ZAYAN POV
Crown Prince Spotted In a Book Store with His Girlfriend
For a moment, the room feels smaller.
Catherine is still speaking. Something about strategic partnerships in Monaco.
I don't hear a word of it.
The article thumbnail loads.
A blurry image.
Her.
Him.
His hand around her wrist.
Public road. Cameras. Spectacle.
My jaw tightens, the muscle ticking once.
Then slowly—
Very slowly—
A dark smirk curves across my face.
I lean back in my chair again, phone still in my hand, eyes fixed on the screen.
"Interesting."
I lock the screen and place the phone face down on the desk like it no longer matters.
Catherine continues, unaware. "The Monaco delegation expects confirmation by Thurs—"
"How much share do we hold in the Nazrani Royal Family portfolio?"
She stops mid-sentence.
"Pardon?"
I lift my gaze to her. Calm. Direct. "You heard me."
A brief silence stretches between us. Catherine has worked for me long enough to recognize when a question is not random.
"That's… an unusual pivot," she says carefully. "But currently, through Tavarian Group subsidiaries and offshore holdings, we control approximately thirty-one percent of their liquid hospitality assets. Directly and indirectly."
"And their dependency ratio?"
She scrolls quickly through her tablet. "Seventy percent of their luxury revenue streams are tied to Tavarian-managed properties, branding, or licensing agreements. The Tavarian Lux carries their tourism image internationally."
I nod once. "Reduce their holding to two percent."
Her fingers freeze above the screen. "Two percent?"
"Effective immediately. Reallocate the remaining twenty-nine percent to our private sovereign fund."
Catherine blinks. "That will destabilize their royal trust income. Their infrastructure projects are backed by our capital."
"I am aware."
"The crown prince personally negotiated the last expansion contract."
"And he signed it," I reply smoothly. "Which means he agreed to the clauses."
Her voice lowers slightly. "The penalty clauses?"
"Yes."
Silence settles again, heavier this time.
"If we trigger those provisions," she continues carefully, "their treasury will take a significant hit. Publicly, it will appear as market restructuring. Privately, they will understand it as… a message."
"That is precisely what it is."
She studies me for a second longer than usual. "May I ask what prompted this?"
I stand from my chair, adjusting the cuff of my sleeve with deliberate slowness.
"Public overconfidence," I say. "A misunderstanding of boundaries."
Catherine inhales quietly. "This will strain relations."
"I am not ending relations," I reply evenly. "I am correcting them."
She straightens. "Understood. Shall I notify their financial council?"
"No." I walk around the desk, stopping beside the window overlooking the city. "Let them discover it in their quarterly adjustment report. I want the realization to be slow."
"That is… ruthless."
"It is educational."
She hesitates. "The crown prince may take this personally."
I glance back at her, a faint edge sharpening my voice. "Then he should learn to behave professionally in public."
Catherine lowers her eyes briefly. "Very well. I will execute the transfer within the hour."
"And Catherine."
"Yes?"
"Attach a formal advisory notice. Phrase it diplomatically. Something about strategic recalibration and preserving brand integrity. Include a reminder that any actions jeopardizing Tavarian Group's reputation will result in further divestment."
She nods slowly. "That will be interpreted as a warning."
"It is one."
The room feels colder now, though nothing has changed.
I pick up my phone again, tapping it lightly against my palm.
"Even royals," I say quietly, "should know who the hell is controlling them."
Catherine does not respond.
She does not need to.
I move toward the door, already calculating the next three moves ahead, already aware that this is not about jealousy and not about pride.
This is about territory.
I do not intend to create friction in a friendship that has existed for years.
But if he mistakes access for permission—
If he crosses the line again—
I will not hesitate to take down a crown to protect what is mine.
That doesn't mean I will let him walk free. That's not what I am.
I leave the study without another word. The hallway outside is silent, guards stationed at precise intervals, marble floors reflecting the low gold light from the chandeliers. Control lives in details. So does power.
At the end of the corridor, outside my private office, Izar is already there.
He stands straight, hands clasped behind his back, expression carved from restraint.
I stop in front of him. "What happened?"
His voice is steady. "While she was in the bookstore, Rafaen arrived. Alone. He approached her inside. Signed autographs. Told people she was his girlfriend."
A quiet pause.
"He held her hand outside. Tried to take her with him. I intervened."
I study his face for any sign of exaggeration. There is none.
"He made a scene?" I ask.
"Yes."
"In public?"
"Yes."
A small hum leaves my throat. Controlled. Measured.
"Where is she?"
"In the living room. Reading."
Of course she is.
A faint smirk touches my mouth before I turn and enter my office.
The door shuts behind me with a muted click. The room is darker than the study, lit only by the glow of multiple monitors embedded into the wall. I remove my jacket, roll up my sleeves, and sit down.
The headline is everywhere.
News platforms. Entertainment blogs. Royal fan pages.
I pull up a live feed of trending tags.
I open the main article again. The image loads in higher resolution this time. His hand on her wrist. Her face half turned. Cameras catching what they think is romance.
The comments scroll endlessly.
"They look so in love."
"Power couple."
"Finally a queen worthy of him."
"She's perfect for the crown."
"She fits him better than anyone."
I scoff softly.
Made for each other.
Interesting theory.
My fingers move across the keyboard with calm precision.
First, I access Tavarian's private cybersecurity network. Level three clearance opens without resistance.
I reroute through three offshore servers, masking origin points, fragmenting IP trails. I enter the content distribution backbone that syndicates royal media feeds.
A few keystrokes and I'm inside the hosting grid.
Images are stored across mirrored nodes. Redundant backups. Automatic replication protocols.
Efficient.
I disable replication first.
Then I flag the media as a copyright violation under royal image protection laws, pushing a priority takedown through automated moderation systems.
The first wave disappears within thirty seconds.
But the internet never sleeps. Copies spread. Screenshots multiply.
I shift strategy.
I deploy a saturation script that floods the tags with decoy content—old official photos, charity appearances, controlled press material. Algorithms prefer volume and authority. I give them both.
The bookstore images begin to sink.
I access three major fan accounts directly, override credentials, and suspend them under "security review."
More silence.
Within minutes, the original article displays an error.
Video links fail.
Cached versions return blank thumbnails.
Trending tags fragment into unrelated noise.
I lean back in my chair, watching the digital tide recede.
Izar remains by the door, unmoving.
"What did he say?" I ask without looking at him.
"He wanted to take her somewhere," Izar replies. "Said he had something to show her. He insisted."
I hum again.
Persistent.
I shut down the monitors one by one until the room falls back into shadow.
Then I stand.
We walk down the corridor toward the living room.
She is curled into the corner of the couch, legs tucked under her, completely absorbed in a book. One of the dark ones.
The kind with a male lead who mistakes obsession for romance and a girl who finds thrill in the chaos.
Her brows pull together slightly as she reads, lips parting at certain lines, completely unaware of anything beyond the page.
I don't interrupt.
She looks peaceful like this. Dangerous in her own quiet way. Consumed by fiction while the real world rearranges itself around her.
I watch her for a few seconds longer than necessary.
Then I turn away.
I head toward the garage.
The underground space is vast, polished concrete and low lighting reflecting off black and chrome machines lined up in perfect symmetry.
I walk past three of them before stopping.
I take my car.
And I start the engine.
The engine roars to life and I don't waste a second.
By the time I reach the royal palace, the city lights are nothing but streaks in the rearview mirror. The gates recognize my plate before the guards do. Steel parts. Protocol bends. No one stops me.
I step out without waiting for anyone to announce me.
Marble stairs. Gold crests. Flags hanging like they mean something.
Inside, the air smells like polished history and expensive lies.
Staff members straighten as I pass. No one dares speak. My footsteps echo down the corridor, sharp and unhurried.
A housekeeper freezes near the central hall, eyes widening slightly when she recognizes me.
"Where is Rafaen?" I ask.
Her throat moves before sound comes out. "H-He's with His Majesty. In the west office."
Of course he is.
Two guards outside the King's office stiffen as I approach. They glance at each other, uncertain.
I don't stop.
I push the doors open without knocking.
They slam against the wall with a controlled force that silences the room instantly.
Inside, the King sits at the head of a long table. Officers flank both sides, uniforms stiff with medals and authority.
And there he is.
Rafaen.
Seated comfortably across from his father, mid-conversation, posture relaxed like the world belongs to him.
Every pair of eyes shifts to me.
No one speaks.
I walk straight across the polished floor.
No greetings.
No acknowledgment of rank.
Rafaen stands halfway, confusion flickering across his face.
"What—"
My fist connects with his nose.
Thwok.