ARSHILA — POV
Two days later, the adrenaline is dead.
Not asleep.
Dead.
The kind of dead where your body finally cashes the check your brain wrote and now everything hurts in quiet, humiliating ways.
My legs ache. My shoulders ache. My soul is tired. I own four cars now and somehow that fact has not solved any of my emotional problems. Rude.
Now
I'm sitting in Zayan's private jet.
Not visiting it.
Not touring it.
Sitting. Strapped in. Flying.
Leather seat. Too soft. Too expensive. The kind of seat that makes you feel underdressed no matter what you wear. The cabin smells like clean money and something faintly masculine that should be illegal to bottle.
I stare out the window.
Clouds everywhere. Endless. Puffy. Dramatic for no reason. Like the sky is showing off because it can.
My phone is in my hand but I'm not scrolling. I'm pretending I'm calm. I'm not. My stomach feels weird. Not scared-weird. More like what-the-fuck-is-my-life weird.
I clear my throat. "I'm not coming to Italy."
Silence.
I wait.
Nothing.
I turn my head slowly.
Zayan is across from me, one leg crossed, laptop open, sleeves rolled just enough to be disrespectful. He's wearing glasses.
Glasses. Thin frame. Focused expression. Brows slightly drawn. Jaw relaxed but sharp.
The kind of face parents accidentally brag about and then high-five each other in private because wow, look what we made.
He doesn't look up. "You are."
"No," I say calmly, like calm has ever worked on this man. "I like the mansion. I will stay there. I will not attend a fancy event in a country where I don't even know how to ask for water."
"It's Italy," he says, still typing. "You'll survive."
"I will not. I'll accidentally insult someone's grandmother and start an international incident."
He finally pauses. One hand still on the keyboard. "It's my grandfather's order."
I stare at him.
That sentence is loaded. Like a gun just casually placed on the table.
"All the Tavarians are ordered to attend," he continues. "Including you"
That makes my head snap up. "You hate public parties."
"I don't attend them," he corrects.
"You actively avoid them," I say. "You treat them like diseases."
He glances at me then. Brief. Direct. Annoyingly calm. "There's no escape."
Great. Fantastic. Love that for me.
I look back at the clouds because if I keep staring at him I'm going to do something stupid like smile or combust.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see him shift slightly. The light from the window hits his face at an unfair angle. Glasses sliding a fraction down his nose. Focused. Quiet. Dangerous in that way where nothing is loud but everything feels controlled.
My brain, which is my enemy, whispers: take a photo.
I argue with it for a full five seconds.
Then I do it.
Quick. Silent. Just one. For science. For evidence. For future blackmail against myself.
I look at the photo.
Fuck.
I lock my phone.
I sit back like I didn't just commit a crime.
After we land, everything happens fast.
Too fast.
Ground. Movement. People who know his name without being told. A car waiting like it's been holding its breath.
I slide into the seat beside him in the back. Black interior. Quiet. Bulletproof vibes. I watch the city blur past the window and try to figure out where the hell we're going.
Finally, I ask, "Where are we going?"
"To the house," he says, not looking up from his phone.
I blink. "The house."
"Yes."
I turn fully toward him. "You have a house here too?"
A beat. "Mm."
I squint. "How many houses do you have?"
He answers without hesitation, like he's reciting the weather. "Eighteen mansions across fifteen countries."
I choke.
Actually choke.
"What the fuck?"
He finally looks at me. Brow lifting slightly. "Problem?"
I laugh, sharp and disbelieving. "That's not a flex, that's a cry for help."
"Is it?" he asks mildly.
"Is that Tavarian family property?" I press.
"No," he says. "Mine."
I stare.
"The family properties are more than that," he adds, like he's talking about extra storage boxes.
I lean back and stare at the ceiling. "How are you real."
He goes back to his phone. "You'll get used to it."
I snort. "No one gets used to this. Fifteen countries? Why? You were single a few months ago. Who were you hosting. Ghosts."
"Privacy," he says.
"That's not privacy, that's commitment issues with geography."
A corner of his mouth twitches.
I see it.
It ruins me.
The car slows.
Not abrupt.
Controlled.
Like everything around him.
Iron gates rise into view and my brain immediately shuts up because what the fuck.
They're massive. Tall. Old. Not flashy. Not modern. The kind of gate that doesn't need to prove anything because it's been rich longer than most bloodlines have existed. Dark metal, intricate work, worn just enough to say this place has history and money that survived wars.
The gates open slow.
Dramatic assholes.
I lean forward without realizing it. "Oh my—"
This isn't like his mansion back home. That one is sharp lines and glass and power statements. This is… old money. Stone walls.
Warm lights glowing behind tall windows. Balconies. Arches. The kind of place that whispers instead of shouting and somehow feels more dangerous because of it.
It's fucking beautiful.
Zayan doesn't even look up from his phone.
Of course he doesn't.
The car rolls in like it belongs here. Like it's done this a thousand times. We pull up to the entrance and before I can process anything, people appear. Staff. Calm. Professional. Perfect posture. The door on his side opens immediately.
He steps out.
Suit flawless. Movements easy. Like gravity works for him differently.
Someone moves to open my door—
"No."
The word is quiet but absolute.
He turns back.
Steps around the car.
Opens my door himself.
For half a second my brain glitches.
This feels like a romantic movie moment and I hate that my stomach flips like a traitor. I step out, schooling my face into neutrality even though a smile tries to sneak up on me. I kill it before he can see.
He offers a hand.
I hesitate.
Then take it.
His grip is firm. Warm. Brief. Like he knows exactly how long to hold before it becomes something else.
Inside is worse.
High ceilings. Marble floors. Soft lighting. Art that looks expensive and probably stolen at some point in history. Everything smells like polish and something faintly woody. Money again. Always money.
"Come," he says, already walking.
I follow because apparently that's my personality now.
We pass hallways I will definitely get lost in later. An elevator opens and we step inside. No buttons labeled. Of course not. He taps something discreet and the doors close.
The silence hits.
The elevator glides up smoothly. Too smoothly. My reflection stares back at me in the mirrored wall and I suddenly feel very aware that I'm about to attend a Tavarian gala in another country and I don't know how to behave around forks, let alone royalty-adjacent billionaires.
The doors open.
A floor I don't recognize because why would I.
We walk down a corridor and stop in front of a door that looks heavier than my emotional baggage. He opens it.
The room inside is ridiculous.
Large. Warm. Dark wood. Soft lights. Floor-to-ceiling windows. A bed that looks illegal to exist outside of royalty. Everything is curated. Clean. Masculine. Him.
I step inside slowly. "Is this my room?"
He steps in after me and closes the door.
Then he says it.
"Ours."
I turn so fast I almost give myself whiplash. "Excuse me?""We sleep in separate rooms in home "
He shrugs off his blazer, movements unhurried. "Yes. but , Here, the rules are different."
I scoff and roll my eyes. "You don't get to just change geography and override my boundaries."
He doesn't answer.
He starts unbuttoning his shirt.
One button.
Then another.
My brain short-circuits.
I look away.
I absolutely do not.
His back is to me. Broad. Muscles shifting under fabric. Controlled movements. Calm. Every unbutton feels personal even though it isn't. My internal monologue starts screaming in lowercase panic.
Do not look.
Stop looking.
Why is his back rude.
"Like what you see?" he asks casually.
I choke.
Actually choke.
"What?" I squeak, immediately furious at myself.
He glances over his shoulder just enough. Smirk restrained. Dangerous. "You've been staring."
"I have not," I lie, horribly. "Get out. I want to change."
He turns fully now, shirt open but still on, sleeves rolled, skin visible in a way that feels illegal. "You can change here. I won't look."
I laugh, sharp and disbelieving. "You're already looking."
He steps closer. Not invading. Just present. "I'm not."
"You absolutely are."
"I'm really not," he says calmly, eyes dropping pointedly to the wall behind me. "See?"
My heart is doing something dumb. Loud. Annoying. I grab my bag and march toward the bathroom like I'm escaping a crime scene.
"I don't trust you," I mutter.
"You're still here," he replies.
I pause at the door and glance back despite myself.
He's leaning against the desk now. Shirt open. Glasses off. Watching me like he knows exactly what this does to me and is enjoying not acting on it.
I hate him.
I hate that I feel hot under my skin.
I shut the bathroom door harder than necessary and lean against it, breathing out slowly.
Get it together.
It's just a room.
It's just him.
It's just Italy.
I catch my reflection in the mirror.
My eyes are bright.
My lips are parted.
I'm fucked.
------------
Tonight is the gala.
Which is insane because a few days ago I was arguing with a steering wheel and now I'm about to exist in a room full of people who probably own governments.
I'm in the bedroom, lights warm, mirror unforgiving. My hair is half done. My makeup bag is open like it knows it's about to be blamed for something.
I'm doing soft glow.
Not dramatic. Not smoky murder eyes. Just clean skin, warm highlight, lashes that say I'm expensive-adjacent but still approachable. I keep telling myself this is strategic. Not because I want him to look at me.
Absolutely not.
The dress is on the bed.
Black.
Of course it's black.
Not cute black. Not safe black. It's the kind of black that knows secrets. Long. Clean lines. Fabric that looks like it costs more than my self-control.
He gave it to me hours ago.
Didn't ask.
Didn't explain.
Just held it out and said, "Wear this."
Like I would do anything else.
I finish my liner and step back, evaluating. I look… good. Annoyingly good. My skin's glowing. My lips are neutral. My eyes are sharp. I look like someone who belongs in trouble.
I glance at the bed again.
The dress just sits there.
Patient.
Sinful.
Judging me.
My phone buzzes.
I check it.
Zayan: Take your time.
I blink.
That's it.
No where are you.
No hurry up.
No reminder that powerful people are waiting.
Just that.
My mouth curves before I can stop it.
I actually smile like an idiot.
Which is rude of him.
I sit on the edge of the bed and stare at the dress. "You're his fault," I mutter to it.
The fabric doesn't argue.
I stand and slip it on slowly. The material is cool against my skin. It fits like it was made with intent. Hugs where it should. Flows where it needs to. When I turn, the back steals my breath a little.
Okay.
Rude.
I add earrings. Simple. Dangerous. Spray perfume once because I'm not trying to commit murder. Just light damage.
I walk back to the mirror.
Fuck.
I look like a problem.
__________________
ZAYAN — POV
I'm outside the room.
Back against the wall. Phone in my hand. Screen lit with numbers that actually matter. A contract worth more than most people's lifetimes is open, clauses highlighted, Catherine firing documents at me like she's trying to win a war through PDFs.
I've been on this thing for hours. Not because it's difficult. Because it needs precision. Because one wrong word and someone tries to bleed you later. I scroll, tap, reply once, clipped and clean.
Catherine sends another file.
Then another.
Then a message asking if I've reviewed section twelve.
I have.
Twice.
My attention is locked in. Controlled. Focused. The way it always is when money is involved. This is my terrain. Numbers behave. Paper doesn't surprise you.
The door opens.
I don't look up at first. No reason to. Staff move quietly here. Doors open and close all the time. I'm mid-sentence in a reply when something cuts through the air.
The smell hits first.
Warm. Soft. Not sweet. Something deeper. Something that crawls under your skin and stays there. Familiar, but sharper tonight, like she knows exactly what she's doing and didn't bother to warn anyone.
I mutter, "Fuck," under my breath before I can stop myself.
My thumb stills on the screen.
I look up.
She steps out.
Slow. Unhurried. Like she owns the space and everyone in it just hasn't caught up yet. Black dress, clean lines, hugging her in ways that should be illegal in at least three countries.
Louboutin heels.
Red soles flashing just enough to feel like a threat.
My brain supplies a lot of words at once and none of them are professional. This is not what she looks like every day, and that's exactly the problem. It's intentional. Deliberate. She didn't overdo it. She didn't soften it.
She weaponized it.
Diamonds at her throat. Not loud. Not desperate. Just there, resting against her skin like they belong. Like everything else does. She meets my eyes and I know immediately she clocked the effect.
That tiny pause.
That lift of her chin.
She knows.
She looks like sin dressed by someone with excellent taste and poor morals.
Angel or devil. I don't decide.
She walks closer. Not rushing. Not hesitating. Each step measured, heels clicking softly against stone, and every sound lands straight in my head. I forget about Catherine. I forget about section twelve.
She stops in front of me.
Close enough that I can feel the heat off her skin. Close enough that the scent gets worse. Better. Both.
I forget about everything that isn't standing in front of me.
"You said take my time," she says, voice calm, eyes sharp. "I did."
I swallow.
That's it. That's all she says. No apology. No question. Just a statement, like she's daring me to argue with it. My jaw tightens without permission.
"You did," I say, and my voice is lower than it should be. "And now we're late."
She smiles a little. Not sweet. Not nervous. The kind that says she knows exactly how close she's standing and doesn't care. My gaze flicks down, back up, once, before I catch myself.
Big mistake.
I slide my phone into my pocket because pretending to work now would be an insult to both of us. The contract can wait. Catherine can survive five minutes without me. The world will not collapse because I'm distracted.
I look at her properly.
She's a problem. A beautiful, controlled, catastrophic problem. The kind that makes men forget their training and their temper at the same time. I feel something old and dark settle in my chest, quiet but dangerous.
She tilts her head. "Are you going to stare all night," she says lightly, "or are we leaving?"
That does it.
I exhale through my nose, slow, grounding myself before I say something that would ruin the evening and possibly someone's life.
I offer my arm, steady, deliberate, the way I do when I'm reminding myself who I am.
She takes it.
Of course she does.
Fuck.
I hope I don't kill anyone today.