Arshila's pov
My room looks like a battlefield, and the casualties are all silk and satin. Dresses are everywhere—on the floor, on the bed, slung across the chair like corpses draped after execution.
My suitcase is open on the floor, half-stuffed, accusing me like it knows damn well I've been pacing instead of packing.
It's been twenty minutes since he left with that clipped, cold "It's time." Twenty minutes of me walking circles around this room, chewing my own tongue raw, trying to figure out how to fake something—anything—that'll keep me from going. A headache, a fever, maybe even a sudden desire to drop dead.
But no. None of it works. Not because I can't act, but because he'd smell the lie. Zayan Tavarian doesn't just have eyes; he's got fucking radar. He can strip a lie down before it even leaves your mouth.
So yeah. I'm screwed.
I slam the suitcase shut with a sharp snap, like maybe that sound alone can give me courage. Then I dig out the dress—the one I've been avoiding because it feels like wearing a warning sign.
Elegant as hell. Luxury dripping from every seam. Not revealing, not cheap, not begging for attention—commanding it. It's the kind of dress you wear when you want people to know you don't play, that you're not the girl they think they can whisper about behind fans or wine glasses.
Sliding into it feels like strapping on armor. The zipper bites my spine, the fabric clings just enough, and when I face the mirror, I almost don't recognize myself. Almost. Because beneath the polish, the hair, the dress—I see the same restless eyes. The same clenched jaw. The same girl already plotting how to survive tonight.
Fuck.
I grab my things, square my shoulders, and leave the wreck of a room behind. Each step down the hall is a drumbeat, loud in the silence. The house is too big, too polished, too still. My heels echo like gunshots. By the time I reach the stairs, I already feel like I'm walking to the gallows.
And there he is.
Zayan's on the couch, lounging like the world arranged itself to suit him. One arm resting over the backrest, his long legs stretched out like he owns every square inch of this place. His head tilts when he notices me, eyes lifting from under his lashes. That stare is a weight, heavy and sharp, pinning me before I even stop in front of him.
I plant myself there, chin up, refusing to fidget, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing nerves.
"Let's go."
My voice comes out harder than I feel, steel over fire.
His eyes drag over me once, slow and deliberate, before they lock on mine again. He doesn't move. Doesn't even blink. Then his mouth curves, not into a smile, not exactly—a cut of amusement, dangerous and knowing.
"You really want to go?"
The question slams into me harder than if he'd yelled. My throat tightens, my fists curl against my sides. What the fuck is that supposed to mean? Like I have a choice. Like I haven't been pacing for half an hour, trying to invent ways to not go. Like he doesn't already know that every step closer to that house feels like walking into a viper pit with my throat bared.
I want to scream, No, I don't fucking want to go. I want to throw it in his face, tell him to shove his questions and his smirk down his own throat. But I don't. Because what's the point? He'll twist my words, make them a game, drag me into that suffocating space where he's always right, always ahead.
So I just stare at him, steady, burning. My pulse is a fucking jackhammer, but my face stays cold.
"Don't flatter yourself," I snap. "I'm not going because I want to. I'm going because I don't have a choice."
Inside, though? Inside, I know exactly how this will go. We'll walk into that house, and I'll be nothing but a target. Every side glance, every fake smile, every little comment laced with venom—all of it will be aimed at me.
And Zayan? He'll sit there, unreadable, untouchable, probably watching with those blackened eyes like it's entertainment. Because that's what I believe: he doesn't care. Not about me. Not about what happens when we get there.
He tilts his head at me now, slow, deliberate. Like he's dissecting me. Like he already knows every thought tearing through my skull.
And maybe he does.
Fuck him.
The second I slam the door shut, I yank the seatbelt across my chest and snap it in place like I'm strapping myself into a damn guillotine. No hesitation, no pause, no second thought. Click. Locked. My palm stays right there, gripping the strap like if I let go, I'll end up smeared across the asphalt by nightfall.
The bastard slides into the driver's seat beside me, moving slow, deliberate, like he's already won something I don't even know I've lost. The engine comes alive beneath us, not with a purr but with that guttural, snarling growl only his cars make. A fucking beast waiting for his command.
I flick my eyes to the mirror.
And yeah, there it is—Izar, slipping into the car parked behind us. Shadow-silent, head ducked, movements sharp, clean. That car rolls out first, like a soldier leading the charge, headlights spearing through the dusk. A fucking escort. Because of course Zayan needs one.
I'm still clutching my seatbelt like it's a lifeline when the corner of his mouth curves. Not even a full smile. Just that slow, dangerous stretch that makes my skin crawl. Then—of course—he chuckles. A low sound, too calm, too satisfied, like the world is some private joke only he's cruel enough to enjoy.
"You making me so evil by doing this," he says, voice smooth as poison.
My head snaps to him. "Doing what?"
He doesn't answer right away. No. He glances down, just once, at where my knuckles are white against the belt across my chest. Then he looks back at the road, smirk deepening, voice lazy.
"This."
My jaw drops. Then I laugh, sharp and ugly, because fuck him. "This? Really? Buckling a goddamn seatbelt makes you evil now?"
His eyes flick to me, just for a heartbeat, and the weight of that look makes my stomach twist. "No," he murmurs, "the way you cling to it does."
I scoff, tilting my head, heat rushing up my neck. "It's not for you, Tavarian. It's for me. Because you drive like you're twenty-five years too young to be making peace with the death angel."
That earns me something—his brows lift, faint, then drop again, like my words didn't sting, like nothing ever does. He hums, deep in his chest, and then says, "Maybe I just like watching who holds on tighter—me to the wheel, or you to that belt."
"God, you're insufferable," I snap, glaring at the blur of trees outside instead of his face. "Not everything's some twisted experiment in control. Sometimes a seatbelt is just a fucking seatbelt."
"Not with you," he says, and his voice is so goddamn steady it makes me want to rip the wheel out of his hands and drive us into a wall. "With you, everything is a tell. Every twitch. Every sigh. Every desperate little clutch when you think I won't notice."
"Fuck you."
His smirk sharpens, a blade slicing the dim air between us. "Careful. I might hold you to that."
The car lurches forward, smooth and merciless, engine roaring down the road like it's hungry for blood. And all I can do is hold the belt tighter, grind my teeth, and remind myself not to give him the satisfaction of hearing me scream.
The needle climbs like it's possessed—290, 291, 292—and my stomach is plastered somewhere against my spine while my hands are strangling the seatbelt like it's the last thing tethering me to earth. The world outside is a blur of black road and dying orange sky, headlights stretching like streaks of lightning. My lips move before I can stop them, whispering the kind of desperate prayer only someone halfway to a nervous breakdown would come up with.
God, if this lunatic sends me crashing into steel and fire, please—please don't send me back here. Heaven, hell, purgatory, a void—I don't give a damn. Just not back here. Living is already the crash. Living is already the fucking hell.
And then—like he's got telepathy, like my skull is wired straight into his smug head—Zayan chuckles. A low, dark sound that coils in my chest like smoke.
The car slows, smooth as sin, as if he's finally grown bored of flirting with death. His voice cuts through the heavy air, calm but edged with something that makes my pulse skip.
"You won't die, wife."
That one word—wife—slides off his tongue like a brand, burning and cold all at once. He doesn't even look at me at first, eyes still on the road like the world bends itself for him.
My laugh comes out sharp, half-hysterical, because what else am I supposed to do when the devil himself slows the car down just to feed me riddles? "Oh, what are you now? God?" I spit, the scoff buried under the tremor in my voice.
Finally, he glances at me—just a flick of those dark eyes, but it's enough to send my lungs into mutiny. His mouth curls, slow and dangerous, the kind of smirk that should come with a warning label.
"Closer than anyone else you've met."
"Fuck you." The words tumble out, but even I can hear how breathless they sound. Not furious enough. Too goddamn shaky.
He tilts his head, that irritating little gesture of his when he's either amused or about to wreck me. "Not while I'm driving."
My throat tightens. My brain screams at me to shut up, but my pride claws out first. "You think you're untouchable, don't you? That your money, your power, your fucking car makes you immortal. Newsflash, Tavarian—you bleed like everyone else."
"Do I?" His voice drops, low enough that it thrums in my bones. He presses the accelerator again—not too much, just enough to remind me what he's capable of. The hum of the engine feels like it's alive, snarling beneath us.
"Then why do you pray to God when it's me holding your life in my hands?"
My mouth dries. My heart is a war drum, hammering so hard I swear he can hear it. I should shut up. I should stop. But no—I've never known when to quit.
"Because at least God listens," I fire back, though my voice cracks on the last word.
He doesn't laugh this time. Doesn't smirk. Just watches me, one hand loose on the wheel, the other flexing on the gear shift like he's imagining wrapping it around my throat instead.
And in that suffocating silence, it hits me—he isn't joking. He's not bluffing when he says you won't die, wife. He means it. Because he won't let me.
And somehow, that terrifies me more than the speedometer hitting 290 ever did.
The wheel hums under his grip, leather groaning with every turn of his hand, and my eyes betray me again. They slip down his arm, like gravity's got a grudge.
That arm. That stupid, sinful, infuriatingly perfect arm. Forearm muscles flexing every time he shifts gears, veins like dark rivers under his skin. The way his wrist rolls with that lazy control—casual but powerful, like the world exists so he can command it.
And my head? My filthy, traitorous head? It doesn't stop there. No, it's already off in the gutter where it belongs. I picture those hands in places they have no fucking business being. On my throat, pinning me down. Around my waist, dragging me closer. On my ass, rough, unyielding—
I clench my teeth so hard my jaw aches. My nails dig into my palm. Don't blush. Don't smirk. Don't give this bastard the satisfaction.
Then he says it. Casual as tossing a grenade in my lap.
"Do you know how to ride?"
I freeze. Literally freeze. Breath caught mid-chest, like my lungs just staged a mutiny. My brain scrambles, combusts, does somersaults through every dirty-ass interpretation possible.
"What?" My voice cracks, embarrassingly small, like he just asked me to strip right here.
He tilts his head slightly, still looking at the road, like I'm the one being ridiculous. "I mean," his tone is flat, sharp with amusement, "do you know how to drive a car?"
The silence that follows could kill. My heart's still tripping over the first meaning while my mouth blurts the truth without a filter.
"No."
He flicks his gaze to me, slow and deliberate. His brow arches. "No?" His laugh is almost a scoff, low and disbelieving. "You're twenty-fucking-one, and no?"
"Yes!" I snap, heat flooding my cheeks, my neck, all the way down to places I don't want to think about. "I'm twenty-fucking-one. And I married you before I even hit my goddamn puberty, so excuse me for not knowing how to parallel park!"
His laugh this time is real, sharp, rich, cutting through the air like a blade. It makes my skin crawl and burn at the same time.
"God," he mutters, shaking his head, his hand tightening on the wheel. "You sound like you blame me for your tragic education in driving."
"Don't flatter yourself." I cross my arms tight, trying not to notice how the seatbelt cuts across my chest, how the leather sticks warm against my skin. "If you hadn't dragged me into this circus of a marriage, maybe I'd have had time to learn instead of—oh, I don't know—figuring out how to survive you."
He smirks, the kind that makes me want to throw the car door open at 290 and pray for instant death. "Surviving me, wife, is a full-time education."
I scoff, flipping my hair over my shoulder just to give my hands something to do besides shake. "More like a slow torture course taught by Satan's favorite bastard."
He chuckles again, low, dragging, that vein on his forearm popping like it knows it's the star of my undoing. "Don't worry. I'll teach you how to drive someday. Personally."
"Over my dead body."
His smirk sharpens. "That's one way to test your brakes."
I nearly scream.
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The gates swing open like they've been waiting for us all day, slow and grand, as if the entire world is meant to stop and watch the Tavarians arrive. My chest tightens. My heart is hammering so loud it feels like the whole damn car can hear it.
Second time here. And if the first time was anything to go by—well, it was a nightmare dressed up as a family dinner. Venom in their eyes, smiles sharpened to knives, words laced in poison. I swore I'd never fucking come back. Yet here I am, a goddamn idiot strapped in again.
God, if you're up there, just…don't let me crawl through hell for a whole week. Living is already hell enough. Spare me this circus.
But then—fuck.
The gates finish opening, and my breath snags.
It's…beautiful. Not the cheap, Instagram-model kind of beautiful. This is ancient, old-money, spine-chilling beautiful. The kind that doesn't just scream wealth—it bleeds it from every crack.
The first thing I notice: roses.
Everywhere.
Climbing fences. Cascading from stone arches. Lining the endless driveway like soldiers in perfect formation. Red. White. Cream. Whole walls of them, bleeding color like the estate itself demanded they grow in obedience. The air is drenched with their perfume, heavy and intoxicating, like someone bottled sin and spilled it across the grounds.
And then the house—no, the palace—reveals itself. Massive, sprawling, with stone walls so perfectly cut they look carved by gods, not men. Columns thicker than tree trunks, gold accents catching the dying sunlight.
Windows arched like cathedrals, glowing warm, as if the house itself is alive and breathing Tavarian superiority. The kind of place that doesn't just look at you—it judges you.
The car crunches to a stop on gravel so fine it could pass for polished marble. My stomach drops.
Staff appear instantly, like ghosts trained to perfection. One bows, opens my door as if I'm some delicate thing they're afraid to crack. Another two are already hauling luggage, their movements so synchronized it's almost creepy.
And me? I just…freeze.
I don't even know what the fuck to say. My brain short-circuits. I can't get past the roses, the goddamn roses—like they're mocking me, smothering me, whispering that I'll be buried here, pretty and silent like them.
Then—
His hand.
Clamping around my wrist.
I jolt, flinching hard. Heat sparks through my skin, sharp and unwelcome. He's never done this before. Not like this. Not so deliberate, not so…soft. His grip isn't crushing, isn't cruel—it's controlled, firm, enough to remind me who the fuck he is.
"Come," he says.
His voice is too soft. Too quiet. It doesn't belong to him. It seeps into my bones, wrong and dangerous, sliding under my skin like smoke. It makes me want to claw my own arm off just to shake it away.
I don't answer. I don't need to. His pull is enough. My legs move, falling into step with his because I don't have a choice.
The estate doors loom above us—double doors carved from dark wood, etched with patterns so intricate they look alive. Gold handles, polished to a mirror shine, big enough that two men could barely lift them.
And still, the roses follow. Their scent bleeding inside, their petals littering the marble steps like a blood trail leading me straight into the lion's den.
My pulse is a drum. My head is screaming.
This is it. The palace of venom. The kingdom of vultures. One week in here, and I'll either come out scarred—or I won't come out at all.
And the bastard holding my wrist? He doesn't even blink. He just pulls me forward, steady, silent, like he owns not just this house but the air I breathe.
And maybe he fucking does.
The staff leads us down the marble hallway, steps echoing like drumbeats, until we stop in front of the massive double doors.
They're carved in deep rosewood, roses and vines etched into every inch, gold catching the light so sharply it could blind someone if they stared too long. The man bows low, perfectly still, waiting. My stomach knots.
Zayan finally lets go of my wrist. For a breath, I think—maybe he realized I disgust him, maybe he wants the distance back. My hand twitches, wanting to curl into a fist just to keep myself steady.
But then he slips his hand into mine.
Not loose. Not casual. His fingers lace tight through mine and clamp down, like a fucking lock snapping shut. I freeze, heat rushing to my face. What the hell?
He's never—never—done this. My chest goes tight, and not in a sweet-heart-romance way. In a what the fuck is happening, why does this feel like possession way.
The doors swing open.
And the Tavarians are all here.
Rows of couches, polished wood, gold trim—like the fucking Louvre turned into a living room. Some are sitting, some are standing, all of them watching. Silent, regal, terrifying.
And on the massive chair, front and center—Kamal Rashid Tavarian.
I swear my lungs lock up. He's built like Brad Pitt—if Brad Pitt traded Hollywood lights for empire shadows. Sharp jaw, cold eyes, that still-too-handsome face that makes you think of both war and worship. Every time I look at him, my brain whispers Brad Pitt, but the kind that could ruin me with a single nod.
My gaze shifts. Zayan's parents. Alyan and Maireen. Both smiling at me—warm, practiced, kind even. Too kind. I force a smile back, my lips tight. They make it look so easy, like they belong on magazine covers, like kindness isn't another Tavarian weapon.
And then my eyes catch—Shadin.
My heart jumps. Shadin. He's here. He smiles, calm, familiar. I smile back, a small reflex. But then his gaze drops. To my hand. Zayan's grip crushing mine. His expression shifts, barely, but I see it.
Before I can breathe, Kamal's voice fills the air. Deep. Commanding.
"Adam. You are late."
Zayan doesn't blink. Doesn't soften. His fingers crush mine tighter.
Alyan adds, "Sit."
Zayan's reply is low, smooth. "No, father. We just arrived. We'll change first."
I try to pull my hand away, subtle. Just a small tug. He doesn't let go. If anything, his hold tightens more, iron under skin. My knuckles ache. He's not holding me like a husband. He's holding me like a chain.
And then my mistake. My eyes flick sideways.
Ebrahim.
Fucker's lounging on one of the couches, head tilted, smirk spread like poison across his face. His gaze pins me instantly, and it's like he knew I'd look. That smirk sharpens, ugly and gleaming, his eyes stripping me bare.
My throat closes. I rip my eyes away, heat burning in my chest. God, I hate him. Hate the way his stare crawls over me, hate how his smirk feels like a hand pressed on my throat. Hate him more than any other Tavarian in this room. And under that hate—fear, sharp and real, because he's not bluff. He's dangerous.
I keep my head high, my hand still trapped in Zayan's, pulse hammering against his grip.
And all I can think is—this isn't a family gathering. This is a fucking arena. And I just got dragged into the center ring.
The air is suffocating in that drawing room, all eyes chewing into my skin, all Tavarian egos stacked like knives against each other. And then, finally—finally—Zayan cuts through it.
"We are going."
That's it. No excuse. No apology. No softness. Just command.
And Kamal Rashid Tavarian, the man who could snap a country in half with a single nod, does. His chin dips once. Silent permission. The kind of permission that's scarier than any shout.
The doors shut behind us with a low thud, heavy as judgment. And the second they do, Zayan lets my hand go.
I suck in air like I've been underwater. My palm is red from his grip. My chest feels like it's running laps on its own.
A staff member bows instantly. "I will lead you to the room."
Zayan's voice cuts sharp, smooth. "No thanks. Tell me which one is it."
The man stiffens, caught. "The guest wing, third roo--"
Zayan doesn't even let him finish. "Prepare the east wing. Third floor. Fifth room."
The staff falters, eyes wide for a fraction, then bows lower. "Yes, sir." And scurries off.
I turn to him, brow furrowed. "Why that room? They already prepared one. Why make it difficult?"
He looks at me then. Really looks. The weight of his stare hits low in my stomach. "You'll know when we get there."
And that's all he gives me before turning, his stride long and unapologetic.
I follow, because what the hell else am I supposed to do? My heels click against the marble, echoing as he takes turn after turn like he knows this maze by heart. And then we stop.
In front of the elevator.
I exhale in relief. Finally, a break.
But he says, "We're not taking the elevator."
Before I can argue, he grabs my wrist and pulls. Again. Dragging me to the staircase like a criminal on trial.
"You've got to be kidding me—" I mutter, but he doesn't even glance back. And so up we go. Turn after turn after fucking turn, endless stairs, marble blurring into more marble. My thighs burn, my lungs protest, and I swear he's doing this on purpose.
By the time we finally stop at a door, I want to collapse.
The staff who raced ahead appears, bowing. "Everything is done, sir."
Zayan opens the door without ceremony.
And I freeze.
Holy—fuck.
This isn't a room. This is heaven with a roof.
Light pours in from tall glass windows, evening sun bleeding gold across the floor like liquid fire. Roses. Roses everywhere. Outside the balcony, the garden stretches wide, roses climbing the rails, roses spilling into view like the world's most expensive painting come to life. The air smells faintly sweet, fresh, dizzying.
There's a balcony—massive, draped in climbing roses, looking out over a view so majestic it doesn't feel real. Mountains in the distance, the estate below sprawling like a kingdom, the sky streaked with sunset colors that don't belong in this world.
Inside, the room glows. A massive bed sits against the wall, sheets crisp white, headboard carved and elegant. There's a couch big enough to drown in, cream-colored, soft and perfect. Lamps glitter but the real light is all natural—sunlight pouring in, kissing every surface, making the whole space glow.
My jaw slackens. My chest feels too small for the breath in it.
"So this is why." The words tumble out of me. I'm too gone in the beauty to even sound annoyed.
I step inside, turning in slow circles like some lost idiot seeing the world for the first time. My fingers graze the window frame, the couch, the carved dresser. It's so perfect it feels staged. Like stepping into a dream.
And then—like an afterthought—something punches through my haze.
I turn sharply to him.
"Wait. We're sharing one room?"
His smirk hits me like a match to gasoline. Slow. Lethal. Sure of itself.
"Yes."
Fuck
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📍
Next Week's Chapter sneak peek —
He steps closer. My stomach drops. I can smell him—the faint smoke clinging to his jacket, that musky danger, and it makes my head spin. I want to throw up, to run, to scream, to scream Zayan help me!
"Be a good girl, okay?" His voice drops, soft, velvety, and I flinch at the threat it carries. "Then you don't have to suffer here for one week."
"Move," I say, voice trembling but defiant.
"I said… be a good girl." He lifts a hand, slow, deliberate, toward my hair. My body freezes. I'm trapped. Hands shaking against the wall, heart pounding so hard I feel like it might burst.
I close my eyes, praying. God. Zayan. Please. Just… come. Don't let this happen. Please.
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This excerpt is a sneak peek from next week's chapter
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