The swing creaks under me, slow, lazy arcs forward and back, the morning air cool against my skin. Garden smells—grass, wet soil, flowers I can't be bothered to name—wrap around me, but my head's not here. My head's stuck on last night.
On him.
Zayan Tavarian.
The heir with predator eyes, the bastard with judgmental eyebrows that could slice me in half if he wanted to.
But also… the polite, well-mannered, borderline sweet guy who sat at my family's table like he belonged there.
God, I hate that version of him more than the others. Because it looked too fucking good on him. Because I almost believed it. Because it made me smile like an idiot later when I was supposed to be sleeping.
I push the swing harder with my foot. The chain rattles.
Lovely. He was lovely. The word makes me want to gag, but I can't shake it. He looked like a damn kid at my mom's table, and I swear my dad was two seconds away from adopting him.
But then—same night—he turned into the other one.
The one who knows exactly how to breathe wrong just to make me combust.
The one who doesn't let me move past his boundaries without punishing me for it.
And now? Now I want to cross it. Just because he doesn't want me to. Just to see what happens when I do.
My eyes flick toward the guards. Like always, they've shifted their stance. Every time I step out, they turn so their backs face me, like I'm invisible. Like I'm some radioactive thing they can't even risk glancing at.
It's insulting.
I narrow my eyes and pick one. He's tall, broad, sharp edges in his suit, hand twitching near his earpiece like he's more comfortable talking to ghosts than dealing with me.
"Hey," I call.
His spine stiffens, but he doesn't turn. Not immediately. When he does, it's quick, like a damn machine. His gaze skims me for half a second, then drops straight to the ground.
My jaw tightens.
I scoff. "Come here."
He hesitates. Just for a breath. Then he strides over, boots crunching against the gravel, posture straight like he's reporting to war, not me. Stops a respectable distance away, eyes glued somewhere near my shoes like I'm a fucking landmine.
I lean back on the swing, arms crossing. "Why are you guys avoiding me?"
"Ma'am," his voice is professional, flat, almost military. "We're not avoiding you."
I bark a laugh. "Really? Then what the fuck do you call this—" I wave a hand up and down, motioning to the way he's practically saluting the dirt. "Because last time I checked, normal people look at someone when they're talking."
His jaw works, but his eyes don't move.
"With respect," he says, low, even, "you're not 'normal people,' ma'am."
That stings, and I hate that it stings.
I tilt my head, smiling sharp. "That supposed to be a compliment or an insult?"
"Neither." He swallows, Adam's apple bobbing. "It's protocol."
"Protocol," I repeat, dragging the word out like it tastes foul. "Protocol says you can't look me in the face? Protocol says you have to act like I'm a goddamn ghost floating around?"
His silence answers me better than his words.
"Unbelievable," I mutter, shaking my head. "Do you even realize how creepy it is? I walk past, and it's like the fucking plague hit—backs turned, eyes down. Like I'm diseased."
"Ma'am—"
"Don't 'ma'am' me." My swing stills with a sharp scrape of chains. "Tell me the truth. Why are you avoiding me?"
He's too calm, too measured. "It's not avoidance. It's respect."
I laugh, sharp and humorless. "Respect? You call this respect? Respect is when you acknowledge someone exists, not when you act like they'll strike you dead if you glance at their face."
His lips press tight. He doesn't answer.
And something ugly and restless coils inside me.
I lean forward, elbows on my knees, eyes locked on him. "Fine. You won't tell me that? Then tell me this. What do you think about Zayan?"
That lands. His shoulders go rigid. His head snaps just slightly, like maybe he didn't hear right. "Pardon?"
"You heard me." My voice drops, sharper now. "What do you think about your boss? About Adam Zayan Tavarian. Tell me."
The guard shifts his weight, eyes flickering once—just once—up toward me, then right back down to the ground like he burned himself. "It's not my place to have… opinions, ma'am."
"Bullshit," I shoot back instantly. "Everyone has opinions. Don't stand there and lie to me."
"Ma'am, I'm here to perform my duty, not discuss Mr. Tavarian."
I grin, wolfish. "Oh, so you do have thoughts. You're just too fucking scared to say them."
His jaw ticks. He doesn't move. Doesn't answer.
God, this is infuriating.
Zayan's rules run deep. Too deep. So deep even his men would rather eat nails than slip up in front of me.
I kick at the gravel under the swing, smirking to myself. "Fine. Don't say it. Keep your secrets. But here's the thing—" I lean back, eyes narrowing, voice dropping lower. "You're not protecting him from me. You're protecting me from him. And that, soldier boy, makes me want to poke harder."
The guard doesn't flinch, but I swear I catch the faintest twitch in his fingers.
A crack. Small. But there.
And it's enough to make me smile.
Because he's right.
I'm not normal people.
And I sure as hell don't plan on staying inside Zayan's neat little boundaries forever.
I shove myself off the swing after my little battle with Guard Robot and stalk back inside, gravel crunching under my shoes like it's laughing at me.
The hallway is quiet, too quiet, until I spot Mariam. Older, steady, every line of her face carved with patience and duty. Always there, always watchful, like part of the damn house itself.
Perfect.
I stride over, cutting straight into her space before she even gets a chance to bow her head. "I want to talk to you."
Her eyes soften—kind, loyal, irritatingly calm. "You can always talk to me, dear."
Not here. Not in this cold marble hallway where shadows feel like his eyes are still on me. I shake my head. "No. Outside. It's personal."
The shift in her face is tiny but there—hesitation. Her gaze flicks past me, like she's calculating whether the walls have ears. But she doesn't say no. She never says no. She just nods, slow, and follows me.
We step out toward the glass square—the ridiculous outdoor room that looks like someone decided a greenhouse should cosplay as a palace lounge. The couches wait, pristine and smug.
I flop down on one, crossing my legs like I own the place. She stays standing. Of course she does.
"Sit," I tell her, softer than I usually manage, respectful even.
She shakes her head immediately, hands folding in front of her. "No, miss. I'll stand."
My brows shoot up. "You're not standing while I sit. That's—what? Insulting? Awkward? Both."
She doesn't move. Her face is polite stone.
I groan, shoot up off the couch, and grab her wrist before she can twitch away. "Enough. Sit. Down." I push—gently but firmly—until she sinks onto the couch like a stubborn queen finally cornered. I drop back into the opposite seat, satisfied.
"Better," I mutter. Then I lean forward, elbows on my knees, eyes sharp on her. "I want you to talk about Zayan."
That earns me a flicker. Just a flicker—eyebrows lifting, mouth tightening—but I catch it.
"What about him?" she asks, voice careful, neutral.
I smile thin, dangerous. "I think you're able to give me more details than anyone else. You're with him more than anyone. You've seen him."
Her lips press together. "Yes. I was working under the Tavarians before he was even born."
Bingo.
I sit back, victorious already. "Then tell me. Talk about him. From childhood. Please."
Her spine stiffens. The hesitation isn't polite this time—it's fear, or maybe loyalty so bone-deep it feels like shackles. "I don't think I'm able to talk about young master."
My temper spikes. "Why not? It's me asking."
Her voice lowers, heavy with something unsaid. "Even though it's you… my duty remains. There are things I cannot speak."
I slam my palms against my knees, lean forward so close she can't escape my stare. "I'm not asking. It's an order."
That lands. Her back straightens, dignity snapping tight like a flag in the wind. Her eyes meet mine for the first time—steady, hard, older than my impatience.
"An order," she repeats, voice flat.
"Yes." My heart's hammering, but I don't let it show. "An order. From me. His wife."
The words taste strange, bitter-sweet, but fuck it—they work.
Mariam's silence stretches. Then she exhales, slow, resigned. Her shoulders ease down an inch, and she nods once.
"Very well," she says, the calm almost scarier than refusal. "If you insist… then I will talk."
And my stomach twists—half triumph, half terror—because this is it. The line I just crossed.
My legs are jittering under the table like I've had five cups of coffee on an empty stomach. I'm chewing on Mariam's every damn word, and she's just… steady. Calm. Talking about him like she's narrating scripture.
"Young master was born late," she says, her tone smooth, her hands folded neatly in her lap. "Even though his father is the eldest son of Chairman Tavarian, he came after his uncle's children. He is the youngest among the adult grandchildren."
I snap my head up. Late? My brows knit. "Why late?"
Her lips twitch in the faintest ghost of a smile. "Maybe it was God's plan."
God's plan my ass. That's the most non-answer of all non-answers. I huff, lean forward, push harder. "Then what? What happened?"
Her eyes go a little distant, like she's not even looking at me anymore, but back in time. "He was raised and loved by everyone. And at the age of sixteen, the Chairman declared him as heir."
I choke on my own spit. "Sixteen? That's—holy shit—that's barely legal to drive."
Mariam nods, unbothered by my outburst. "That is when he moved from his parents' house. He came here."
I blink. "Wait. Here? At sixteen?"
"Yes." She gestures faintly at the walls, the polished glass, the flawless modern lines. "But it was not like this then. This house was smaller. Plainer. What you see now was built before your marriage. Back then, he was here only in parts—he spent much of his time abroad. Learning. Preparing."
Of course he was abroad. Perfect Tavarian heir training camp. While kids my age were sneaking beers and failing algebra, he was probably shaking hands with prime ministers and memorizing asset charts.
Mariam's voice softens. "And he is kind."
That's it. I lose it. I actually laugh, too loud, too sharp, can't even stop myself. "Zayan? Kind? Are we seriously talking about the same man—the one with eyes like a damn sniper scope and a jawline that looks like it's always judging me?"
Her expression doesn't crack. Doesn't even twitch. "Yes. He is kind."
I'm still snickering, shaking my head. "No offense, Mariam, but if you're going to tell me that the bastard who unbuttons his shirt like it's a weapon is secretly the Easter Bunny, you're going to have to do better."
"You cannot see his kindness with outer eyes," she says, firm now. "You must look at him with your inside eyes."
Inside eyes. Jesus. What is this, a fortune cookie? I let out another laugh, though it feels more like nervous static. "Alright then. Use your inside eyes. Explain it."
Mariam doesn't flinch. She straightens her back, the steel sliding into her posture.
"He has carried the heir title since sixteen. Since childhood, he has carried the weight of the Tavarian name. He was being shaped for that role long before the public knew it. And do not be mistaken, miss—there is a reason no one outside these walls knows who he is. Chairman never acts without reason. The heirs of the other three families are known, visible, always in the news. But Tavarian's heir? Hidden. Even my own children do not know his name. That is not accident. That is design."
My laugh dies in my throat. My fingers curl into the couch fabric.
She keeps going, her voice a scalpel, clean and precise. "Even with all that weight, he built this place for us. The staff. He said no one under him would be a servant twenty-four hours a day. He gave us the outhouse—you've seen it. Where we live. When our shifts end, we go home. And still, we are paid. Even when we cannot come to work, the wages remain. And Tavarian wages are higher than any household in this country. That is his kindness. Not loud. Not obvious. But steady."
The room feels too small all of a sudden. My chest feels tight.
I want to argue, to snort and roll my eyes and call bullshit—but the words don't come out. Because Mariam isn't speaking like some PR puppet, like she's been fed lines. She's speaking like a woman who's lived inside this machine and seen where the gears grind.
Kind.
The word sticks in my throat like a damn thorn.
I force out a chuckle anyway, too sharp, defensive. "Still doesn't line up. He's not exactly handing out flowers and puppies."
Mariam tilts her head. "Not all kindness is soft, miss. Some of it is built in walls that keep people safe. In wages that feed families. In choices no one else will make."
Fuck. That lands. Too hard.
I press my tongue to the roof of my mouth, fighting the urge to shift in my seat. She's wrong. She has to be wrong. Because if she's right, then the monster I hate—the one with predator eyes and sharp words—might actually… not be one.
And that thought scares me more than anything.
I lean back against the couch, fingers drumming on my knee, my head buzzing with the same single thought: This is not what I fucking wanted. This is not what I expected about Zayan.
I wanted scandal. A flaw. Some dirt. A secret habit, a dark mess that proves he's human under all that Tavarian perfection. But Mariam's voice is steady, polite, cutting me clean of every hope.
"Do you know anything about his personal life?" My tone comes out sharper than I mean. More desperate.
Mariam doesn't even flinch. Her hands stay folded in her lap, her spine straight.
"No, madam. I don't know his personal life."
I almost roll my eyes into the back of my skull. Yeah, of course you don't. You've been glued to his shadow since before he grew teeth, but you don't know shit? Please.
She exhales softly. Then adds, "I only know one thing."
My brows shoot up. Finally.
"The three heirs—they know what young master truly is. They have always known. They share the weight he carries, and they understand his ways in a way most never will."
Of course. His precious Sovereigns. The golden trio that get the real Zayan while I get… what? His judgmental eyebrows and cryptic warnings like I'm an intruder in my own marriage.
Mariam doesn't pause. Her tone drops, a touch warmer now.
"And Izar…" she says, the name heavy, "…Izar is the closest to young master in this house. He became his bodyguard four years ago."
That pulls me forward. "Bodyguard?"
She nods. "Yes. Young master never wanted one. He hated the thought. Said it was suffocating, said no one should hover. He never tolerated anyone stepping too close, trying to command him. But Izar… Izar is different. He doesn't command. He doesn't interfere. He stands beside."
I freeze at that word—beside. It's small, but it slams right through me. Because no one stands beside Zayan. People kneel, or they scatter. They bow, they fucking worship. But beside? That's… dangerous. That's trust.
"He is only one year older than young master," Mariam continues. "Their ages balance well. And somehow, young master accepted him. It's rare. Young master lets no one that close. But with Izar… it is different. They are close. They understand each other without words."
My jaw clenches. Inside, my thoughts spit acid. Of course it's Izar. Of fucking course. The one man who barely blinks at me, the one shadow I can't shake, the one I can't stop noticing even when I should. Zayan trusts him, lets him close, lets him stand beside. But me? His wife? I get to orbit outside the fire, guessing, starving, scratching at scraps.
Mariam folds her hands tighter. "What you are searching for, madam… maybe you will not find in me. Or in any of us. But perhaps… you will find it in Izar."
I hum, pretending to be thoughtful, but inside my head it's chaos. Great. Fucking fantastic. If I want answers about Zayan, I need to go through the one person who already crawls under my skin. The one I talk to more than I should. The one who doesn't treat me like glass, or like dirt—he just… talks. Flat, calm, professional. And somehow that makes me want to pry even more. And yeah—I like him. Not like like. Okay, maybe a little. But mostly because he's the one human Zayan trusts, and that makes him a damn goldmine.
I lean forward, lowering my voice.
"You're saying if I want to understand him, I need to get closer to Izar?"
Mariam dips her head once, voice smooth. "Yes, madam. Izar is… a mirror. If anyone holds a piece of young master outside of the three heirs, it is him."
I almost laugh. Bitter and sharp. Perfect. Fucking perfect. The puzzle of Zayan Tavarian, and the missing piece is guarded by his right-hand man, who also happens to have the patience of a stone wall and the eyes of someone who knows too much.
But I keep my face calm, my tone casual.
"Maybe I will, then."
Inside, though? My brain is screaming. This is going to be messy. This is going to be so fucking messy. Because if Zayan finds out I'm poking around through Izar? He'll burn me. But if I don't? I'll never get the answers. And I already know I won't stay quiet. I'll poke. I'll push. I'll cross his boundary just to watch him snap. Because that's what I do. Because I don't know how to stop.
I tilt my head, my voice too casual, like I'm just asking about the weather.
"So… which room is Izar's in the Outhouse?"
Mariam doesn't blink. "The highest floor is his, madam."
I blink twice. "The whole floor?"
She nods once, neat and certain.
I sit back, letting that sink in. Of course. Of fucking course. While the rest of the staff pile up like sardines, Mister Stone-Face gets his own penthouse. A whole floor. Privacy. Silence. Perfect conditions for hiding whatever secrets Zayan's shadow is carrying. And now my dumb ass is thinking about how to manipulate him into spilling them. Yeah, fantastic plan, Arshila. Manipulate the one guy who could snap your neck like a pencil if he felt like it. Brilliant.
Mariam interrupts my storming brain. "Tomorrow, you are going, right?"
I frown. "Going where?"
Her brows pull together like she doesn't understand how I don't know. "To the chairman's house, madam. For one week."
The words slam me in the chest. Oh. Fuck.
My stomach twists. My brain just whispers one thing on repeat: No. No no no no no.
"Tomorrow," I say flatly, my lips curling like the word itself tastes like ash. "Right. Yes."
Mariam gives me a polite smile. "Then you will see. You will come to know what young master is there, and also the Tavarians."
And with that, she rises gracefully, bows like she always does, and walks back to the main house, leaving me glued to the couch like someone just cemented my spine.
The second she's gone, I slump, muttering under my breath.
"Fuck me."
The glass around me makes it worse—like I'm trapped in a fishbowl, watching the world I don't belong to. Because this? This week? This annual Tavarian circus where they all gather like vultures around their empire? I hate it more than anything.
One week. One goddamn week with the entire family, locked in that mansion like some twisted retreat. And me? The outsider. The stray they reluctantly let in. His parents don't make me feel that way—they're actually decent, warm even, treating me like their daughter-in-law.
But his aunt? That witch could slice me with a smile. And her two spoiled spawns—Ebrahim, the arrogant prick, and Ravza, the bitch who breathes like she invented oxygen—yeah, they're worse than nightmares.
And then there's Shadin. The only Tavarian I actually trust. The only one who looks at me and doesn't see a crack in the glass. But he has his own orbit, his own life. He won't be glued to my side. He never is. Which leaves me stranded.
Why the fuck do rich people have the strangest rules?
That's the question that keeps me awake at night. The Tavarian Annual Day—sounds like a fancy gala, right? Wrong. It's basically a family lockdown. All of them forced under one roof, for one week. No excuses. No escape. Like some twisted show of unity, or maybe just another way for them to measure and sharpen their knives against each other.
And me? Why the fuck do I have to go? I'm not a Tavarian. I'm a Mirza who somehow got roped into this dynasty like a bad accident you can't rewind. Now I'm supposed to smile, wear their diamonds, and survive a week in that suffocating mansion while they circle me like wolves.
The worst part? Zayan doesn't even care. Not there. He becomes something else when he's with them—colder, sharper, like he doesn't even know I exist. And that's when I start to wonder what will happen if I end up alone. Alone in their lion's den. With no one watching my back.
The glass catches my reflection—my smile is bitter, my eyes tired.
"One week," I whisper to myself. "One week of Tavarian hell. And somehow, I have to come out breathing."
Inside, though? My head is screaming. I'm not ready. I'll never be fucking ready.
The night air tastes like a fucking dare. Cool, sharp, crawling under my skin as I cross the garden, heels crunching against the stones. Tomorrow is already a nightmare waiting to happen, but tonight? Tonight, I've got business. I need answers, and those answers are spelled with four letters: Izar.
The Outhouse looms in front of me like it doesn't belong on this planet. Sleek glass walls, steel edges, lights glowing faint through the windows—it's not a staff quarter, it's a goddamn five-star hotel slapped onto Tavarian land. Of course Zayan would design something like this. Subtlety isn't exactly in his vocabulary.
Inside, it's worse. Marble floors that look like they'd cost more than my entire childhood home, chandeliers dripping crystals like the house itself is flexing, and that sterile luxury smell—fresh leather, polished wood, a faint cologne lingering in the air.
My chest tightens because fuck me, if this is how he treats the people working for him, then how does he treat the woman he actually lets into his bed? His girlfriend must live like a goddamn queen. Spoiled, kissed awake by diamonds, maybe.
I shake the thought off before it eats me alive. Focus. Elevator. Highest floor. Izar.
The doors close around me, mirror panels catching my face in twenty reflections. I look like I'm sneaking into somewhere I shouldn't be—and maybe I am. My pulse hammers in sync with the rising numbers. What if he's not there? What if I get caught? Still… better to risk it. Better to check than sit in my room like a caged idiot.
The elevator dings. Doors slide open.
Holy fucking hell.
It's not a floor. It's a penthouse. The whole thing—wide, open, sprawling, floor-to-ceiling glass spilling the city lights into the room. Warm wood, steel fixtures, furniture that screams masculine comfort without trying too hard. A world built for power. It hits me that Izar doesn't just work here—he lives like this. No wonder he's glued to Zayan's side. They're cut from the same expensive, dangerous cloth.
My heels sink into the thick rug as I walk, the silence so heavy I swear it's watching me back. Then I see it—a door. Closed.
His room.
My knuckles lift. I'm about to knock, ask something dumb and harmless to worm my way in. But then—
A sound. Restless. Movement.
I freeze, ears straining. Curiosity wins before common sense can kick me in the teeth.
I move closer, eyes catching through a sliver of glass in the frame.
And there he is.
Izar.
He's standing in the middle of the room, tall, solid, shoulders drawn tight like the day weighed a ton on him. He unclips his watch, slow, deliberate, setting it on the table like it's worth more than my soul. Then his fingers go to his shirt. Button by button. Steady. Careless.
My stomach drops. Shit. He's changing.
I know it's not right—I'm not some creep. Izar isn't Zayan. I don't want him. I don't look at other men like that, no matter how much I claim I hate Zayan. He owns me in ways I don't even want to admit. I shouldn't be here. I should walk the fuck away.
But then—he shrugs the shirt off.
And my breath stumbles out of me.
Not because he's built—though Christ, he is. Broad shoulders, muscle carved hard, veins cutting along his arms. But because of the thing that slashes across his back.
A scar.
Not just a scar—a slice. Wide, brutal, like someone carved him open and left him to stitch himself back together. Pale against his skin, angry in the dim light.
It's not a mark you get from tripping or a bar fight. It's a history written in flesh.
I can't move. Can't breathe. My throat locks. My mind races with a thousand questions and zero answers.
What the fuck happened to him?
Why the hell does Zayan keep him so close?
And why—why does that scar feel like a story I was never supposed to see?
___________
AUTHOR NOTE
First, thank you so much for being here with me. Reaching 22k views means the world, and I hope you're enjoying this story enough to stay with me until the very end.
Since my classes have started, I won't be able to upload every day like before. My new schedule will be Friday, Saturday, and Sunday at my usual time. I hope you'll understand.
But—because I don't want you waiting too long—here's something special: you can now read three chapters ahead every Monday before the public release. These early updates will also come with exclusive extras like spicy chapters, side characters' POVs, and deeper world-building.
The next three chapters are already waiting for you, along with Izar's story. For more details, check my bio.