Arshila's POV
Something hits me. Not hard. Just a whisper of a breeze sliding across my cheek, tugging me awake. The faint cry of birds slices through the quiet, that sound too alive to be ignored.
And then it's the fucking roses—sweet, heady, drifting through the air like someone left the world's most expensive perfume bottle cracked open.
My eyes blink open, slow, adjusting to the light. And holy shit—this is not real. It can't be real. Sunlight spills through the glass, gold and ruthless, like it owns the room. It climbs over the curtains, smears across the marble, kisses my skin until I feel almost soft, almost breakable.
The balcony doors are cracked just enough for the breeze to sneak in, carrying roses and air so pure it feels like a sin to breathe it in.
I push myself up, hair a mess, eyes half-dead from sleep, and the first thing that slips out of me is a smile. A real one. Wide, ridiculous, too honest. Because goddamn—this is the type of morning where a girl is supposed to wake up in her man's arms, tangled in sheets, warm breath on her neck.
Except, guess what?
My so-called man isn't here.
Of course he isn't. Adam Zayan fucking Tavarian isn't the type to sleep in. No, he's the kind who wakes before sunrise, probably staring out over the mountains with that stoic, king-of-the-world face while I'm drooling into pillows.
I glance at the couch—the branded, luxury, swallow-you-whole couch—and it's empty. Obviously. Did I expect him to slum it on that thing? Please. That man doesn't even slum in his own goddamn skin.
I flop back for a second, groaning into the sheets, before dragging myself up again. Fine. Morning it is. Fresh up, splash water, brush teeth, the whole routine. By the time I'm back, hair still damp, I sit on the edge of the bed and just… stare.
The balcony pulls my eyes like a magnet. Mountains. Endless fucking mountains rolling out like the earth decided to flex for me. The estate below, perfect lawns, roses climbing every goddamn fence like they own the place. Whoever built this had taste. Dangerous, arrogant taste. The kind that doesn't beg for approval—it demands it.
And now I get it. Why he insisted on this room. Why he ignored the staff and went straight for this one.
Because it's fucking beautiful. Because it's perfect. Because it screams control and quiet decadence.
And yeah, I'll admit it—Zayan has taste. Irritatingly good taste. Taste that makes my chest twist and my brain scream. Because one second I'm drowning in the view, and the next, the ugly thought hits me.
What if he's done this before?
What if he's brought someone else here—some other girl, some perfect little doll who smiled and gasped and thought she was special too? What if this is just… his thing? The roses, the balcony, the view, the charm so sharp it cuts before you know you're bleeding.
My stomach knots.
I try to shake it off. Maybe I'm being paranoid. Maybe it's just me inventing drama because that's easier than admitting I actually like this. But the thought lingers like a splinter.
He picked this room.
But what if he's picked it before?
I sit there, staring at the mountains, the sky bleeding into day, roses climbing like they'll never stop, and I can't decide if I want to laugh, scream, or throw something heavy at his perfect Tavarian head.
Because fuck him.
And also—fuck me.
For caring enough to think about it.
I pull the white floral dress over my head and for a second, I just stand there in front of the mirror, staring at myself like some stranger. It's soft, flowy, the fabric catching light in a way that feels stupidly delicate, like I'm made of something breakable.
It isn't revealing—not a single goddamn inch of skin is screaming for attention—but somehow, it clings to the room. It fits the room. The roses, the sunlight, the balcony view—it looks like I dressed up just to match the fucking paint.
And it hits me: this is the first time since the marriage I've actually… dolled up. For what? For who? I don't even know. Maybe because if you're in the Tavarian house, you don't get to look like you rolled out of bed.
These people walk around like they're on a fucking runway at 7 a.m. Branded pajamas, sharp hair, jewelry that costs more than my entire life savings. Even their "casual" looks like they were styled by a Parisian devil with a vendetta.
I smooth my hands down the dress and sigh, muttering at my reflection. "Congrats, bitch. You're officially playing Barbie for the Tavarians."
I shove myself up from the bed, bare feet against the cold marble. That's when I hear it. Sounds. Laughter, low voices, that weird polished music of people who know they own the world. It filters through the walls, through the glass.
Curiosity eats at me. I pad over to the balcony doors and push them open.
And then—holy. fucking. shit.
Didn't I tell you? This is exactly what I meant.
The Tavarians. All of them.
The yard below is alive. Sunlight spills over perfectly trimmed lawns, roses gleaming, and there they are—sprawled across chairs, standing by tables, leaning against columns like it's a Vogue shoot.
Casual outfits, my ass. Every single piece is branded, dripping quiet money. Some wear Dior, some Valentino, some shit I don't even recognize but know costs enough to buy a small country.
And the worst part? They're not even trying. They're laughing, talking, sipping coffee like this is normal. Like this is their version of breakfast.
It feels unreal, obscene, like watching a family of gods have their morning tea. The most powerful, richest bloodline in the fucking world, sitting in their backyard like they don't have empires burning at their fingertips.
My eyes scan, heart thudding. Searching. Hunting. Where is he? Where the hell is Adam Zayan Tavarian?
I don't see him.
Not leaning back with that slow blink. Not standing off to the side like he's above the rest. Not anywhere.
My chest dips with something sharp. Annoyance? Relief? Fuck if I know.
I sink onto the balcony couch, white dress fanning around me, elbows on the armrest as I stare down at the circus. My jaw tightens. My lips twitch.
"Fucking perfect," I mutter under my breath. "World's most powerful family eating breakfast in Dior. What bullshit."
I tilt my head back against the cushion, eyes closing for half a beat, before opening again to drink in the absurdity of it all. Roses. Sunlight. Tavarians parading around like it's an ad campaign for money itself.
And me.
Stuck here.
Watching it like some broke-ass extra in their royal film.
I want to laugh. I want to scream. I want to throw a rock at their perfect Dior shoes just to see if they bleed the same color.
But instead—I sit. I watch. And I wait for him.
Because I know he's coming.
I'm halfway through roasting the Tavarians in my head—mentally picturing them stabbing forks into baby ribs for breakfast—when movement in the yard pulls my eyes.
And holy shit.
Shadin.
He strolls in from the far end like he just walked out of some magazine spread no one can afford. Casual, but the kind of casual that makes you want to smack the stylist because how the hell does a plain T-shirt and sneakers look like sin itself on one man? He looks good. Too good.
My stomach does that stupid flip it always does when someone looks more expensive than they're pretending to be. I have no idea what time he even reached here. I didn't see him last night—then again, I didn't see anyone after Zayan dragged me up to this rose-infested tower.
Shadin slides into the yard, laughs at something someone says, and just like that, he blends into them—perfect, easy, Tavarian-level polished.
And me? I'm up here, still in shock at the fact that these people don't actually eat newborns for breakfast. They're sitting, sipping, fucking… chatting. Like normal people. Except they're not normal. Not at all. They're just human wrapped in silk, human dipped in power, human plated with diamonds. Same species, different breed.
I laugh out loud, a low snort. "Fucking hell. They don't eat babies. They just eat Dior omelets."
And that's when it happens.
A figure cuts into the yard.
And every hair on my body reacts before my brain does.
Adam. Fucking. Zayan. Tavarian.
I swear to God, this bastard is some kind of walking punishment. He doesn't even try. Not even a little. Full black. Baggy jeans—not clown-level baggy, just the right slouch, hugging his waist like the fabric itself is loyal to him. Black T-shirt, loose enough to look effortless, fitted enough that it dares me to imagine what's underneath.
And fucking hell, he looks beautiful.
No, not beautiful. Dangerous. Addictive. Infuriating. The kind of beautiful you hate yourself for staring at but can't stop, the kind that makes your blood run hotter just because why does he get to look like that doing absolutely nothing?
He isn't posturing like the others. He isn't laughing, isn't showing off. He just exists. And somehow, that's enough to make the air shift. People move differently around him. Conversations dip and tilt. Even the sunlight seems to decide it wants him more than anyone else, catching the edges of his jaw, setting his hair in some kind of unholy halo.
And me? I'm sitting here on this balcony couch like a dumbass, clutching at the fabric of my floral dress, glaring down at him like that will erase the heat crawling under my skin.
Because the funniest, most fucked-up part?
He's not even trying.
And he's still the most dangerous thing in this entire yard.
I should look away. I should breathe. I should remember that this man is the devil in Tavarian skin, not some fucking fantasy carved in black cotton.
But instead—I lean forward. Eyes stuck. Heart pounding.
Because Adam Zayan Tavarian has entered the scene.
And nothing else matters.
Of course the yard shifts the second he appears. Like ants pretending not to notice when the boot hovers. And what does the bastard do? Goes straight to his mother first.
I lean forward on the balcony rail, straining like a nosy creep, because I need to see. His mother—Maireen—glances at him, her face all composed grace, but when he bends his head and says something, her mouth does this tiny twitch. A pout. No shit. Maireen Tavarian—queen of ice and diamonds—pouting at her son like he just called her out on something.
And him? He fucking smirks. That sharp, tilted smirk that makes me want to punch him and kiss him at the same time. He drops a word or two more, then just leaves her there, walking off like he owns the whole damn yard—which, let's be real, he probably does.
He heads toward the far end. Where the pond spreads wide, smooth as glass, with that massive tree leaning over it, like a damn painting. The opposite of Kamal Rashid Tavarian—soft, quiet, almost gentle.
Zayan drops down on the bench under the tree, black-on-black against all that green, scrolling his phone like the chaos of Tavarian breakfast politics doesn't exist. And I'm about to roll my eyes and call him boring when—
Here comes his aunt. One of his uncle's wives. Baby in arms, tiny thing wrapped up in expensive fabric that probably costs more than my entire wardrobe.
She walks straight to him, all warm smile, and I freeze because holy fuck. He looks up at her. And smiles back. Not that smug predator smile. A real one. Small, soft. It's… unfair.
Then she says something I can't hear, and he nods.
And then—oh, I swear my jaw almost hits the balcony rail—she hands him the baby.
And the fucker actually takes it.
Zayan Tavarian—Adam-fucking-Zayan—takes the baby, sets it on his lap with one arm like it weighs nothing, and the kid just… stays there. Like they're both in on some secret agreement.
He says something low, and the baby smiles. Big, gummy grin. And then this motherfucker smiles back. Like an actual smile, teeth flashing, eyes soft, everything about him stripped of that lethal edge.
I slap a hand over my mouth because—what the fuck?
My brain short-circuits. Every dirty, sinful thought I've ever had about him collides headfirst with the image of him holding a goddamn baby. And it's ruining me. Because that is not supposed to be hot. Babies are not supposed to be hot. But here I am, legs curling tighter under me, chest burning like I swallowed lava, because Zayan with a baby is illegal-level attractive.
And it gets worse.
The baby reaches for his wrist, fat little fingers tugging at his bracelet. And he just lets it, eyes still on the kid, smile lingering, patience oozing from every inch of him. Then the baby grabs at his chain—the one I hate, the one that sits against his collarbone like it's mocking me—and tugs. And he doesn't even flinch. Just lets the kid yank on it while still murmuring something, still smiling like he's got all the time in the fucking world.
My insides twist into knots. My brain is screaming: No. Don't you dare. Don't you dare fucking make me think about him holding a baby and smiling like that. Don't you dare make me imagine that chain glinting against his throat while he laughs low at something small and innocent tugging on him.
And yet here I am. Imagining. Hard.
I press back against the balcony couch like I can fuse with it, hiding my face with my hands. Because goddamn it—this is unfair. He's not supposed to look like that. He's supposed to be the arrogant, smug bastard I can throw pillows at and curse until I'm hoarse. Not… this. Not soft. Not beautiful in a way that claws under my ribs and makes me feel like the floor just dropped out.
I peek again through my fingers. And yep—he's still there. One arm steady around the baby, other hand resting easy, whole body loose in a way I've never seen. Like he belongs there. Like it's natural.
And the worst part?
I can't look away.
My pulse is still slamming against my throat like it's trying to break out, and I swear my lungs forgot how to work. I stumble off the balcony couch like some drunk idiot, nearly tripping over the hem of my dress because my brain is frying. My feet carry me inside before I even realize it, to the dresser, to my phone. Fingers fumbling like I've never held this fucking device in my life.
By the time I rush back to the balcony, my chest is burning and my palms are sweaty. I drop back on the couch, heart thundering, and bring the phone up.
And holy bloody hell.
The screen captures him perfectly. Adam Zayan Tavarian, twenty-five, untouchable, dangerous, the man who can make grown businessmen piss themselves without raising his voice—sitting under a tree with a baby on his lap like he was born for it.
And it's not awkward. Not stiff. He's holding that baby like it's second nature, like he's done it a thousand times before. But I know he hasn't. There's no way this man, this bastard who moves through life like a knife through silk, knows what to do with babies. And yet here he is, one arm steady, hand big enough to look obscene against something so small, murmuring low, smile tugging at his lips.
My thumb taps and taps and taps because fuck it—I need evidence. Shots from the side, the way his profile cuts sharp against the pond behind him. Shots from the front, where that goddamn chain glints while the baby tugs and he doesn't even flinch. Wide shots with the tree and the water framing him like it's begging to be a magazine spread. Close-ups zoomed so much the pixels nearly die, because I need to see his smile over and over.
Every single picture looks like it belongs on a glossy cover. Adam Zayan Tavarian, heir, Sovereign, bastard of my nightmares, looking like fatherhood is an accessory he picked up from Dior.
I drop the phone on the cushion beside me and just… stare. My lips curve before I even notice. A smile. A real one. The kind you don't admit to. The kind you don't let him see, because he'd weaponize it instantly.
But goddamn it, he's sexy. Not in the usual "I want to lick your collarbone" kind of way—okay, also that—but in this raw, unfiltered, fuck me sideways kind of way. He's young, twenty-five, the exact age where men are supposed to be idiots, supposed to be tripping over their egos and cheap cologne. But him? No. He's sitting there like he's carved straight out of sin, chain tugged, bracelet clutched, baby gurgling, and he's still the hottest thing I've ever laid eyes on.
And then his hand shifts, pulling his phone out of his pocket with the other hand like he's not already multitasking father-of-the-year level with a whole kid in his lap. He holds it low, thumb moving, eyes still soft on the baby, but his jaw flexes just enough to send my filthy thoughts spiraling again.
The way he types—why the hell is that sexy? It shouldn't be. But his fingers are long, veins brushing the surface of his skin, wrist angled in a way that makes me want to sink my teeth into it. He's scrolling, maybe texting, maybe plotting the downfall of a country—I don't know. And I don't care. Because watching him like this is wrecking me.
I lean back, clutching a pillow against me like it can hold me together, eyes glued to him. And the thought hits hard, brutal, unwanted—he'll be a great dad one day. A terrifyingly good one. He'll hold his kid steady like this, he'll smile at their nonsense, he'll let them pull his chain until they fall asleep with it tangled in their fingers.
But I won't be the mom of those kids.
The punch of that thought hits me square in the ribs, but even then—fuck, he's still sexy. Too sexy. It's unfair. Illegal. My head's a mess, but my eyes won't move.
Then—buzz.
My phone vibrates against the cushion, notification lighting up the screen. I groan, grab it lazily, not even tearing my eyes off him until I unlock it.
And then my heart plummets.
Because it's his message.
One line.
"Stalking me, wife??"
_______
📍
Exclusive chapter sneak peek
His throat tightens. Tears make tracks through the grime on his face. "You—you'd risk—" He chokes. "You'd risk yourself for me?"
I laugh, and it's a sound like a broken hinge. "You are not a question, you idiot. You are not something I can sell to some man in a suit and pretend it's business." My hands are on his shoulders before I think about it, rough and desperate. "I can't lose you. Not now. Not ever."
---------------
This moment — raw, ugly, and impossible to forget — lives in the private vault. The uncut beats, the scenes that make you gasp, hate, and ache, drop there first. Every Monday the vault opens and three chapters fall into the hands of the people who refuse to wait.
Only insiders read the parts the public never sees. Fewer spots. Earlier access. Real spoilers. If you want to be the one who already knows, who whispers about the twists before anyone else, the path is in my bio. Secure your place — don't be the one watching everyone else catch up.