes. He didn't like being toyed with. Which meant he liked me.
Daniel pushed off the rail, stepped closer, smoke wrapping around him like armor. "You want Damien's time, Adam. You want his ear, his table. Do you know what that means? Do you understand the fucking weight of that?"
"I understand," I said, voice even, shoulders squared. "It means walking into a world where only the strongest survive. And surviving doesn't scare me."
Daniel's laugh was low, dry, dragged from his chest. He flicked the cigarette, ember dying midair. "Confidence," he muttered. "Dangerous thing." Then, sharper: "But Damien doesn't need men who just talk. He needs men who'll bleed when he says bleed. Kill when he says kill. Burn their own fucking names if it keeps his untouchable."
I let my grin widen, just a fraction. "Then maybe you should ask yourself if I'm the man willing to do more than that."
He froze for half a beat, eyes narrowing. He didn't answer. Instead, he turned, walking back toward the rail like he hadn't just handed me a blade to stab him with. His voice carried over his shoulder, smooth but edged.
"You know why I chose this hotel, Adam?" He gestured wide at the marble, the glass, the city bent below us. "Because Tavarian Lux is holy ground. Neutral. A kingdom where no one bleeds, where every deal stands taller than nations. Damien respects that. He trusts it. And so do I."
Holy ground. My family's name carved into every inch of this marble. And here he was, praising it like it belonged to Damien. Like he was standing inside Damien's temple, not mine. The urge to laugh burned sharp in my chest, but I swallowed it whole.
Instead, I nodded, voice cool, almost reverent. "Then you chose well."
Daniel smirked, satisfied, like I'd bent a knee without realizing it. "Good answer."
He came closer again, closing the distance, his eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that was less test now, more weight. "You'll get your chance, Adam. But understand this—Damien doesn't forgive. He doesn't forget. If you fail him, he won't just kill you. He'll erase you. Falconridge will be nothing but ash and rumor."
Inside, I almost smiled. Erase me? Impossible. But I played the role, let him see resolve where there should have been fear. "Then I won't fail."
For the first time, Daniel's smirk softened. Just a shade. Approval. He tapped my shoulder once, firm, like a king blessing a knight. "We'll see."
And that was it. The first wall breached. The first brick in Damien's empire already cracking under my heel.
Daniel lingered by the glass, hands in his pockets now, no cigarette, just the sharp taste of silence between us. His head tilted slightly, eyes narrowed, studying me like a lion deciding whether to kill or test the cub that dared to step into his cage.
"You want to sit with Damien," he said finally. His voice dropped lower, heavier, carrying the weight of a verdict. "Then you prove to me you understand the world Damien rules. No bravado. No pretty words. A test."
I didn't answer. Just leaned back against the rail, legs crossed at the ankle, letting him think he had control of the air.
Daniel smirked like a man about to set a snare. "Here's the situation," he said, stepping closer, his tone shifting into something sharper, cutting. "Two nations. Both armed, both bleeding wealth into war. Nation A has oil. Nation B has weapons. They both want power, but neither can afford to drag the fight another decade. You—" he jabbed a finger at me, eyes burning— "you are the broker. Both sides are willing to give you everything, but if you choose wrong, the one you deny will slit your throat and feed your empire to the dogs. What do you do? Who do you side with?"
He let it hang there, smoke still in his voice even without the cigarette. Then, like a knife twist, he added:
"You have one fucking week to answer. One week, Adam. You solve it, you might just earn Damien's ear. Fail it, and you'll never even see his shadow."
I felt the laugh rise sharp and ugly in my throat, pressing against my teeth. My gaze dropped to the marble floor, tongue pressing against the inside of my cheek to keep it contained. He really thought he'd cornered me with this. A neat little mind game, all dressed up in strategy and power. A week? For this?
I looked back up at him, slow, deliberate, and let the smirk spread across my face like a cut.
"I don't need a week," I said, voice low but slicing through the air. "I can answer it now."
Daniel's eyes narrowed, his chin tilted, curious. He didn't expect that.
I stepped forward, each word deliberate. "You don't pick A or B. You take both. You build a bridge between them and make yourself the foundation they can't step off. Oil needs weapons, weapons need oil—so you make the war profitable, keep the bleeding alive just enough to keep them dependent. You never let them win, you never let them lose. You make yourself the vein they drink from until the thought of killing you is the same as killing themselves."
I paused, leaning in just enough for him to feel the edge behind my calm. "Power isn't in choosing sides. Power is in making both sides kneel."
The silence that followed was thick. Heavy. He hadn't expected me to rip the throat out of his little test before he even finished setting the trap.
Daniel's smirk returned, slower this time, not cocky—measured. He nodded once, almost reverent. "You're the one."
He turned then, walking toward the elevator like he hadn't just handed me a key he never meant to give. His back straight, shoulders squared, still radiating arrogance like cologne.
"You'll be notified when the time comes," he said over his shoulder, voice clipped, clean. "Don't make me regret it."
I stood there, watching the bastard retreat, every line of his frame demanding respect he didn't deserve. My jaw flexed, my hands still in my pockets, nails biting into my palms unseen.
In my head, the thought was clean, sharp, final: I'll kill this cocky bastard first. Not Damien. Not anyone else. Him.
The elevator doors slid open, swallowing him into its black glass throat. And as it carried him down, my reflection stared back at me in the window—the real owner of this empire, the real shadow Damien should fear.
ARSHILA'S POV
I sprawl across his bed like a criminal trespasser who doesn't give a damn about being caught. My room is literally ten steps away—ten. But my body has declared war against movement, and this mattress is the prize.
And fuck, this mattress is not just a mattress. It's… an experience. My spine sinks in, my limbs melt, and I'm convinced it's stuffed with the feathers of extinct birds and maybe the souls of underpaid workers.
It hugs me like it owns me. My bed? My bed back there feels like a cousin compared to this. This one swallows me whole and whispers in my ear, stay forever, baby.
My eyes drift up. And then it hits me.
That ceiling. GOD
It isn't just plaster and paint. It's architecture flexing its abs. Angled panels in sleek, dark wood cut with strips of warm gold light, like someone took starlight and choreographed it. Shadows fall in ways that feel intentional, seductive.
It's luxury with a side of sin. It screams sex. It's the kind of ceiling people design when they know damn well someone's going to be flat on their back beneath it, staring up, thinking I shouldn't be here but goddamn I am.
And the thought just… ambushes me.
How many girls has he fucked under this ceiling? On this very bed? This stupidly soft, stupidly expensive, smug-as-hell bed. Tavarian heir. He can have anything, anyone. Beds like this aren't for sleeping, they're for sin. Maybe this mattress has already recorded more moans than a porn studio.
I roll onto my stomach, press my face into the sheets, and instantly hate myself because—fuck—they smell like him. Not perfume, not cologne. Just him. Clean, warm, expensive, dangerous.
I groan into the pillow like it's responsible for my brain.
Then my phone explodes beside me, vibrating like it's trying to dig through the mattress. I grab it with a lazy swipe. "Hello?"
"Arshila," my mom's voice hums through, soft but pointed.
"Hmm."
"There will be dinner at our house."
My body goes stiff for a second. "When?"
"Tomorrow."
I flop back onto my spine, hair a mess against his sheets. "Okay."
"Come together."
I blink at the ceiling like it just insulted me. "You… want me to come with him?"
"Yes. It's the first family dinner since your marriage. So yes."
My throat clicks. I hum, the sound as noncommittal as I can make it, and cut the call before she adds anything else. The phone lands beside me with a thud.
And I just stare at that sinful ceiling again, this time with my chest tight.
Two months. It's been two goddamn months since the marriage, and this would be the first time stepping back into my house. Why? Because I've never bothered to bring it up. He doesn't give a shit about me or my family, why would he?
To him, they're background noise. He doesn't do "normal." He does palaces, private islands, boardrooms where old men fight over billions. My house? My family's modest, lived-in house with mismatched plates and my dad's annoying habit of leaving newspapers everywhere? That's not his world.
I can already see it. His slow blink, that head tilt, the little vein on his neck twitching as he tells me in his oh-so-perfect voice that he's not coming. That he has better things to do. That my dinner doesn't matter. Rich brat. Arrogant Tavarian bastard. He'll never set foot there.
And if he says no? Fine. Fuck him. I'll go alone. I don't need him hovering like some dark shadow at my side. I'll just lie. I'll tell my parents he had urgent work, that Tavarians run empires and can't always drop everything for chicken curry and family gossip. Easy.
Because my parents don't know the truth, do they? They don't know their daughter sleeps next door to him, like some reluctant roommate. They don't know we snap and bite at each other like enemies trapped in a cage. They don't know that behind the glossy Tavarian name, our marriage feels less like a union and more like a fucking contract.
I press my palms into the mattress, sink deeper into its obscene softness, and grit my teeth. This bed feels more like mine than he ever has. And that ceiling? That ceiling mocks me with every goddamn inch.
Bitterness creeps up my throat like acid. Because I know I'll lie. I have to lie. It's the only way everyone walks away intact. My parents get their illusion of a perfect son-in-law, and he gets to keep his distance from my "ordinary" world. Two sides satisfied, me stuck in the middle swallowing guilt like medicine I never asked for.
And maybe it's better he doesn't come. Better for everyone. Because if he did, he'd judge. He always judges. He'd step into my house with those sharp Tavarian eyes and tear it apart without saying a single word. He'd judge my parents , the way my dad laughs too loud. He'd judge the structure, the walls, the life lived inside them.
And my house—it isn't like this mansion. No, it's not enormous, not ridiculous, not dripping in chandeliers or marble or echoing silence. But it's not small either.
It's ours.
It smells like cardamom tea and my mom's perfume. The couches sag from too much use, the walls carry stories in tiny scratches and old paint.
It's warm. It's alive. It's home.
Unlike this place.
This mansion is a cathedral of wealth. Perfect lines. Endless space. Rooms that feel like stages waiting for actors who never show up. No laughter, no sound, just silence and expensive furniture too terrified of being touched.
Hollow. Voided out.
He might prefer it this way, but me? I don't know. Maybe I grew up in the noise, in the warmth, in the mess—but I'd choose that over this any day. Every damn day.
The door slams open.
I flinch so hard my head almost collides with his stupid sinful ceiling. My eyes snap to the door.
And there he is.
Zayan fucking Tavarian, stepping inside like the room bends to him. And holy hell—he looks wrecked. Not the sloppy, tragic wreck of some drunk loser. No. The devastating kind.
The kind that makes your stomach twist and your mouth go dry. His tie is half-loosened, hanging around his neck like it's given up the will to fight him. His hair is a mess, pushed back and ruined, like he's dragged his hand through it a hundred times on the way here. His blazer—jacket, whatever the hell it is—dangles from one hand, casual but deliberate, like even fabric knows it has to submit to him. His cuffs are unbuttoned, veins shifting along his forearms as he moves.
And he doesn't break eye contact.
Fuck.
My body panics before my brain does. I try to get up from his bed, but the mattress decides to betray me, pulling me back down like it's whispering, stay, stay, stay. I manage to sit up, barely, my hair a mess, my face probably glowing redder than hellfire.
And he's still looking at me. That stare. Heavy. Sharp. Like he knows every single thought that just ran through my head about this bed, this ceiling, and all the ghosts of girls who might've been here before me.
I clear my throat, fake casual, the sound way too loud in the thick silence. My hands dig into the sheets like they're guilty.
He doesn't say a word. Just crosses the room with that predator's calm. He walks toward the shelf, movements smooth, controlled, like even exhaustion bends into elegance for him.
He sets his phone down, then his watch—so precise it makes me want to scream. The jacket lands on the chair, careless but somehow perfect anyway.
And all I can think is: fuck. This man is fine. Too fine. Dangerous-fine. The kind of fine that wrecks you just by existing.
And I hate him for it.
I hate him because even wrecked, even stripped of all his Tavarian polish, he still looks untouchable. He still looks like power in human form. And I'm sitting on his bed, drowning in his sheets, acting like the trespasser who got caught red-handed.
His back is still to me, broad and infuriating, and I can't stop staring. Not even blinking. My brain is a mess of thoughts and curses, and then he opens his mouth.
"Didn't you get a little too comfortable with my bed?" His tone is casual, but it cuts straight through me. He glances over his shoulder, dark eyes catching mine. "You're always here."
I snort, rolling my eyes like I'm not sitting in the middle of his sheets like a damn squatter. "This shit? Comfortable? Bro, please. Your mattress feels like it's trying to smother me to death. Too soft, too fancy, like it cost more than a car. It's not comfort—it's a trap."
That smirk—devastating, sharp—slides across his mouth before he looks away again, deliberately unbothered. Asshole.
"My mom called," I blurt, because the silence is too heavy, too knowing.
He hums low, like he's already bored.
"There's dinner tomorrow. At my house. And she said… with you."
He doesn't answer. Doesn't even twitch.
I throw up my hands, dramatic. "See? Exactly. Of course you won't come. Don't worry, I'm not forcing you. Honestly, you don't have to come, okay? You wouldn't like it anyway. Too… normal. I'll just lie. Tell them you had urgent work or whatever. Done."
That's when he turns. Slowly. And holy hell—two buttons undone now, chain glinting, collarbone carved like sin itself. My pulse skips and stumbles, the traitor.
"Why wouldn't I come?" His voice is quiet, steady, but it slams through me harder than if he'd shouted.
"What?" I blink, brain buffering.
"Your father called me an hour ago." He slides his sleeves higher, veins flexing like they're alive. "Told me about the dinner."
I sit up straight, eyes narrowing. "He did? An hour ago?"
"Yes." His smirk edges sharp, like he's savoring this. "Maybe he trusts me more than you."
"Unbelievable." I shake my head, muttering, "He doesn't love his daughter."
Zayan's smirk deepens, smug bastard. "Maybe not."
My jaw clenches. "So? What did you tell him? Don't tell me you—"
"Yes."
I blink. "Exactly. I knew it. Of course you sa—wait. What?"
His head tilts, predator-slow, and I want to punch him for looking that damn good exhausted. "I said yes."
My jaw drops so fast it could shatter. "What the fuck? Why? Why would you say yes?"
"He invited me," he says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "Why would I say no? That wouldn't be… manners."
I actually laugh—sharp, disbelieving, almost manic. "Manners? You? You don't give a shit about manners. You don't give a shit about anyone. Don't fuck with me, Tavarian."
His eyes flick to my mouth when I curse, then back up with a slow blink that makes my stomach twist. "You don't know me, baby."
The word baby makes my skin burn. I snap, "Baby my ass. You don't even go to your friends' houses. You don't visit anyone. You live in this cathedral of wealth and glare at the world from your throne. And now suddenly you're Mister Manners, ready to eat at my dining table?"
"Maybe." He shrugs one shoulder, infuriatingly calm. "Maybe I want to see where you come from."
"Oh please." I bark out a laugh. "You'd last five minutes before your Tavarian brain combusts. My house isn't marble and chandeliers. It's warm. Loud. Messy. Real. You'd suffocate."
"Or maybe I'd like it."
"You won't," I fire back instantly. "You'll walk in there and silently judge every damn thing. The chairs, the walls, my dad's laugh, my mom's cooking. Hell, you'll probably judge the tea for not being poured into a thousand-dollar glass."
His smirk sharpens. "Maybe. Or maybe I'll charm them so much they'll like me better than you."
My stomach drops. "Over my dead body."
"Careful, baby." His voice dips lower, a warning wrapped in silk. "Don't tempt me."
I sit up straighter, crossing my arms. "No. Absolutely not. You are not coming. I forbid it."
He raises one perfect brow, slow and lethal. "You forbid it?"
"Yes." My chin juts higher, like that'll hide the fact my pulse is sprinting. "I forbid it. Tell my dad you changed your mind. Say no. Cancel. Whatever. Just—don't come."
He steps closer, eyes narrowing like a storm gathering. "Cute."
"I'm serious!" I point a finger at him, like I'm not pointing it at a man who could ruin me with one look. "Stay here in your big, echoing marble mansion where you belong. Leave my family out of your Tavarian world. I don't need you there. I don't want you there."
That smirk of his curves, devastating. "You sound scared."
I scoff. "Of what? You? Please. I just don't want you wrecking my house with your stupid judgmental stare."
He leans forward slightly, voice dropping so low it's a threat and a tease all at once. "I don't need to wreck anything, baby. I only have to show up."
And fuck—he's right.
Which is exactly why I double down, fists clenched, heat crawling up my neck. "Then don't. I mean it. Say no. Tell my dad you can't. I don't care what excuse you use. Just. Don't. Come."
He tilts his head again, chain catching the light, collarbone sharp enough to kill. "You really want me to say no?"
"Yes."
His smirk doesn't budge. If anything, it deepens. "Then maybe I'll say yes twice."
Shit