ARSHILA — POV
Italy is beautiful.
No. That's a lie.
Italy is offensively beautiful.
The kind of beautiful that makes you feel underdressed emotionally. Gold light spilling over ancient stone. Streets that look like they've been loved for centuries. Buildings standing there like they know secrets and will never tell you a single one.
The car glides through it like it belongs.
I keep my eyes on the window on purpose.
Because Zayan is holding my hand.
Not dramatic. Not interlaced. Just firm, grounded, his thumb resting where my pulse keeps betraying me. I don't look at him.
If I look at him, I will lose whatever fragile grip I still have on my composure. My heart is already sprinting like it's late for something important.
Breathe. Act normal. You are a person. Allegedly.
His voice comes low, close, meant only for me.
"Stick with me," he says.
Always hangs unspoken in the air like a loaded promise.
My fingers twitch in his.
I don't answer. I just nod, because my throat has decided it's on strike.
The car slows.
The venue rises in front of us and my brain quietly short-circuits.
It's not just a building. It's a statement. Marble steps wide enough to intimidate. Tall columns bathed in warm golden light.
Chandeliers visible through arched windows, glittering like restrained excess. Everything is polished, historic, deliberate.
This place has hosted power, deals, betrayals, marriages that rewrote bloodlines.
Luxury without desperation. Money without noise.
The car stops.
Doors open.
The night air hits my skin and suddenly there are men everywhere. Tavarian men. Suits sharp. Eyes sharper. Positioned like chess pieces already anticipating moves. The way they scan, the way they stand—this isn't security. This is ownership.
Zayan steps out first.
Of course he does.
He turns back to me, hand still holding mine, and helps me out like the ground might disrespect me otherwise.
We start toward the stairs.
My heels hit stone. One step. Then another.
Halfway up, his hand moves.
Lower.
Settles on my lower back.
Not possessive. Not gentle. Certain.
I freeze.
My entire body goes still like someone hit pause. Heat floods my spine. Every nerve lights up like it's tattling on me.
I turn my head sharply.
He leans in just enough for his breath to brush my ear.
"Walk," he says quietly.
Not a command.
A reminder.
I swallow and force my legs to move before my dignity files a missing persons report.
We enter the hall.
And fuck.
People everywhere. Dressed in money. Silk, diamonds, tailored arrogance. Laughter in languages I don't understand.
Crystal glasses clinking. Power humming under polite smiles. I feel very small very fast, like I accidentally wandered into a room where everyone knows the rules except me.
My shoulders tense.
Zayan notices instantly.
"I'm here," he says, voice steady, grounding. "Don't worry."
I nod again because nodding is apparently my personality tonight.
Without thinking—
I reach for his hand.
First.
The second my fingers wrap around his, I realize what I've done and it's too late to pretend otherwise.
He looks down.
At our hands.
Then at me.
That slow, dangerous smirk appears like it's been waiting its turn.
His fingers tighten.
Just a little.
A squeeze that sends heat straight up my arm and absolutely nowhere appropriate. My brain supplies a very unhelpful thought.
I want to go home with him.
Shut up, Arshila.
We move deeper into the room and then I see him.
Kamal Rashid Tavarian.
Old power. Sharp eyes. Presence that doesn't need to raise its voice. People orbit him like he's gravity.
We approach.
"How you doing, Adam?" Kamal asks.
"Good," Zayan replies calmly.
Kamal's gaze shifts to me. Assesses. Measures. Then softens, just a fraction.
"And you?" he asks.
"I'm doing well, Grandpa," I say.
He nods once, satisfied.
People start talking to Zayan immediately. Rapid Italian. Confident. Fluid. I understand absolutely none of it. Not a single fucking syllable. I just stand there smiling politely while my brain plays elevator music.
Zayan still hasn't let go of my hand.
I try to slip my fingers free.
He tightens his hold.
I glance at him.
He doesn't look at me. Just listens, nods, answers in Italian like this is breathing for him.
I scan the room, searching for familiar faces.
Nothing.
No Eshan. No Razmir. No Rafaen.
Panic taps my ribs.
I lean in and whisper, "Where's the heirs?"
"They're not coming," he murmurs back.
My stomach drops.
"Oh," I say quietly, disappointed before I can stop myself. "Great. So I'm socially alone in a foreign country surrounded by billionaires."
A man in a tailored suit approaches, smiling, confident. He greets Zayan smoothly.
"Buonasera."
"Buonasera," Zayan replies, effortless.
The man's gaze flicks to me. Curious. Evaluating. He says something else in Italian, a question this time.
Zayan doesn't hesitate.
His arm slides fully around my waist.
I freeze again because consistency matters.
He answers calmly, voice low, absolute.
"È mia moglie."
The shift is immediate.
The man's posture changes. Respect clicks into place like a switch being flipped. His smile turns formal, careful. He nods to me—slight, deferential—and steps back with a murmured response I don't understand.
They move on.
I look up at Zayan.
"What did you just say?" I ask quietly.
His eyes drop to me, dark, amused.
"Nothing you didn't already know."
Heat crawls up my neck.
"Do they know you?" I ask, trying to recover.
"Yes."
"As the heir?"
"No. As a Tavarian."
I stare. "So… no one knows?"
"Only you," he says. "And your family and friends."
Something clicks.
"Is that why your men always check my friends?" I ask slowly.
His lips curve.
He doesn't answer.
Which is absolutely an answer.
My attention drifts.
The dessert table.
Holy shit.
So many desserts. Tiny. Perfect. Glossy. Criminally inviting. I want all of them. I want to drown in tiramisu and forget I'm surrounded by people who probably own islands.
I'm calculating how to escape gracefully when another man approaches Zayan, greeting him again in Italian.
Zayan releases my hand to shake his.
That's my opening.
I slip away immediately.
Straight to the desserts.
No regrets. No shame. I deserve this.
I hit the dessert table like it personally owes me money.
Tiny glasses. Tiny spoons. Tiny crimes.
There's tiramisu lined up like soldiers. Chocolate domes shining like they've been polished by demons. Something with pistachio that looks illegal in at least three countries.
I hover, panicking, because how am I supposed to choose when everything is flirting with me.
This is stress. This is culture shock. This is self-care.
I take one. Then another. Then I pretend I didn't.
There's a whole section of drinks right next to it and I almost cry when I see it. No alcohol. Not even pretending.
Just glass dispensers with fancy labels, fruit floating around like it's on vacation, and cold mist clinging to the sides.
Of course there's a non-alcoholic section. It's a Tavarian gala. People get murdered for less than a headache here.
I notice something else and it hits me weird.
No cameras.
None.
No obvious ones. No flashing red lights. No phones raised. No discreet lenses pretending to be decor. Just people. Space. Control.
My skin prickles.
I grab a drink anyway. Something citrusy. Cold. I take my desserts and escape before my conscience can interfere.
There's a quieter corner with a low couch, half hidden by a column. I sink into it like I belong here, finally exhale, and take a bite.
Fuck.
I close my eyes.
That's obscene.
Creamy. Bitter. Perfect. I chew slowly like I'm in a relationship with it.
I lean back, sip my drink, and sigh.
And then it hits.
I really thought the heirs would be here.
I pictured chaos. Laughing. Eshan stealing desserts. Razmir starting fights with strangers for sport. Rafaen judging everyone silently like a disappointed god. Me not feeling like the odd one out in a room full of legacy and sharp smiles.
I miss them. Stupidly.
My fingers brush the snake around my neck without thinking. The Bvlgari piece is cool against my skin, heavy in that quiet, expensive way. It coils just right. Protective. Watching.
I'm staring into my drink when a voice cuts in.
"Ciao, bella."
Italian. Smooth. Too smooth.
I look up, confused, scanning like maybe he's talking to someone behind me. There's no one behind me.
He's standing there.
Tailored suit. Too relaxed. Cigarette between his fingers like the rules don't apply to him. The smell hits next—smoke, alcohol, something sharp and wrong for this room.
He tilts his head, amused.
"Sì," he says, eyes on me. "Parlo con te."
I blink.
What.
I point at myself. Subtle. Polite. Confused as hell.
He smiles wider.
I sigh. Deep. Tired.
"Whatever you're saying," I tell him mock a smile, "I have no idea. So fuck off."
There it is. World peace restored.
He laughs. Actually laughs. Loud. Like I just entertained him.
English slips out next, wrapped in a thick Italian accent.
"Ah," he says. "Pretty mouth too, huh?"
My spine locks.
Oh.
You speak English.
Great.
He moves closer and sits. Too close. Way too close. The couch dips. My body goes rigid, every instinct screaming.
Smoke drifts toward me.
I hate it.
I hate the smell.
Why the fuck he is sitting next to me?? Where's zayan??
My jaw tightens.
"Who are you," he asks, eyes dragging over me like I'm something on a menu. "Bella?"
The way he says it makes my skin crawl.
"I didn't see you before," he goes on. "You're… new."
I say nothing.
He leans back, casual, invading space like it's a hobby.
"You look young," he says, grinning. "Very beautiful. You studying something? Or teaching, hmm? Maybe you got some sugar daddies hiding around."
He chuckles at his own joke like it's clever.
My phone is suddenly very interesting. I unlock it. Lock it. Unlock it again. Anything but look at him.
He watches. Enjoying it.
"I know you're someone's little girl," he says softly. "They dress you pretty. They bring you here. But you," his eyes dip, slow and rude, "you look curious."
I don't move. Don't speak. Don't give him anything.
"Maybe you teach me what you got, sì?" he murmurs. "I like learning."
He leans in.
Too close.
And then—
He blows smoke into my face.
That's it.
Something snaps.
Heat floods my chest, sharp and ugly, and I'm halfway to standing, every curse I know lining up on my tongue—
Swish.
The air changes.
Pressure. Weight. Violence without sound.
The man is gone from beside me.
There's a crash. A body hitting marble. Shocked gasps rippling outward.
I blink.
The man is on the floor.
Pinned.
And straddling him, one knee in his chest, one hand fisted in his collar like it's nothing—
Zayan.