Arshila's POV
"You really want me to say no?" His voice is silk, but there's a blade tucked in it, glinting just enough to make my stomach dip. That smirk of his curves slow, dangerous. "Then I'll say yes. Twice."
My mouth drops open. Wide. Like cartoon-character wide. I probably look like someone just told me gravity stopped working. "You are—" I snap my jaw shut, then fling it open again because I can't help it. "You are insufferable."
He doesn't even flinch. Just smirks deeper, like I gave him a compliment instead of the verbal middle finger he deserves. "My father-in-law is the one who invited me," he says, smooth, deliberate, chain glinting against his collarbone. "So his daughter—my wife—doesn't get to say no."
The word wife hits like a slap. My skin burns. "We are not actual husband and wife," I shoot back instantly, voice sharp enough to crack glass.
That's when he moves. Fucking slowly. Like he's got all the time in the world to peel me open nerve by nerve. He steps closer, shadows bending with him, shoulders broad enough to block out half the damn room. His eyes pin me down, lethal and calm. "Aren't we?"
I scoff, but it comes out thin, wobbly. "No. No, we're not. We don't even… act like it. . We don't—" My voice hitches, traitorous, and I wave my hand like I can swat away the heat crawling under my skin. "Whatever this is? It's not a marriage. It's a… a contract."
His smirk flicks, slow and sharp. "Contracts are binding, baby." He tilts his head, chain catching the light, collarbone a fucking weapon. "And binding is a kind of marriage, isn't it?"
God. My whole body betrays me. Heat runs up my neck, into my face, and I hate him for noticing. Of course he notices. He notices everything.
"Don't," I warn, but my voice is weak. I hate it. "Don't twist words."
"Why not?" He leans down, just enough for his breath to ghost against my cheek, and my pulse spikes so hard it feels audible. "You're already tangled in them."
"I hate you," I spit, but my voice cracks right in the middle, which completely ruins the delivery.
His smirk deepens, almost lazy, like he's tasting victory on his tongue. "No. You want to hate me. That's different."
I shove at his chest, but it's like shoving a wall that decided to learn arrogance as a hobby. He doesn't move. Doesn't budge. Just stands there, towering, breathing steady while mine stumbles.
"You think this is funny?" I snap, glaring up at him even though my legs feel like they might give out.
His eyes drag over me, slow, deliberate, and when they land on my mouth, my stomach nosedives. "Not funny," he murmurs, voice husky, dangerous. "Interesting."
My heart is hammering so loud it's probably echoing off his expensive-ass walls. And still, my brain insists on working overtime. How many women has he cornered like this? How many stood under this ceiling—this luxury sex ceiling of his—while he smirked like sin was his native language?
I hate that I'm thinking about it. I hate that my skin burns where his gaze lingers. I hate that my breath shortens every time he says baby like it belongs to me.
"You are not coming tomorrow," I bite out, grasping at control like it's a lifeline. "I don't care what you told my dad. I don't care what manners you suddenly found under your pretentious ass. Stay. Here."
His smirk curves crueler. "Say please."
My jaw unhinges. "Excuse me?"
"If you really don't want me there," he says, voice low, calm, lethal, "say please."
My throat works. My fists clench. And fuck him, because I can't even form the word.
His smirk sharpens, slow blink dragging me under. "That's what I thought."
And then he steps back, finally, finally giving me air, but the damage is already done. My pulse is wrecked, my thoughts are chaos, and tomorrow suddenly feels like the start of a goddamn war.
-------------------------------
Of course he didn't listen. Adam fucking Zayan Tavarian never listens. I could've written a ten-page essay, footnotes and all, titled "Reasons Why You Shouldn't Come to Dinner at My Parents' House," and that arrogant bastard would've still shown up, polished and smug, just to watch me combust.
So now here we are. In front of my house. The car hums low like it's holding back laughter, and he's sitting there—elbow hooked on the door, finger resting against his lips, leaning back like some untouchable king who just discovered the concept of suburbia.
And he's staring. Not at me. At my house.
I look at him, squinting, then back at the house, then at him again. "What?" My voice slices through the silence, sharp. "What's wrong, Tavarian? Didn't ever see a normal house before?"
Nothing. Not even a flicker. His eyes stay locked on the wall, the windows, like my house is a puzzle he's trying to solve.
My blood pressure spikes. "Ayyshhh—" I drag my hands down my face. "You… get out."
I shove the door open before I lose my damn mind and step out, muttering curses under my breath. The air feels heavy with impending doom—because of course, right on cue, my mom comes walking out of the front door, all smiles like she's about to greet Santa Claus.
"Perfect," I hiss under my breath. "Kill me now."
And then, as if the universe is in on the joke, he finally moves. The car door clicks open, and Adam Zayan Tavarian—Mr. I-Own-The-Fucking-World—steps out. Slow. Smooth. Like he's stepping onto some red carpet and not my cracked-ass driveway.
My mom's eyes immediately go to him, and I swear my soul just leaves my body. She starts walking toward him, bypassing me completely, and my jaw drops.
"Excuse me?" I whisper-shout at the universe. "What the actual hell? She doesn't want me now? I'm the goddamn daughter here!"
And then it happens. My mom, with her sweet voice, looks up at him and goes, "How are you, son?"
I whip my head around so fast my neck cracks. Oh, this is going to be good. He's going to hate that. Mr. High-and-Mighty is going to twitch. Cringe. Maybe even short-circuit.
But no. Nope. Not even close.
Instead, he smiles. A real one. Small. Almost shy. His lips curve like he's caught off guard, and his goddamn ears turn red. His ears.
My brain malfunctions. "What the fuck??"
Is he acting? No. That doesn't look like acting. That looks like actual… bashfulness? The devil himself—blushing?
"I'm doing good, Mom," he says. Calm. Respectful. Mom.
I blink. Once. Twice. My jaw hits the ground. "Mom?" MOM? Did Adam fucking Zayan Tavarian just call my mother Mom like he's been in this family for decades?
I'm frozen, staring at him like he's sprouted a second head. Meanwhile, my mom beams like Christmas lights and gestures him closer. "Come," she says, then looks at me and nods like I'm just the sidekick here.
Unbelievable.
I roll my eyes so hard it's a miracle they don't get stuck in the back of my head. Then I storm ahead, walking faster than necessary just to put space between me and this circus.
But curiosity burns like fire at my back, so of course I glance over my shoulder.
And there he is.
The fucker still has that shy smile lingering on his face, ears tinted pink, and he's looking at my house like it's some kind of… treasure? He's scanning every inch of it, like the peeling paint and crooked mailbox are worth more than the Tavarian empire.
My steps falter.
"What's his deal?" I mutter under my breath.
Because this isn't arrogance. This isn't the smug bastard I know. This is something else. Something quiet. Something dangerous in a completely different way.
And I hate it. I hate the way my chest feels tight, like he just cracked open a door I didn't even know existed.
But most of all, I hate that shy fucking smile. Because it makes me wonder—what the hell is Adam Zayan Tavarian hiding?
Zayan's POV
God.
I usually came here in the past only at night—silent, hidden, cloaked in dark like a fucking ghost nobody invited. Four years of it. Four years of slipping into this street, this driveway, her window. Four years of watching her breathe while the rest of the world slept.
And now? Now I'm sitting in front of her house like it's nothing. Not as her shadow. Not as her stalker. But as her husband.
The word still fucks me up. Husband.
It's stupidly nostalgic, sitting here, the weight of the past bleeding into the present like I never left it. My hands twitch against the wheel because every memory comes crashing in—the first time I set foot inside this place, broad daylight, nobody home but her. She had just turned twenty. Afternoon sun cutting across the living room, her hair damp, her shirt clinging in spots. She walked straight out of the shower, humming under her breath, not even knowing I was there.
I didn't breathe. I didn't move. Just let myself look, let myself brand the moment into my skull like I'd never get another.
And then, night after night, I came back. Always came back. To watch her sleep. To stand in her doorway like a sinner who didn't want forgiveness. To ask myself what the fuck I'd do if her parents ever caught me. I used to smirk in the shadows, thinking maybe I'd just lean against the wall and say, Hello, in-laws.
And now here I am. Actually saying hello. Except I'm not the stalker in her shadows anymore. I'm the son-in-law.
She tells me to get out of the car, snapping like I'm the villain of her favorite soap opera. I almost laugh, because she has no idea. No idea how many nights I was already here, close enough to reach out and touch her, close enough to know the rhythm of her sleep.
Then her mom comes out of the door, smiling like the sun. And she says it. That word. Son.
Fuck. I can feel it—the heat in my face, the way my ears betray me. It's ridiculous. I don't blush. I don't fucking blush. But I'm blushing now. Because it's not just a word. It's the dream I never admitted out loud. The one I replayed too many times when I left her house at three a.m., hands clenched and chest burning.
And now I'm standing here, hearing it for real. Living it.
I tell her mom I'm doing good, and it tastes dangerous on my tongue. She beams, nods, tells me to come inside. And Arshila storms ahead, rolling her eyes so hard she probably sees stars.
But I stay behind for a second. Let the nostalgia drag me under.
Because across the street—it's still there. That old house. The one I bought just to watch her. Just to have a balcony that lined up with her window. My private theater. My obsession carved into bricks and glass. Nobody ever knew. Nobody ever will.
And fuck, I want to laugh, because if she ever finds out…
I glance back at her, storming up the path like I just ruined her entire bloodline. She throws me a look, sharp, confused, like I've lost my fucking mind. Maybe I have. Because all I want to do right now is grab her by the wrist, slam her against this door, and kiss her until she finally admits she's been living in my nightmare long before she married it.
But I can't. Not here. Not yet.
So I step inside with her. The house smells the same—warm, lived in, irritatingly her. My eyes scan the living room, pulling details apart automatically. Something's changed. The couch is new. The table too. Even the curtains. They're different. Cleaner. Brighter.
But I liked the old ones better. The old couch where she curled up to study, the table I leaned against when nobody knew I was there. Every mark, every scratch, every dent—I knew them all. I memorized them like scripture.
Now they're gone.
And she's here, tossing me looks like she's daring me to slip up.
If only she knew how much I already have.
Arshila's pov
The second we step inside, he pauses. Not just pauses—scans. Like the living room is a goddamn crime scene and he's the detective who already knows the ending but wants to watch everyone else sweat. His eyes flick from wall to couch to curtains, slow, deliberate, sharp.
And I know that look. That Tavarian look. That "everything here is beneath me but I'll tolerate it for the sake of anthropology" look.
My jaw tightens.
Really? Judging my parents' house? The place I grew up? He's here for the first time and already pulling his rich-boy inspection routine like the walls need his approval.
I glance too, defensive as hell. And then I blink. Wait. The couch is new. The table too. Lighter wood, different shape. Oh. Right. Mom bought them after the wedding—"fresh start," she said. As if swapping furniture erases the fact that her daughter married the devil's favorite son.
Still. The fucker doesn't get to judge.
But he's standing there so still, so unreadable, that for a second it doesn't feel like judgment. It feels like… recognition. Which makes no damn sense. He's never been here before. Tavarians don't step into "normal houses." Palaces, estates, private islands, sure. Middle-class living room with Ikea-vibes? Fuck no.
Before I can overthink it, my dad appears.
And oh God.
Dad's eyes go straight to him, skipping me entirely, like I'm just background noise in this scene. He studies Zayan once—up and down—then smiles like my husband didn't just walk in here looking like sin dressed in Armani.
"How was the drive here?" Dad asks.
And then it happens.
"It was okay, Dad," Zayan says. Calm. Smooth. Like it's not the most psychotic shit I've ever heard in my life.
My head whips so fast I hear my neck crack.
What the actual fuck did you just call him?
Dad.
He called my father Dad.
Excuse me???
Two months of marriage, two months of cold wars, two months of pretending we're basically glorified roommates with matching rings—and suddenly, in my parents' living room, he's Mister Family Son-in-Law of the Year? My brain short circuits so hard I almost forget to breathe.
My eyes cut to him, sharp enough to kill. He doesn't even flinch. Just sits there, relaxed, unbothered, like calling my father Dad is the most natural thing in the fucking world.
What's his game?
What's his real deal?
Dad beams, clearly thrilled. "Good, good. You must be tired, sit down."
And Zayan—Adam fucking Zayan Tavarian, the same man who once made a foreign ambassador sweat blood just by tilting his head—moves. Obediently. Like some perfect little son-in-law puppet. He lowers himself onto the couch like he's been trained since birth for this exact goddamn moment.
And my parents? My fucking parents don't even react to the fact that he's a Tavarian. The Tavarian. The name that makes the world bend over. Nope. They're just happy to have him sitting on their couch like he's my high school boyfriend here to charm his way into family game night.
Meanwhile, I'm stuck standing here thinking—
What the fuck is happening?
Who is this obedient fucker and what has he done with my arrogant, cold, insufferable husband?
Because this man doesn't act like a Tavarian. He doesn't act like a king. He acts like… mine.
And that thought alone is enough to make my stomach twist, my chest tighten, and my brain scream at me to shut it the fuck down.
But it's too late. The word "Dad" is already echoing in my skull like a shotgun blast.
Mom breezes back from the kitchen with a tray like she's serving royalty instead of, you know, her actual demon son-in-law. Glasses clink, the jug sweats with condensation, and she sets everything down in front of him like she's hosting a goddamn state dinner.
And there he is. Adam fucking Zayan Tavarian. Sitting with his legs easy, shoulders loose, face carved in that stillness that makes people think he's calm when really, I know he's calculating. He lifts the glass Mom gives him, slow as sin, tilts it back, throat working—and I hate that my eyes track it. Hate it.
He looks at me while he drinks. Not casually. Not an accident. Like he knows. Like he always knows. My breath stumbles, so I force myself to look away. Pretend the window is fascinating. Out of the corner of my eye, I still catch him smirking into his damn glass.
What the fuck is this? This is not Zayan. This is not the bastard I married. Maybe he's replaced himself with some Tavarian robot just to mess with me. Makes sense. Only explanation. Because the real one wouldn't sit here all docile, sipping juice like a house cat.
And then—oh God—Mom opens her mouth.
"Does she make you difficult?"
The universe goes quiet. I choke on my own spit.
"Why me, Mom?" I snap instantly, half-standing from the couch. "Why is it always me? You didn't even finish the sentence and somehow it's me. What did I do? Sit wrong? Breathe wrong?"
But he's looking at me now. I can feel it. Heat on my skin. He leans back slightly, one elbow on the armrest, the kind of posture that says predator at rest. A tiny, dangerous curl touches his mouth.
I want to scream.
He's going to say it. I can already hear it. "Yes, she makes me difficult. Yes, she's hell." And my parents will laugh and nod because that's exactly the kind of daughter they raised.
Except—
"No," he says, voice steady. "She doesn't."
…
My jaw unhinges. My vision goes red.
WHAT. THE. FUCK.
No?
NO?
Since when? Since when has Adam fucking Zayan Tavarian ever let me off the hook? The man drags me through hell on a daily basis, and now in front of my parents he wants to play sweet little angel husband?
I want to grab the nearest heavy object and slam it into his stupid perfect face just to see if the real Zayan falls out of the mask. My fists actually clench. I picture punching him right there, in front of my parents, just to watch the act shatter.
Before I can combust—
Thud.
A schoolbag hits the floor.
I groan. Oh, fantastic. He's here. Ahil. All eleven years of chaos and attitude.
He barrels into the living room, gasping like he ran a marathon, tie hanging half-off his neck, hair sticking in every direction. Typical. He freezes when his eyes land on Zayan.
And then the impossible happens.
"So you came," he says. Breathless. Disbelieving. "Actually."
…Excuse me?
Zayan doesn't even blink. Doesn't hesitate. Just turns slightly toward him and says, cool as anything, "Told you."
…
WHAT THE FUCK.
I jerk my head back and forth between them like I'm watching some secret handshake I was never invited to. My eleven-year-old brother knows him? Knows him??
They're talking. Conversing. Like this is normal. Like this is not the first time.
And yeah, okay, sure, they technically saw each other at the wedding. And in the hospital. But this? This feels different. This feels like they've got some kind of inside deal going on that I'm not part of.
"What the actual hell is going on?" I mutter under my breath, heart pounding.
Because here's the thing—
I've been married to this man for two months.
And yet somehow, my little brother is acting like he understands him better than I do.
And that thought alone makes me want to scream.
"You know him??" I snap at Ahil, my voice higher than I mean it to be, like maybe I've just discovered my little brother has been doing drugs in the garage and forgot to tell me.
Ahil blinks at me, expression dripping with are you stupid or what energy.
"Are you dumb? He's your husband."
…
I swear to God, I almost launch myself across the room. My fists actually twitch.
"Not that kind of 'know,' you moron," I hiss, teeth clenched. "I mean—how the hell do you know him casually? Like you two didn't just meet today?"
Ahil shrugs like it's the most normal thing in the world. "We play games together. Online."
…
My neck snaps toward Zayan so fast I almost break something.
"You play games? With him??"
And there it is. The smirk. That slow, devastating, infuriating lift of his mouth that makes me want to stab him with the fruit knife Mom left on the tray.
He doesn't even answer right away, just tilts his head like he's debating how much of me to drive insane tonight. "What can I say?" His voice is silk dipped in arrogance.
I'm dying. I'm fucking dying.
Because this isn't the Zayan I know. The one who ruins my mornings with silence sharp enough to cut glass. The one who makes my chest feel like it's on fire every time he looks at me too long.
No. This one—this one plays games with my little brother?
Which version is real? Which version is the mask?
I swear I'm about three seconds away from tearing my hair out and setting the whole house on fire just to reset the universe.
Ahil steps forward, fearless like only an eleven-year-old menace can be, eyes roaming Zayan like he's analyzing some rare collectible action figure.
"You're actually pretty handsome, man."
I choke on my own breath.
Did he just—
And of course, of course, Zayan smirks again. The kind that could make statues blush.
Mom breezes in from the kitchen again at the worst possible moment, wiping her hands on her apron. "He always plays games, never studies." She shakes her head like she's exhausted.
Zayan, the traitor, doesn't even flinch. "He's actually pretty good . Has a bright future in there." His tone is steady, serious, like he's handing down prophecy. "But—" his eyes cut to Ahil, sharp enough to pin him in place, "you promised me you'd study and get into the top."
I… I'm deceased.
I'm literally watching Adam Zayan Tavarian—the man who wouldn't spare me a fucking Band-Aid if I were bleeding to death on his marble floors—turn into Coach Husband of the Year for my little brother.
Ahil puffs his chest, proud as hell. "I did. And I am. I'm the topper now. Always will be. It's my promise, bro."
…
Wait.
Bro??
Did he just—did my little brother just bro my husband??
My brain short-circuits.
He doesn't bro me.
He doesn't even look at me with that much respect when I'm the one who sneaks him cookies at midnight and covers for his missing homework.
Thank God Alan isn't here. If my older brother was home from the States, I'd be six feet under right now. He'd have jumped on this circus too, dragged me through the mud, and probably crowned Zayan his new best friend while I rot in the corner.
"Come," Ahil suddenly says, grabbing Zayan's wrist like they've known each other forever. "I'll show you my room."
…
I blink.
Excuse me?
Did my eleven-year-old just claim my husband like a pet he found on the street?
Zayan doesn't resist. Doesn't laugh. Doesn't even raise a brow. He just stands—slow, deliberate, towering—and lets himself get dragged like he's amused by the whole goddamn spectacle.
And then—then—he looks back at me. Over his shoulder. That look. That unreadable, dark, smug-as-fuck look that makes me want to punch walls and kiss him and kill him, all at once.
I'm not staying behind. Hell no.
I push up from the couch, every nerve in my body sparking. If they think they're gonna have some secret little bonding session without me, they're out of their fucking minds.
So I follow them. Down the hall, toward Ahil's room.
And the whole time my brain screams one thing on repeat—
Who the fuck is this version of him, and why do I feel like I'm the only one in the room who doesn't know him at all?