ARSHILA — POV
_
"SIR… Mr Tavarian, and Mrs is here."
The voice cuts through the tension like someone pressed pause on my brain.
Both of us look at each other at the same time.
His eyes drop straight to my mouth.
Slow.
Intentional.
Hungry in that quiet, infuriating way he does everything.
Then his gaze climbs back up to my eyes and he lets out this low exhale — warm, steady, too fucking close — and the breath hits my lips like a soft, forbidden touch.
My whole body freezes.
A stupid shiver bolts down my spine before I can kill it.
His smirk shows up instantly, sharp and cocky like he's been waiting for my reaction.
I whip my head away so fast my neck cracks and shove him back with one hand.
Light shove.
Barely anything.
More like get-out-of-my-face energy.
"Move," I mutter, trying to sound unaffected and definitely failing.
He laughs under his breath — that deep amused sound — then runs a hand through his hair, pushing it back like he knows damn well what that does to me.
Then he walks toward the living room, slow and annoyingly confident.
I stand there trying to reboot my entire system.
I touch my cheeks.
Hot. Burning.
What the hell.
If his parents didn't show up right now…
What would've happened?
Nope.
Nope, nope.
Not going there.
He was just teasing.
He always teases.
I need to stay in my fucking lane.
Don't let him near me.
If he wants to get near me, he can earn it — I'm not giving shit for free.
I straighten my clothes, inhale like I'm about to walk into a war meeting, and follow him to the living room.
His parents are on the couch — talking to him — and holy shit, they're beautiful like always. Like genetic cheating beautiful. No wonder their son looks like a walking, breathing problem.
His mom's face lights up the second she sees me.
"Oh baby, come here."
Instant softness.
Instant warmth.
She always does this thing where she makes me feel like she's known me forever.
I walk to her, trying to act normal even though my heart is still tap-dancing from her damn son.
"How're you doing, Mom?" I ask, hoping she doesn't hear my heartbeat.
"I'm fine, sweetheart. How's you?"
Her eyes narrow.
She reaches out and touches my forehead. "Do you have fever? Why's your body so hot? Your cheeks are red!"
Fucking kill me.
I choke on my own breath and glance at Zayan from the corner of my eye.
He's leaning back slightly, hands in his pockets, smirk fully formed like he's enjoying every second of my suffering.
He doesn't bother hiding it. The bastard.
"It's nothing, Mom," I mutter. "No fever. I'm fine."
His father clears his throat, heavy and authoritative.
"You two should catch up. Zayan, we should talk."
Zayan rises immediately — that smooth, controlled way he moves like he owns every atom in the room.
He steps past his father, then pauses.
Looks over his shoulder.
Right at me.
That stare hits so hard my chest actually tightens.
His eyes drag over my face, slow and unapologetic, like he's memorizing the fact that my cheeks are still red from him.
I should look away.
I don't.
I can't.
Something crackles in the space between us — quiet, dangerous, magnetic — the kind of tension you pretend doesn't exist but keeps tightening around your throat anyway.
His gaze drops to my lips for half a second.
Tiny.
Barely there.
But I feel it everywhere.
Then he looks back up, eyes dark, unreadable, and he turns away to follow his father.
My lungs finally remember how to work.
And I sit there thinking one very intelligent thought:
I'm so fucked.
______________________
ZAYAN — POV
The Indoor garden is quiet the way expensive spaces get quiet — like even the air knows who paid for it.
Soft hum of water.
Leaves moving like they're pretending they're natural.
I stand with my hands in my pockets because it stops me from punching something I shouldn't.
My father steps beside me, shoes crunching against the small gravel trail.
He looks around like he owns this garden more than I do.
Maybe he does.
He raised the man who built it.
I don't bother with small talk.
"What's with the unnoticed visit?" I ask, voice flat.
He arches a brow, like he's offended I even asked.
"Why? I can't visit my son now?"
I huff a laugh.
Dry.
Short.
"You always have a fucking reason," I say. "You never show up just to check the weather."
He almost smiles. Almost.
Then he gets straight to it.
"Why didn't you give the Nazrani side exclusive brand control for Naples?"
There it is.
The reason.
I don't blink.
"Why would I?" I answer. "I'm not signing that shit even if they're royals, or even if it was Grandfather's old alliance, or even if their heir happens to be my best friend."
He watches me like he's trying to peel back skin and see the thoughts underneath.
I continue before he asks anything else.
"Business is business. Nazrani already owns three major brand zones in the south-east. Giving them Naples kills market variation. And we lose leverage for the next twenty years."
My jaw ticks. "If they want brand exclusivity, they can earn it. I'm not handing it to them because they share my dinner table."
He nods slowly — not in agreement, but in acknowledgment.
"You know this is going to piss off their board," he says.
"They stay pissed," I shrug. "Keeps them awake."
My father exhales through his nose, a low amused sound, then pulls out a cigarette.
Lights it with that slow, deliberate motion older men have when they've earned the right to take their time.
I don't comment.
He knows I hate smoking.
He does it anyway.
Another Tavarian trait.
Smoke curls around him as he speaks again.
"The Italian gala is three weeks later. You should go."
I look at him like he said something stupid.
"Why the hell would I go? You know I don't show up for parties."
"It's not a party," he says, tone firm. "We all need to be there. It's an order from your grandfather."
That shuts me up.
Not because I'm scared — I don't fear the man.
But I respect him more than anyone breathing.
I nod once.
"Understood."
My father gives another long drag of the cigarette, then flicks the ash to the side.
We walk back toward the house, gravel crunching under our steps like punctuation.
The moment we step back into the living room, I see it — the softest fucking image I've seen all week.
My mother and HER.
Sitting close.
Talking like two women who already carved out their own little universe.
Her legs tucked under her.
My mother laughing at something she said.
Both of them matching energy like two devils born in different decades.
Two menace.
Two faces.
Both dangerous in their own ways.
My chest pulls tight.
Not in a painful way.
In a "fuck, this feels… good" way.
I stand there for a second.
Watching them.
Watching her fit into a space she pretends she doesn't belong in.
And before I can stop it —
before I can straighten my face —
I smile.
Small.
Hidden.
The type that feels like trouble brewing under skin.
Because the two women in my life are bonding.
And I know exactly what that means for me.
More chaos.
More fire.
And more of her in my house.
Good.
Let the world deal with the consequences.
___________________
ARSHILA — POV
Dinner looks insane on the table.
Silver lids.
Quiet staff moving like ghosts.
Everything too calm, too polished, like the house has its own damn heartbeat.
They start placing dishes in front of us — slow, practiced, careful — and then one by one they bow and leave.
The bow thing still messes with my head.
Every single night.
Every single morning.
Every single fucking time someone hands me a glass of water.
My brain just goes: why are you bending your spine for me, bro? stand straight, live your life.
In our belief nobody bows.
No one is above anyone.
No one deserves that shit.
And yet… here we go again.
People bending like I'm some crowned idiot on a throne.
It's irritating as hell.
I'm still side-eyeing the exit when his mom — wipes her mouth gently and asks, "You two never visit us. Why are you always home?"
I choke a laugh down because if she knew…
We eat.
We sleep.
We annoy the absolute shit out of each other.
That's it, mom.
That's our entire fucking routine.
Well—
That and him picking fights with my personality without even talking.
And me pretending I don't care when I do.
And him acting like he's not watching me when he's literally breathing down my neck sometimes.
We did stay at his grandfather's house for a week before the annual day celebration but never went to his parents' home.
Never once.
Zayan doesn't look up.
Just says, quiet and simple, "We'll visit, Mom."
Then she drops a bomb like she's talking about weather.
"You should give me a grandchild fast."
I swear the universe stops.
I choke on air.
Zayan chokes on nothing.
Both of us hacking like it's some cursed ritual.
I look at him, horrified, and—
His ears.
His fucking ears.
Red.
Blazing.
Full tomato.
He looks shy.
Flustered.
Like he got caught stealing cookies.
What the actual hell?
This is the man who growls without knowing he's growling.
This is the man who once looked at a guy for two seconds and the guy nearly cried.
And he's blushing over pregnancy talk?
His dad groans softly.
"Maireen. They're young. You should consider that. It's too early."
"It's not early," his mom waves it off. "They've been married nearly five months."
"MOM," Zayan snaps, annoyed, and she laughs at him like he's five.
I bite my tongue because the image is hilarious.
Not gonna lie.
I never imagined seeing Adam Zayan Tavarian — menace of the world — shrinking into a flustered idiot because of the word "grandchild."
Meanwhile, I'm just there thinking:
Grandchild?
Mom, your son made a cage inside his room.
For me.
Like I'm some fragile bird who'll die if sunlight hits too strong.
We sleep in separate beds.
We never talk about our feelings.
We're roommates with a weird contract.
Relax.
Dinner ends with soft goodbyes and warm hugs and promises to visit soon.
The moment the door closes behind his parents, something shifts.
The house goes too quiet.
Too thick.
I don't look at him.
Not even a glance.
My head is still echoing his mom's words.
Grandchild.
Grandchild.
Grandchild.
I bolt to the bedroom.
I hear his steps behind me.
Slow.
Steady.
Predictable.
Why is he following me?
I know he lives here.
This is literally his room.
Still—
Terrifying.
I get inside.
I head straight to my smaller room inside his.
My sanctuary.
The only place that's mine.
My hand touches the door handle when his fingers wrap around my wrist.
Warm.
Strong.
Unshakable.
"Where you going?" he asks, low.
I look at him like he lost his brain somewhere during dinner.
"To my room?" I say, confused.
His jaw flexes.
His eyes drop to his bed.
Then to my face.
He steps closer.
Close enough that the air between us thickens, sticky, charged, like he's daring me to breathe wrong.
"You should consider," he says.
"Consider what?" My voice cracks at the end. Traitor.
His gaze flicks to his bed again.
Slow.
Intentional.
Then back to me.
He leans in the slightest bit — barely — but it feels like he presses his whole existence against mine.
"What Mom said," he murmurs.
Voice deep.
Careful.
Dangerous.
My stomach drops.
My brain shuts down.
Everything inside me flatlines.
I stare at him like he just asked me to commit murder with him.
And then he gives the line that hits like a slap, like heat sliding under my skin, like he knows exactly what he's doing to me.
"Don't look so shocked, babe," he says. "If I ever decide to put a child in you, you won't be walking for days."
what the?