ARSHILA POV
Kamal Rashid Tavarian stands on that stage like he owns the world. And the worst part? He actually fucking does.
The lights, the cameras, the whispers—they don't touch him. He's stone. He's steel. He's the kind of man who makes people sit straighter without realizing it. One look and you know: this isn't a CEO. This is a king dressed as one.
And beside me? Zayan. Scrolling through his phone. Like we're at a dentist's waiting room instead of the event every goddamn news channel in the world is watching.
I glare at him. "Seriously, bro?" I hiss.
He doesn't look up. "What?"
"What do you mean what? Your grandfather is about to declare world domination and you're checking Twitter memes?"
He smirks faintly, thumb still scrolling. "Maybe I'm checking stock prices."
I want to strangle him.
I turn away before I combust and my eyes land on her.
Diana fucking Naureen Mikhail. Supermodel of the century. The highest-paid face on earth. Today she's in a floor-length gown that should've looked like modest elegance but on her—it's sin pretending to be holy. Hair slick, diamonds winking at her throat. She looks like every Vogue cover I've ever scrolled through while crying into cheap chips.
Except her eyes aren't on the cameras. They're locked somewhere else.
I follow the line of her gaze—and my stomach flips.
Izar.
Of course it's Izar.
He's standing like the statue of security—black suit sharp enough to cut glass, earpiece tucked in, posture screaming don't even breathe wrong near me. And holy fuck—he got a haircut too? All these Tavarian men and their damn haircuts. Why is hair their secret weapon? Why do I suddenly want to launch myself into traffic?
And the way Diana is looking at him? It's not casual. It's not friendly. It's—fuck. Like he did something to her. Like he owns something nobody else knows about.
And Izar? The bastard doesn't even blink in her direction. Just eyes forward, jaw tight, like her existence doesn't register.
I tear my eyes away. Whatever. Not my circus, not my problem.
Until I look up at the rooftops.
And my spine turns to ice.
Snipers.
Holy shit. Actual fucking snipers posted on every corner of the mansion roof. Guns glinting under the floodlights, barrels angled like silent predators. My throat dries. This isn't just security. This is war prep disguised as a gala.
And then Kamal speaks.
"Ladies. Gentlemen."
His voice is a weapon. Smooth, powerful, a sound that crawls under your skin and makes you listen.
"Tonight marks the one hundred and twenty-sixth annual day of the Tavarian Imperial Group."
Claps. Cheers. Flashes. His hand goes up once, and the room is silent again.
He doesn't smile. He doesn't need to. His face is carved from authority.
"My father, Azmir Faizan Tavarian, built this foundation in an era where oil and trade decided the fate of empires. He was the storm and the anchor. He taught me that power is not given. It is taken. Held. Guarded. And never… never fucking begged for."
The crowd erupts. I swear even the presidents are clapping like interns praying for a raise.
I'm frozen, breath locked in my chest.
Kamal goes on, voice steady, sharp:
"Today, the Tavarian name is not bound to one industry. We are in every artery of this world. When nations light their cities, they do it with Tavarian fuel. When the wealthy seek to live longer, they come to our hospitals. When leaders want skies, oceans, and machines that no money alone can buy, they sit at our tables. Our technology secures governments, our luxuries indulge their sins, our sciences protect their families… and sometimes end them."
Jesus fucking Christ. Did he just say that last part? Nobody even flinches. Everyone here knows. Everyone here accepts it.
My heart is sprinting.
Kamal leans on the podium, gaze scanning the crowd like he owns every last one of them. "Understand this. We don't chase markets. We create them. We don't sell products. We sell control. Tavarian control."
The room hangs on his words like he's God.
I whisper under my breath, "Holy shit."
And then he does the thing I don't expect. He actually laughs, low, quiet, but sharp enough to slice through the tension. "Of course, I didn't build this empire alone. My allies stand beside me. My brothers in arms. The names you all know—Alzirah. Idrakhan. Nazrani. Families who, with us, carry the weight of continents on their backs."
He gestures slightly, and I see them. The Three family Chairman,the old monarch, CEO of the two Empires and The fucking king himself.
and The heirs. Eshan Alzirah with his banking arrogance, Razmir Idrakhan in all his real-estate princely glory, Rafaen Nazrani looking like the damn prince he is. They're not clapping. They don't need to. They stand like power incarnate, like the world should be kissing their feet too.
Kamal's voice cuts again: "Without them, there is no Tavarian era. Without them, there is no empire. We rise together. We rule together. We remind the world—money is not power. Power is power."
Thunderous applause. Some people stand. Cameras flash so hard I see white spots.
I look at Zayan. He hasn't moved. Not a clap, not a twitch. Just scrolling his phone like his grandfather didn't just drop the hottest villain speech in history.
I want to shake him. "Are you hearing this? Your grandfather's out here doing a Thanos monologue and you're on Instagram?"
He finally looks up at me, bored as hell. "It's not Instagram."
I gape at him. "That's your defense? Really?"
But before I can roast him more, the air shifts again. Kamal's smile fades. His eyes harden. And I swear, I know. I just know.
He's about to announce something no one's ready for.
Kamal's voice drops lower, like he doesn't even need the mic. The silence is so thick it could strangle someone.
"Every throne," he says, "has an eagle flying above it. Waiting. Watching. Ready to swoop the second the ruler blinks."
I swear the hair on my arms stands up. He's not yelling, not roaring—just talking. But everyone here listens like he's handing them life or death.
"But here," he continues, his eyes cutting across the hall like knives, "we don't deal with eagles. Eagles are prey dressed as predators. Eagles can be shot down. Skinned. Sold. Here…" His lips curl the slightest bit. "Here, we deal with dragons."
Dragons. The word hangs in the air like smoke.
My stomach clenches.
"A dragon doesn't wait. A dragon doesn't ask. A dragon doesn't hunt what's already dead. A dragon takes. He burns. He tells the world with his fire that nothing—no king, no army, no god—can tame him. The dragon flies above the throne, not beneath it. He dares the world to blink."
The crowd is spellbound. Presidents leaning forward. Actors holding their breaths like this is Shakespeare. Billionaires staring like he's describing them personally.
Me? I'm frozen. Because what the fuck is this? This isn't a cute bedtime story. This isn't a fable. This is something uglier. Something deeper. Like he's talking about someone in this very room.
I sneak a glance at Zayan.
For once, he's not scrolling. He's not smirking. He's not bored.
He's staring at his grandfather. Dead serious. Jaw sharp, eyes locked, cold enough to chill bone. He looks… confused. Like he's trying to solve a puzzle and doesn't like where the pieces are falling.
My chest tightens.
Kamal's voice slices again.
"But a dragon…" He pauses. Lets it hang. "A dragon is still a dragon in his master's game. Even the strongest beast plays a part in something bigger. A dragon roars, yes. A dragon destroys, yes. But in the end, he is still bound to the board. And the master decides when the fire ends."
The hall exhales, a ripple of gasps and murmurs. Some clap. Some nod like they actually understand what the hell that meant.
I just gape. What the hell? What master? What board? This isn't Game of Thrones, this is a billionaire flex convention.
And yet… it doesn't feel random. It feels like a warning. A prophecy. Something sharp tucked under silk.
Kamal smiles, small, deadly. "And so, when you look at us… when you look at Tavarians, Alzirahs, Idrakhans, Nazranis… remember this: there are no eagles here. No vultures circling scraps. Only dragons. Only fire."
Applause explodes. The room is shaking with it. People are on their feet. Cameras are flashing so hard I feel blind.
But all I can think is—holy shit.
That wasn't just a speech. That was a loaded gun.
And Zayan? He doesn't clap. Doesn't blink. He just keeps staring at Kamal, like he's seeing the cracks in marble no one else dares to notice.
My chest is tight, my brain's screaming at me—what the fuck did I just hear?
And then Kamal leans forward on the podium, voice dropping so low it feels like he's speaking straight into my veins.
"Now. Let us begin."
The music swells. The crowd roars. But my head is spinning.
Because dragons? Masters? Games?
This wasn't just Tavarian annual day. This was the opening move of something none of us are ready for.
The clapping dies down but the air doesn't. It's vibrating, like static before a lightning strike. And then—predictably—chaos.
Reporters surge forward like a pack of hungry dogs, flashing lights, microphones shoved so close one of them nearly stabs Kamal in the ribs.
"Sir, what do you say to critics who claim your family's dominance has created monopolies?"
"Chairman Tavarian, is it true you orchestrated the shutdown of—"
"Rumors say the Sovereigns are just a puppet show. Is it true the board runs everything?"
Jesus fucking Christ. It's like watching sharks who just smelled blood.
Kamal doesn't flinch. Doesn't blink. He just lifts a hand—barely, almost lazy—and the room goes dead quiet again.
"You may ask your questions," he says. Calm. Deadly. Like he's bored already. "One by one."
And just like that—order. The wolves tuck their tails. They know better.
The first reporter clears his throat, trying to sound confident. "Every empire has… shadows, Chairman. Dark pasts. Ugly truths. Do the Tavarians have one?"
The question drops heavy. The crowd leans in.
Kamal just… smiles. That slow, sharp curl that could either mean "I'll kill you" or "I already did."
"Of course," he says. Smooth as sin. "Every family bleeds. Every family sins. Ours simply doesn't apologize for it."
The room ripples. Some nervous laughs, some horrified gasps. The man just admitted Tavarians are devils in Armani and didn't even blink.
Me? My jaw fucking drops. Did he seriously just—? Oh my god. No PR filter. No corporate bullshit. Just raw Tavarian arrogance, live on camera.
Next question flies in, a woman with a recorder almost shaking in her hand. "Sir, your critics say you've crushed smaller businesses to rise to the top. What do you say to those accusations?"
Kamal leans forward, resting one hand on the podium. "If a house falls when the wind blows, don't blame the storm. Blame the foundation."
Holy shit. He just called his competitors weak with the straight face of a man reading scripture.
Another voice: "Some call you untouchable. Are you?"
That gets a laugh out of him. Low. Dark. The kind of laugh that makes my spine crawl.
"Untouchable?" He tilts his head, almost amused. "If I were untouchable, you wouldn't dare ask that question. And yet here you are, alive. For now."
Gasps. Murmurs. Cameras clicking like fucking machine guns.
And then—the question. The one I've heard whispered a thousand times, even in our house.
"Why," a man says, voice loud, steady, "why don't you show your heir?"
Silence. Like a pin drop could cause an earthquake.
Kamal… laughs. This one sharp, cutting, not amused but entertained at the stupidity.
"You people," he says, shaking his head. "Always the same question. You are more obsessed with my heir than I am. Like spoiled children begging to see the toy behind the curtain."
People laugh nervously. Cameras flash harder.
Another reporter cuts in, urgent: "Then when will the world see him, Chairman? When?"
This time—Kamal doesn't laugh. He goes stone still. His face hardens into marble, his eyes dark, dangerous. For a beat, I swear I forget how to breathe.
And then, slowly… the smile comes back. Cold. Sharp.
"Soon," he says. His voice low, like a promise. "It's pretty close now."
The words roll through the hall like thunder. Some people clap, some whisper, some look like they just witnessed history.
But me? My gaze snaps to Zayan.
He hasn't moved. Still in the shadows, still leaning back like he owns the wall he's standing against. But his face—fuck. It's different. Harder. There's a pulse under his jaw, a shift in his eyes. Like Kamal just pulled the trigger on a gun Zayan's been dodging for years.
And suddenly—I get it. Why he's here but not there. Why he's behind the curtain, not on the stage. He's not hiding. He's protecting. Himself. Us. Everyone.
Because Kamal isn't just answering questions. He's playing chess five moves ahead. And every single one of us? We're already pieces on his board.
I can't breathe.
Because it hits me—this isn't some dramatic Tavarian flex.
This is a countdown.
And just when I thought the questions couldn't get more suicidal—
"Chairman," a voice cuts through, sharp, steady, like he's about to drop a grenade in the middle of the room. "Is it true… that the Nazrani king is in your hands?"
Silence.
No, scratch that—murderous silence.
The whole hall goes dead. The air gets so heavy I swear it's choking me. Even the cameras freeze, like they know better than to make a sound.
Every head swivels toward the guy who asked it. Poor bastard. The other reporters look at him like, bro, you're already dead, why the fuck would you say that out loud?
Because here's the kicker—the Nazrani king is sitting right there. Front row. Regal as hell, crown prince Rafaen beside him, and the past king—aka Kamal's best friend—watching with that calm old-money expression that says, I've seen men gutted for less.
Holy. Shit.
I risk a glance at Zayan.
And of course, the motherfucker is smirking. Leaned back in his corner, arms crossed, lips tilted like the devil himself just got free entertainment. That smirk says, watch. Watch how we burn the world alive with a single sentence.
And then Kamal…
He just… smirks.
Slow. Sharp. Like the devil hearing his favorite hymn.
The kind of smirk that says, yes, I own him. And what the fuck are you going to do about it?
The room is one heartbeat away from snapping, and he just lets it hang. He makes them wait.
Finally—he speaks.
"Hands?" His voice is sharp silk. "No. Kings don't fit in hands. They sit beside them."
Everyone exhales. Just a little. Like maybe he's going to play it safe.
But Kamal's not fucking done.
He leans forward, eyes glinting, voice slicing clean through the tension.
"Your king is not in my hands. He is in my house. He eats at my table. He is blood to me. To suggest otherwise…" He pauses, smiles sharp enough to draw blood. "…is to insult him. Not me."
The crowd gasps. The weight shifts instantly—now everyone's glancing at the king himself.
And the Nazrani king? The man doesn't flinch. Doesn't blink. He just sits there, calm, regal, unmoved. Which, honestly, is scarier than if he stood up and screamed. Because it means he's letting Kamal own the narrative. Letting him feed the wolves.
And Rafaen—the crown prince—leans back, lazy as hell, like even he is entertained by how his family's power rumor just got flipped into a Tavarian flex.
Me? My brain's short-circuiting. Because everyone knows the rumors. People whisper it all the time—that once, the Nazrani king bowed his head to Kamal Tavarian. That he bent, not broke, but bent all the same. And now, in front of cameras, Kamal just half-confirmed it without confirming shit.
That's not just a mic drop. That's a fucking guillotine.
And just when the hall starts to recover, another reporter pushes forward, desperate. "Chairman Tavarian… how does it feel, being the most powerful and richest empire's leader? The most dominant man in the world?"
The question hangs. Everyone waiting for him to flex.
But Kamal doesn't rush. He lets the weight of it settle. His gaze sweeps the room—over presidents, monarchs, billionaires, me—and then he speaks.
"How does it feel?" He chuckles low, dangerous. "Like nothing. Because power doesn't feel. Money doesn't feel. It decides. It builds, it burns, it bends men into shapes they swore they'd never take. You want to know how it feels to be at the top?"
He leans closer to the mic, voice so sharp it's practically a knife.
"It feels like looking down and seeing every single one of you scrambling to climb where I already stand."
The crowd is stunned. Some clap. Some flinch. Some look like they just got personally roasted on live TV.
And me? I just fucking gape.
Because holy shit—this isn't just a press conference.
This is Kamal Tavarian reminding the entire world that thrones don't shake him. He shakes thrones.
And Zayan? Still smirking. Still silent. But his eyes… fuck. His eyes are locked on his grandfather like he's reading every coded word, every hidden blade.
I don't know what's scarier—Kamal speaking, or Zayan not speaking at all.
Then .
A sound cuts through the chaos.
"Mr. Chairman Tavarian."
Every head snaps toward it.
I freeze.
The only man alive who can say Kamal Rashid Tavarian's name without a tremor in his throat.
Chairman of Veridian Group. Ruthless. Bloody. Unforgiving.
Caius Nathaniel Veridian.
.