Zayan POV
Rafaen stands halfway, confusion flickering across his face.
"What—"
My fist connects with his nose.
Thwok.
Blood comes instantly, bright and obscene against the polished dignity of the royal office.
His head snaps back from the force, chair screeching against the marble as it tips and scrapes.
The officers around the table react on instinct, hands flying to holsters, metal clearing leather in a sharp synchronized whisper that fractures the silence.
Within seconds, I am surrounded by raised guns, black muzzles trained steadily at my chest, my head, my throat.
I do not look at them.
Rafaen presses his palm to his nose, staring at the blood like it personally offended him.
A thin line runs over his lip and drips onto the royal seal embedded in the table between him and the King.
The King rises slowly from his chair. He does not shout. He does not panic. His authority is not loud, it is anchored.
"What is this, Zayan?" he asks, voice firm and controlled, the kind of tone that has commanded armies without ever lifting a sword.
I keep my eyes on Rafaen. "Nothing."
The officers tighten their grip on their weapons. The King's gaze shifts briefly to them before returning to me. He assesses the room in one sweep, calculating risk, consequence, optics.
"Lower your guns," he commands evenly.
The officers hesitate. He repeats it with iron beneath the calm. "Lower them. This is not a battlefield. This is my office."
The guns lower, though no one relaxes.
Rafaen lets out a breath that almost sounds like a laugh. He wipes his nose with the back of his hand and glances at his father. "Don't worry. It's just best friend things. We're fine."
The King looks at him for a long moment, unimpressed by the attempt at humor. Then his gaze returns to me.
"You will not bring street behavior into my palace," he says quietly. "If you have a grievance, you address it like men who understand consequence."
I incline my head slightly, not in apology, but acknowledgment.
He exhales through his nose. "Get out. Both of you. I will not have this circus in front of my officers."
Rafaen pushes himself upright, still holding his nose, then throws an arm around my shoulder with forced casualness. "See? Diplomacy," he mutters, steering me toward the door.
We walk out under the watchful eyes of guards who pretend not to stare. The doors close behind us with a heavy finality.
The moment they shut, I shrug his arm off and twist it behind his back in one fluid movement. He hisses sharply as I force him against the corridor wall.
"It hurts, you psycho," he grits out.
"Who the hell is your girlfriend?" I ask, my voice low and cold.
He smirks despite the pressure on his arm. "I knew it was about her. I'm sorry for saying she's my girlfriend. I should've said she's my wife."
My fist drives into his ribs before the last word fully leaves his mouth. The impact folds him slightly, air punching out of his lungs.
"It was a joke," he coughs, wincing. "Seriously."
"Don't bring your fucking jokes toward her," I say, tightening my grip before shoving him away.
He slides down to the floor, sitting against the wall, breathing heavier now, one hand pressed to his side, the other still stained with blood.
I crouch in front of him, close enough that he cannot look anywhere but at me.
"I know you have a soft spot for her," I say evenly.
His eyes flicker with something unguarded before he masks it. He looks away.
"And I know what's in your mind," I continue, voice calm and deliberate. "Keep it there. Keep it buried. Don't make me the kind of man who kills his best friend."
I shove him flat onto the marble. He exhales sharply from the impact.
"I just wanted to take her somewhere," he says, frustration bleeding into his tone now.
"You should have asked through the phone," I reply. "Or at the mansion. Not in a public street like you were claiming territory."
He says nothing.
"If you do it again," I add, rising slowly to my feet, "I will end you. Are we clear?"
He lets out a strained laugh. "You can't kill the crown prince of this country."
I smirk down at him. "Trust me. I can."
He smirks back despite the blood and the bruises, then winces and touches his nose. "Ouch."
I look at him steadily. "Did it hurt?"
He exhales through his teeth. "Fuck you."
Bastard.
_____________________
ARSHILA POV
I sit on the balcony with the journal open in front of me, the night air cool against my skin, the city lights far beyond the gates glittering like something untouchable.
The marble beneath my bare feet still holds the warmth of the day. The railing is carved stone, not metal, detailed with vines and falcons and initials woven so subtly into the design that only someone looking for them would notice.
Everything here is intentional.
Everything here was built to last centuries.
The mansion does not look like a home. It looks like a legacy carved into architecture.
Five wings stretch outward from the central hall like the arms of a sovereign star.
Floor-to-ceiling glass lines the south wing, overlooking a private lake so perfectly still it mirrors the sky like polished obsidian.
The east wing houses the formal reception halls, ceilings painted by artists flown in from Florence, chandeliers assembled crystal by crystal until they resemble frozen constellations.
The north wing contains private offices, conference rooms, secure vault spaces disguised behind silk-paneled walls.
The west wing stands apart.
Sealed.
Restricted.
Prohibited to everyone except Zayan and Izar.
Even the guards do not linger near its corridor.
Beyond the mansion itself, the grounds roll outward in measured perfection. Sculpted gardens trimmed with surgical precision.
A glass-domed indoor garden that blooms year-round, rare orchids thriving under temperature-controlled sunlight.
A koi pond with imported stone from Kyoto. A lap pool that disappears into the horizon line. Security cameras hidden inside lanterns that look antique.
The outhouse stands farther back on the property, a structure grand enough to be mistaken for a boutique hotel.
That is where the staff stay. Marble floors. Private suites. A professional kitchen that runs like a luxury restaurant.
And at the very top of the outhouse, separated by biometric access and reinforced steel doors, is Izar's penthouse.
It does not resemble staff housing.
It resembles a command center disguised as luxury.
Private terrace. Bulletproof glass. A gym fitted with equipment that looks military-grade.
Dark wood, leather, screens mounted along one wall, feeds flickering silently from every angle of the estate.
The man may sleep there, but he watches from there.
I draw slowly in my journal.
The central hall first.
Then the wings.
I sketch corridors, staircases, balconies, emergency exits, blind spots, security posts. I mark the west wing darker than the rest. I outline the indoor garden.
The private garages beneath the north side. The underground tunnel that connects the main house to the outhouse — I only know it exists because I once saw Izar disappear and reappear too quickly for it to be coincidence.
By the time I finish, the blueprint fills two pages.
It looks less like a home.
It looks like a fortress.
I close the journal halfway and stare at the mansion below me. The lights are dim tonight. Zayan is out. Izar is nowhere in sight. The guards rotate on the outer perimeter, but the inner halls are quiet.
Too quiet.
This is the perfect time.
I stand.
The balcony doors slide open without sound as I step inside. The hallway outside our bedroom is empty. The air smells faintly of sandalwood and polish.
I enter our room first.
If he has a new passport, it has to be here.
I move to the wardrobe and open every drawer. Custom suits arranged by shade. Watches aligned in individual cases. Cufflinks set like rare stones. Nothing unusual.
I kneel and check the lower compartments.
Nothing.
I move to the bedside tables.
Empty except for a gun in the left drawer and a leather-bound notebook in the right.
I open cabinets. I check beneath folded clothes. I pull open hidden panels behind the dressing mirror.
Nothing.
My search becomes sharper, faster.
He is meticulous. He would not leave something important lying carelessly.
Which means he hid it well.
I stand still in the center of the room, scanning every surface again.
Then my eyes lift toward the hallway.
His study.
Would he really keep something like that there?
Would he really place his passport in the one room meant for official work and controlled meetings?
I leave the bedroom and walk down the corridor toward the study. The lights along the walls glow softly as I pass, motion sensors activating in sequence like a silent escort.
The study door is slightly ajar.
I pause.
Then I continue past it.
Because at the very end of the hallway, something else catches my attention.
A door.
Not the west wing entrance.
Not the heavy carved double doors I already know.
This one is smaller.
Plain.
Set into the wall as if it has always belonged there.
My steps slow.
Why have I never seen this before?
The corridor beyond it is dimmer than the rest of the house. No artwork. No decorative molding.
Just smooth walls and darker flooring, as if aesthetics stopped mattering the moment this section began.
I approach carefully.
I remember the west wing doors.
The snake-shaped handles.
The sharp electronic beep when my fingers brushed them the first time.
The silent alarm that followed.
I do not touch this one.
I step closer without raising my hand.
Before my skin even reaches the surface—
A green light flashes above the frame.
A loud, piercing beep explodes through the corridor.
BEEP BEEP BEEP
fuck .