The air turns thick the moment silence swells between us.
Then, as if possessed by pure impulse—or maybe pure idiocy—I snap the curtain open again.
It sways for a second, as stunned as I am by my own damn recklessness. He turns his head slowly, that perfect sculpted brow rising like a quiet dare. His gaze drags to mine, unimpressed and unreadable, like he already knows I'll regret this.
"Sorry," I blurt, pretending I didn't just make it awkward as hell. I shut the curtain again, maybe a little too fast. The rings squeal against the rod in protest.
There's a beat of silence. My pulse is louder than the beeping monitors.
"…Who are they?" I ask, pretending curiosity is all this is. "Your friends?"
A pause.
Then, in that infuriatingly calm voice:
"Isn't that what they told you?"
Bastard.
I roll my eyes to the ceiling, even though I know he can't see. "God. Your friends are so fucking hot."
Nothing from his side.
"No, I'm serious," I go on, smiling like a devil. "Like actual hot. Natural hot. That kind of hot that doesn't even need effort. Baggy jeans, stupid jackets, tousled hair and they still look like they own the fucking world. What kind of genetics is that?"
Still nothing.
I smirk to myself. "Where are they from? Are they single? In a relationship? I mean, that one with the dimples—God."
Still no reaction, so I lean in, my voice a little breathy, playful. "He's so handsome. I like him. A lot. Even if I saw him for like five seconds. That aura? That mysterious, silent, I-don't-give-a-damn thing? God."
I pause. Let that sink in. Then whisper like it's sacred, "And those dimples..."
Finally, his voice comes through—cold, clipped.
"So what?"
I blink. "Nothing. Just saying."
He says nothing.
I chew the inside of my cheek, heart skipping for reasons I don't want to name. "How old is he?"
His voice sharpens slightly. "Why do you want to know?"
"Just tell me, man. It's not like you have to pay for the answer."
A sigh. Then, "Maybe... around twenty-six?"
Another pause.
"No. He is twenty-six."
I grin. "God. Perfect age gap."
Silence.
I shift slightly on the bed, slow and stiff, my neck tilting toward the curtain like it might reveal more if I get closer. My voice comes out quieter this time. "What about you?" I whisper. "How old are you?"
He doesn't answer at first. Just lets the seconds drag, like he's doing it on purpose. Then—
"Twenty-five."
My breath hitches.
Twenty-five. Just twenty-five.
And yeah, he doesn't look old. Not at all. Not the way his voice sounds either—it's not deep like those wrinkled, whiskey-soaked businessmen or professors who drone on and on. It's young deep. Sharp deep. Dangerous deep. Like velvet over steel. Like someone who knows too much and says too little.
I don't know what the hell that does to me, but it's something vicious.
"You look young," I murmur. "And you are young. Must be nice."
A pause.
"Nice like what?" he asks.
I smile to myself, heat curling low in my stomach. "Like being twenty-five. Having a beautiful, arrogant face. Devil friends. All that charm and power and the confidence of someone who doesn't even try to impress anyone."
He hums. A tiny sound. Amused, maybe. Or not.
"I didn't know you were this observant."
That makes me shut up.
There's something in his voice—like a hand on my wrist, pulling me back, telling me enough. So I go quiet, lips pressed together, pulse tapping wild against the side of my throat.
Then he speaks again.
"I think you should focus on your life."
A beat.
"Not mine."
I smile.
The kind that hurts.
But I don't back off. Not even a little.
Because I know—if I let this moment slide, he'll build that wall up again. Thicker. Higher. Cold silence is his kingdom, and I'm not about to let him disappear behind it.
So I say it. Voice light, fake, stupidly honest in a way that isn't.
"I think I like strangers' lives better than mine."
Lies. Fucking lies. I've never liked strangers. I don't ask questions. I don't poke around in other people's business. I couldn't care less what they do or who they are or how they live or what breaks them.
But with him…
He's never been a stranger.
Not to me.
Not when I crushed on him like an idiot from the traffic light, not when I spent a year remembering a jawline I only saw for five seconds, and definitely not when I woke up in this bed and realized the guy behind the damn curtain was him.
I keep going before he can disappear into that silence again.
"So… why didn't your family come?"
I don't tell him I know they did.
I don't say I heard his mother cry.
Or that I don't say I heard his dad's voice—low, careful, calming her.
I don't say I lay there like a ghost beside his body while their love for him poured through the walls and into me.
I don't say any of it.
I just ask like I don't know.
His reply comes flat, steel-wrapped in frost. "Why do you care?"
"I don't," I lie again. "Just asking."
"Then don't."
The words punch me harder than they should.
But I don't make a sound. I just sit there, lips tight, eyes on the closed curtain.
He's so…
Fuck, cold.
So I mumble under my breath, but not too quiet. "I think you should compete with ice."
Silence.
Then his voice. Low. Unamused.
"Is that a compliment?"
I bite back a grin. "No. It's a fucking challenge."
A pause.
Then… that voice again, dry and slow and wrapped in something darker.
"You should compete in making unnecessary comments and pushing into things that aren't your business."
My brows rise. "Wow, you really have a gift for compliments."
"I wasn't done," he says, and now his tone shifts. Just a little.
Not warmer. But sharper. Smoother. I feel it like a line of heat across my skin.
"You should compete in that," he repeats.
"But don't bother betting on it. Even if there were hundreds of others—you'd still win."
I blink.
Then I laugh.
Not a giggle. Not a pretty polite thing. A full, breathless laugh that scrapes from my throat like something that's been dying to come out.
It catches me off guard, how natural it feels.
How easy it is, in this room full of beeping machines and hidden truths.
And somehow…
Somehow it makes me want to cry.
Because what the hell is this?
This guy—this cold, arrogant bastard with a voice like a vice and eyes I still haven't seen properly—
He's nothing like anyone else.
And I—
God, I don't even know his story.
All I know is his name.
And now… his friends. Just barely. Just faces and stupid details. Not where they come from. Not what they do.
Nothing.
But I know him.
Not facts. Not data. Not the kind of things normal people collect.
I know him like gravity.
I know he shuts people out like it's self-defense.
I know he listens more than he talks.
I know silence is his weapon and his comfort.
And still, I want to keep pushing.
I want to see if there's anything soft behind that damn wall.
If there's anything warm left under the frost.
He says nothing now. Just silence again.
So I smile through it, still catching my breath from laughing, and lean back against my pillow.
Maybe this is it.
Maybe this stupid curtain and our broken bodies and our invisible war of words is all we'll ever have.
But…
It's already more than I thought I'd ever get.
And somehow, it's enough—for now.
The silence stretches so long it starts to feel like another presence in the room—thick and breathless, like it's watching me, waiting.
And then I hear it.
The click of the door opening, soft but sure. Hurried footsteps—controlled, yet undeniably urgent—enter the room, heavy boots sinking into the silence like they belong here. Then a smooth, familiar slide of the curtain on his side being drawn back.
My breath catches.
A new voice speaks. A man. Calm but with the kind of tension that comes from holding too much inside.
"How you doing now?"
His voice is low, almost careful. Like he's checking if Zayan still breathes, not just physically but...something else.
Zayan's answer is razor sharp and blunt.
"Not dead."
That's it. No emotion. No sarcasm. Just a fact.
There's a pause, then the man doesn't say anything for a few seconds, but I hear him moving. Pacing. One, two, three steps. Heavy turns. Back again. It's restless, like he's trying not to scream.
Then that voice again, quieter this time.
"Rania's... Rania's not doing good. She's barely talking. Refusing to eat. She's crying. She says she just wants to see you."
Rania.
That name stills me like a goddamn slap.
Something about the way he says it—it matters. It's not thrown out carelessly. It's weighted. Full.
Zayan's response is flat.
"Not now."
Not now?
That's it?
The guy says nothing in return. I don't hear any more pacing. Just a pause. Then the soft sound of a breath being held. Swallowed. Then the door shuts.
Clean.
Final.
Whoever he was—he's gone.
And I stay frozen.
Rania. I don't know who the fuck she is. I don't even know who that man was. But that name—
I swallow hard, then find myself blurting out before I can stop it,
"Was that your friend?"
Silence.
Of course.
Always silence with him.
I try again. Bolder, but trying not to sound... whatever the hell I'm feeling.
"Who's Rania?"
Still nothing.
I almost laugh at myself. I knew it. Why did I even ask?
But then he says it. Low. Controlled. Like he's slicing the words out of his throat just for the sake of it.
"An important person in my life."
Just that.
No name. No explanation. No label.
But it lands like a punch to my chest anyway.
"Oh."
That's all I say.
Just one stupid, meaningless syllable.
And then I shut up.
I press my head against the pillow and stare up at the blank ceiling. My mouth is dry. There's a strange heat crawling up my neck, behind my ears.
Why does it burn?
I don't know her. I don't know him, either. Not really. But he's mine.
No—no, he's not. He never was. He never will be.
But—
Fuck.
I want to scream. Or bite him. Or slap something. Anything to feel real.
But I do none of that.
I just lie there.
What the fuck did I even expect?
Him to be single?
Single??
With that fucking face? With that carved-from-goddamn-marble, smirks-for-sport, soul-snatching fucking face?
With that voice that sounds like it fucks better than half the male population? That voice that rumbles low when he says nothing and still manages to crawl down your spine like sin?
Girl. No. Get a fucking grip.
Slap that delulu ass out of you before someone else does it for free. What are you even doing here? Hurting because he said "an important person of my life" like he didn't just crack your ribs open and hand your pathetic heart a reality check?
He may have a girlfriend. No—fuck that—he probably has a lot. Plural. A whole goddamn harem. Women probably fight over who gets to breathe in his cologne. Some girl is probably moaning his name right now in her dreams and crying over his silence while another writes poetry about his fucking jawline.
And me?
I'm here, behind a fucking curtain, hiding behind pity and tragedy and silent fantasies like a dumb bitch.
I don't even know him. Not really. I don't know what he likes. What makes him laugh. I don't know what he fears, what he dreams about, or who he was before that accident. I don't know if he drinks tea or coffee. If he sleeps on his side or not at all.
I only know his name.
And his face.
And that I'm obsessed.
Sickeningly, stupidly, pathetically obsessed with a man who didn't even ask for my fucking name.
And now?
Now I know there's a Rania.
Of course there's a Rania. Of course there's someone whose name slides off his tongue like it belongs there. Someone who matters to him enough that her sadness makes it past those goddamn walls he's built.
"Your talkative mouth must be tired."
His voice cuts in like a damn blade. Calm. Cold. Clipped. Like he's genuinely curious or maybe just bored of the silence.
I freeze. My lips part slightly, but nothing comes out.
No sarcasm. No defense. No biting comeback.
He's right. My mouth is tired. Tired from running like it can outrun the truth. Tired from trying to fill every pause with noise because silence makes it too easy for thoughts to creep in.
I say nothing. For once.
My head leans back against the pillow, eyes stuck on the goddamn ceiling as if it'll open up and drop common sense on me. I try to swallow down the weight pressing on my chest but it sticks there like a brick lodged in my throat.
I hate this.
I hate that I care.
I hate that he has that power without even trying.
And I really fucking hate that the sound of his voice still gives me chills even when it's slapping me with reality.
God, I need help. Or a lobotomy.
Or maybe just a new life.
I don't talk to him the entire day. From the moment I wake up to the second they bring in dinner, I keep my mouth shut—not because I'm angry. Hell no. I'm not mad at him.
I'm fucking hurt.
The kind of hurt that sits in your ribs and rots. Like there's something alive in your chest, biting and clawing and screaming to get out, but all I can do is smile at the nurse and stare at the damn ceiling like I'm a normal girl. Like I'm not falling apart piece by piece.
I don't open the curtain.
I don't even look at it.
Not once.
Not because I'm scared of him or because I don't want to see his stupid unfairly perfect face, but because I know he'll see it on mine—the fucking truth. The sting in my eyes, the weight on my shoulders, the thousand thoughts clawing behind my smile. He'll look at me with those sharp, cold eyes and read every little crack inside me.
I don't want him to know that he makes me feel like this.
The food comes in again—honestly, this hospital food is damn delicious. Whoever the chef is, they deserve a medal. But today, it tastes like cardboard. I eat two bites and shove the rest away, because my stomach feels like it's in knots, like it's trying to fold into itself.
And it's not just about what he said.
It's everything.
It's the fact that he has someone. Rania. Whoever the fuck she is. Whoever the fuck she gets to be in his life.
Girlfriend? Probably.
Maybe more than that. Maybe she's the only one he talks to without that freezing, emotionless tone. Maybe she gets the version of him that laughs and teases and smiles like he means it. Maybe she touches his fucking hair without flinching. Maybe she gets to lie next to him and call his name and hear him say hers back without sounding like it's carved from ice.
What the fuck was I expecting?
That a man like him—tall, terrifyingly gorgeous, voice like sin, attitude like hell—would be single?
That someone like me—some obsessed girl who fell in love with a stranger in traffic, whose face she saw only for a few seconds—could have a chance?
Pathetic.
Fucking pathetic.
I don't even know him. I know his name. That's it. A name, a voice, and now a few of his friends. I don't know what he does, what he is, what he hides in that goddamn stare. And still, I sit here with my mouth zipped shut, pretending like if I stay quiet long enough, I'll forget about him.
As if silence can erase that face.
As if silence can wipe out the way my heart fucking skips every time he shifts behind the curtain. The way I catch myself holding my breath just in case he says something. Just in case I hear his voice once more.
But no.
I need to forget him.
If I can stay silent today, maybe I can stay silent forever.
If I can avoid looking at him now, maybe one day I'll see someone else—and maybe, just maybe—I won't compare the tilt of his smirk to Zayan's. Maybe I won't wish that someone else's laugh sounded like his. Maybe I won't think about those stupid slow blinks of his when he's unimpressed and dangerous and beautiful. Maybe I'll stop measuring every man against someone I never even knew.
Yeah. Right.
The fucking delusion in my head should be illegal.
That I ever thought I had a shot. That I ever thought I was special.
Newsflash, bitch—you're just a body in the next bed. Just a voice he talks to when he's bored, when he has no one else to bother with. He has people. A whole life. A girl.
And I'm just a stranger.
The silence between us drags into the night like a ghost with no legs, heavy and cold.
If I stay silent any longer, he's gonna think I backed the fuck off just because he mentioned another girl.
The idea alone makes me want to scream into my damn pillow and set it on fire.
Backed off?
Me? Fuck no.
I'm not that easy to shake. I'm not gonna give him the satisfaction of thinking he silenced me with one damn name drop. That's worse than admitting I actually give a shit—which I absolutely do not. Obviously.
But then again, what the fuck do I even say? How do I start? "Hi, I'm still obsessed with you even though you probably have a lineup of girls who'd sell their organs for your attention?" Yeah, no thanks.
I chew the inside of my cheek, glaring at the beige ceiling like it personally offended me. My fingers twitch to do something—anything—other than lie here like some tragic silent idiot with too many thoughts. It's been hours. The nurse took the plates away. I barely touched the food, and not because it wasn't good. Hell, it tasted like it was shipped down straight from some five-star celestial kitchen. But my appetite curled up and died the moment I thought too much.
I never opened the damn curtain. Never looked at him. Because if I did, he'd probably see it. That stupid thing in my face. That ugly twist of expression that betrays exactly how pathetically soft I am for a man who probably doesn't even fucking know I exist in the way I want him to.
Maybe if I saw him with another girl, things would be easier. Maybe that'd be the slap I need to move the fuck on. Maybe I'd finally be able to rewire my brain to stop aching whenever I hear his voice. But until then… staying silent was my rebellion.
Except now my silence feels like swallowing a mouthful of needles.
So, I slide my hand over the remote, yank my right-side curtain open like I'm picking a fight with the air, and point the damn remote at the TV. The screen flares to life with a soft glow. Some old movie is playing—lots of shadows and slow dialogue. Whatever.
I clear my throat and blurt the first stupid thing that comes to mind.
"Who's your favorite actor?"
Silence.
Dead, still, lethal silence. Just like every time he's about to drag me through verbal hell.
Then his voice slices through the dark like a blade dipped in sarcasm.
"That's what you're opening with? After ignoring me all day?"
I scoff, curling my lip. "Why? I'm not allowed to be quiet now? Isn't that what you say all the time? 'Talking is a waste of breath,' or some philosophical shit?"
He chuckles under his breath. Low. Dangerous. It makes something tighten inside my chest.
"Doesn't mean I expected you to listen."
"Answer the damn question."
A sigh. The kind of sigh that says you're ridiculous but I'll play along.
"I don't have one."
I roll my eyes so hard I think I pull a muscle.
"Of course you don't. That's so you. Always too mysterious to admit you like normal things. Come on—everyone has a favorite actor. Even serial killers like someone. Pick one. Anyone."
He's quiet for a second, and I imagine him lying there, eyes half-lidded, smirk playing on that arrogant mouth of his, already deciding how to mess with me.
Then:
"Cillian Murphy."
I blink.
Pause.
Then laugh.
"Oh my fucking god, of course it's him. Mr. Peaky Blinders. Broody, , kills people with his eyes. You probably stare at yourself in the mirror and think you are him."
He hums, "That's not a denial."
I snort. "You're impossible."
I lean back against the pillow, shoulders finally relaxing. The weight in my chest lightens just a bit.
"Mine's Hayden Christensen," I say casually.
Silence again.
A beat. Then:
"That explains a lot. That's… a horrible choice."
I gasp. "Excuse you?"
"Guy couldn't even act in Star Wars without looking constipated."
. "He was in Awake. And he's a good kisser."
The fucking air shifts.
I don't even have to look to know he's staring.
"…What?" he says, voice way lower than before.
I shrug. "Yeah. He kisses Jessica Alba in that movie. Hot as hell. Passionate. He presses her against the wall like—" I make a vague dramatic motion, letting my voice go dreamy. "—like he owns her damn soul."
Zayan makes a sound that might be a cough or a muffled curse.
Then:
"Are you seriously judging acting based on kiss quality?"
"Maybe," I smirk. "I'm just saying, that man could wreck a girl's spinal alignment with one kiss."
A growl. Low, annoyed. Maybe something else.
"Stop talking."
I widen my eyes in fake innocence. "Why?"
"You're—" he stops himself, breathes in sharp through his nose. "You're mentally unwell."
I laugh so loud it bounces off the walls.
"God, you're so dramatic. I like what I like. And if my taste offends you, maybe you should try kissing someone like that and set a new standard."
There's a pause. A heavy one. His silence isn't cold this time—it's charged.
And I realize what the fuck I just said.
My face burns instantly.
I pull the blanket up to my nose.
"…You're not allowed to talk anymore," I mutter under my breath.
Then his voice slices through the thick silence. "You started it."
And I swear I hear a smirk in it.
The bastard.
"What about actress?" I ask, finally, biting down on my lip and clutching the damn remote like it's some kind of emotional support device. My voice comes out more casual than I feel. My insides are in fucking flames.
There's a short silence. I can hear him shift—maybe leaning back, maybe not. But he doesn't answer right away. Typical. He's probably smirking, the asshole. The goddamn curtain is still between us, like this stupid veil of tension that neither of us wants to tear down first. And I won't. Not yet.
Then his voice cuts through the quiet, low and smooth like it was dipped in sin.
"I don't know anyone who kisses better than Hayden."
For one full second, I blink. Then the laugh escapes before I can stop it, raw and sudden. "Excuse me?"
He doesn't say anything. I hear the slightest exhale, the smug kind. This motherfucker.
"You don't know anyone who kisses better than Hayden?" I repeat, practically wheezing. "So now we're judging actors based on their kiss scores?"
"You brought it up," he says coolly. "You said he was a good kisser."
"In a movie!" I fling back, half laughing, half choking. "God, are you always this literal?"
He lets out a small huff of breath—maybe a laugh. I can't tell. That damn curtain between us is holding back so much, and suddenly I want to rip it open, not just to see his stupid expression but because I feel like I'm being cooked alive in my own body. I want to see the exact moment his eyes flick when I piss him off. I want to see if he's smiling or biting his tongue or just sitting there being beautiful and cold and cruel like he always is.
"Awake," I remind, snorting, "The movie. Jessica Alba kisses him while he's half dead on the goddamn table. Iconic."
"I thought you said it was a good kiss. Not necrophilia."
"I didn't say it like that, you dick."
Silence. A second passes.
"Now you're being mean," he says, sounding utterly unbothered.
"Oh please," I scoff, grinning to myself, "You probably liked Twilight."
"I would rather lose a kidney."
I cackle. Full-on, body-shaking laughter. "Oh my god."
"I'm serious," he adds flatly. "If I had to hear that sparkling virgin say one more poetic line about how dangerous he is, I'd have bitten my own wrist."
I laugh so hard I nearly drop the remote. My cheeks hurt. My stomach twists. Not just because it's funny—but because he's still talking to me. After the silence. After the cold. After I thought he wouldn't even acknowledge me again. And god, maybe I'm pathetic, but it feels like a win.
"What about you?" he says suddenly.
The switch throws me off. I blink at the TV without seeing it. "What about me?"
"Favorite actress."
Oh. Right.
I clear my throat, eyes still locked on the blurry screen. "Natalie Portman."
"Hmm."
"What the fuck is that 'hmm' supposed to mean?"
"It's a safe choice," he says. "Like picking vanilla ice cream."
"I love vanilla."
"I bet you do."
Something in his tone dips, changes. I can feel the heat coil through his words and wrap around my neck like a silk ribbon. My throat dries instantly. "And what the fuck does that mean?"
"Nothing," he says. But it means everything.
Silence crawls in for a second, heavy and loaded. I squeeze the remote again. My body's warm. Too warm. It's just his voice. That voice. That fucking voice.
I blow out a breath. "You didn't answer my question, though. Actress?"
"Hmm."
He's doing it again. That smug hum. Like he knows he's getting under my skin. Like he wants me squirming.
"Don't you dare say 'I don't have one' again," I warn.
There's a beat. Then, casually: "Jessica Chastain."
I blink. "Wait, what? Really?"
"She can act," he says.
I squint suspiciously. "You sure it's not the red hair and legs?"
There's a pause. "That too."
"Unbelievable," I mutter, shaking my head. "You'd pick anyone with legs and good lighting."
"And you'd fall for anyone who dies halfway through a movie."
"Fuck off."
Another silence. This one lingers, but not in a bad way. It's that kind of hush where your skin is still buzzing with the echo of the person's voice, and you kind of wish they'd speak again just to keep that buzz going.
And I realize—I missed this.
Not even the banter. Not just the laughter.
Him.
His dry sarcasm. His unexpected timing. The way he answers late like he's always thinking three layers beneath. The way I still can't tell if he's joking or flirting or fucking with me.
And I realize something else.
Even with this stupid curtain between us, even without seeing his face, even with my hands clutching a remote and my mind still halfway broken from the ache of silence all day—
He still makes me feel something.
And I hate him for it.
_____________
In the morning,
The nurse clicks her pen, checks the IV line, glances at the monitor, and mumbles something about a "fast recovery," like my body is a damn overachiever on its own terms. I don't reply. I just blink at the ceiling. The same shitty off-white patch I've been cursing for days now.
Then the nurse leaves.
But she forgets to close the front curtain.
At first, I don't even realize it—until something shifts in the lighting. Subtle. But enough.
And then I see it.
The whole damn room.
It's huge. No, massive. A full-on luxury suite disguised as a hospital room. Cream walls, soft lights, a fucking chandelier in the middle. I swear to God there's even a couch near the far wall, sleek and velvet. Not those plastic ones hospitals toss in for emotional support. This one's designer-level. And the floor? Polished wood. The kind rich people like to walk on barefoot.
I'd seen the right side before, sure. That curtain had been drawn a few times. But this? The whole front?
This is the first time I see it—and it makes something in my gut coil.
It's open. Exposed. I hate it.
The air feels... different. Like it shouldn't touch me this way. Like the curtain was some kind of armor and now that it's gone, I feel fucking raw. Too seen. Even though no one's really looking.
Then—
Click. Click.
Footsteps. Sharp. Confident.
Heels.
I freeze.
The door opens.
And there she is.
Like a fucking goddess stepping out of a music video—no, scratch that—out of a slow-motion perfume ad where the world dims around her and only she exists.
Her hair is curled, but not fake-curled. Bouncy. Rich-looking. That stupid soft brown color that glows in golden lighting. She wears designer. I know that fabric, that cut. That isn't Zara or H&M. That's old money couture. And her makeup is light—so light it probably cost more than my tuition to look that naturally "unbothered."
She doesn't even look my way.
Of course she doesn't.
She walks straight to his side. Smooth, like she belongs in this room. Like she's walked into this exact place a hundred fucking times. Like she's always known where he'd be.
Then she opens his front curtain.
Closes it behind her.
Just like that, I can't see them anymore.
The left side curtain still blocks my view of him, and now the front one does too. But sound travels. And voices spill through.
Her voice first.
"You scared me."
Soft. Quivering. It scrapes something weird across my chest.
Then I hear it.
His voice.
And I almost don't believe it.
A chuckle. A fucking chuckle. Not the usual dry, biting shit he tosses at me.
"Why did you come all the way here? I'm fine, it's okay."
My fingers clench the bedsheet.
It's okay?
That's what he sounds like when he says "it's okay" to her?
No edge. No sharp tongue. Just… smooth. Warm. Like melted damn chocolate.
Then her again, a little sharper, like her heart's cracking.
"What's okay? You can't even sit. You can't even stand. And you're saying you're fine? What is this fine shit, Zayan?"
Oh. So she uses his name. Zayan.
It shouldn't sting. But it fucking does.
He says something back, I can't catch the words, but his tone—it's low. Comforting. God, softer than anything I've heard from him.
And then her voice warps again. Not just hurt. It's breaking.
She's crying.
She's crying.
Of course she is.
I would too if I had a boyfriend who looked like that and ended up in a hospital bed . I would cry just from breathing the same air as him.
Wait—
Boyfriend.
Right.
She must be his girlfriend.
And no one—not even me—can blame him.
Because look at her. She's not just pretty. She's devastating. She walks in, and the fucking oxygen leaves the room. She's built for worship. If he's with her, if he chose her, that actually makes sense.
I'd choose her too.
And he's talking to her like that. Like she's fragile and sacred and the only thing he wants near him right now.
Then—
"Don't cry," he murmurs, voice deeper now, more intimate than I've ever heard. "Come on. Don't cry, Rania."
Rania.
Rania.
Of fucking course.
Rania.
I don't even need to ask. I know it's her.
The one he mentioned. That name. That same name that made something sink in me when he said it like it was an entire prayer and memory rolled into one.
And the way he says it now?
God. Fuck.
Like it's the softest thing he owns. Like her name alone is a whole language only he speaks fluently.
My jaw locks.
He never even asked my name.
Not once.
He called me you, or just fucking nothing at all.
And why would he?
His girlfriend is that pretty. That elegant. She walks like her perfume costs more than my rent. She cries like a movie scene. She speaks and he listens. He soothes.
He never once spoke to me with that voice.
No one has ever spoken to me with that voice.
But him?
That jerk? That smug, sarcastic, cold bastard?
He has that voice in him?
Just hiding it? Saving it?
For her?
Figures.
Of fucking course he does.
And I'm here, stuck behind a curtain, listening like some extra in his story who doesn't even deserve a character name.
I stare at the open front curtain, then at the ceiling.
Suddenly I hate that the nurse forgot to close it.
Suddenly I hate that I ever wanted to talk to him.
Suddenly, everything tastes like dust.
Even silence.
"Heal fast, okay? I'm waiting," her voice floats soft, silken.
My eyes narrow. Waiting for what? What the fuck does that even mean? Like some slow-mo drama, my mind starts spinning scenarios I don't want to imagine. Her fingers brushing his hand. Her lips ghosting over his forehead in a farewell kiss. A soft whisper—I love you, please come back to me.
Kill me now.
"I will," he says.
I will.
That's all? That warm, gravel-soft voice again—the one he never uses with me. Never. Not even when he's teasing. Not when he says shit that makes my blood boil or skin tingle or heart race in the worst way. No. That voice is just for her.
And I hate it.
I close my eyes, jaw locked. I bet she's holding his hand tightly now. Maybe kissing his knuckles like it's some fucking k-drama farewell. I'll wait, my love. Ugh. Maybe she even rests her cheek against his, just to feel him breathe. Maybe he closes his eyes and—
"I'm going now," she says gently.
"But I'll come back, okay?"
"Why?" he asks, with that same too-damn-soft voice. "You're so busy. I'm fine here. Don't stress about me."
My fingers twitch against the sheet. Oh. So he's the type to be the perfect damn boyfriend too.
Caring? Check. Sweet? Check. Letting her go like a fucking gentleman while being all mysterious and broken in bed? Check check check.
Asshole.
I hear the curtain in front of him slide open. My breath tightens. I instinctively lean back a little—not because I'm scared, but because I don't know what kind of woman she is. And now I do.
Heels click again. She's walking away.
But then… silence.
Then a shift in air.
A stare.
My gaze jerks up—and there she is. Standing just a few feet away, right near the door. Her hand rests on the handle, but she's not moving. She's looking at me.
And fuck me—her breath catches when our eyes lock. I can see it. I hear the tiniest intake like she wasn't expecting to see anyone on my side.
But then—she smiles.
Soft. Kind. Genuinely kind.
That kind of smile that makes you feel like shit for ever thinking anything bad about them.
No wonder he loves her.
No wonder he wants to fucking heal for her.
She's kind. She's beautiful. She doesn't even glance at me with superiority—just that pretty, goddess-looking expression like she gives a damn about everything.
And then she leaves. Just like that. Like a dream walking back into the world.
And now we're alone again.
For a while, he says nothing.
I say nothing.
It's strange. I was fine with the curtain closed, with silence between us and just the steady beep of our shared loneliness. But now… something gnaws at my chest.
So I ask it.
"She must be the important person of your life," I say, low and careful.
No reply.
Just quiet.
Like he's thinking. Or choosing not to answer.
Seconds pass. Maybe a minute.
And then finally—
"Yes. She is."
My heart sinks.
I look down at my own hands. Useless. Still weak. Still trembling.
Just like my chest.
"Mmm." I force a sound, a nod. Anything to mask the throb in my voice. "I figured. You have a nice taste, anyway. She's pretty. Like a goddess."
"Thank you," he says.
That's it. Just that.
And then—
"She's my sister."
My entire body freezes.
The breath knocks out of my lungs like someone punched me in the gut.
What?
I twist, stare wide-eyed at the curtain on my left like it's suddenly holding back the entire weight of this world. Then I yank it. Hard.
The curtain flies open—and he's there.
Looking right at me. Calm. Still. Like he knew I'd do it.
"Real?" I blurt. "Actual sister? Like—not metaphorical, not childhood friend bullshit. Your actual sister?"
He exhales. Nods. "Hmm. Yes. My actual sister. The one my mom birthed."
My mouth opens—then shuts—then opens again. And then I smile.
I actually smile.
A small, involuntary thing that twitches at the corner of my lips before I can stop it.
Fuck.
He tilts his head slightly, that signature tilt. The one that makes him look like he's dissecting me under a microscope—smirk not needed. Just that judgmental brow-raise combo that says, You're entertaining. Say something stupid again, I dare you.
I roll my eyes but I can't wipe the smile off my face.
"Okay," I say, hands up. "I mean, she's pretty. Like stupid pretty. Goddess-level. I just didn't think she was your sister because… well… you two look nothing alike. At all."
"Good," he says smoothly.
I frown. "What do you mean, 'good'?"
"Means people don't make weird assumptions."
"Oh, please. They definitely make weird assumptions. You two in the same room? No one's thinking 'siblings.' I promise you."
He just stares. Then slowly blinks.
I hate when he does that. Like he's won some unspoken argument.
"So…" I pause. "You have a sister."
"I do."
"And she's the 'important person' you meant?"
He doesn't reply right away. His gaze moves over my face like he's trying to find something beneath my skin.
"Yes," he says at last.
I nod again. "Right. That makes sense. She seemed—kind. The way she smiled at me…"
"She is."
"Of course she is," I mutter, trying not to sound jealous but failing miserably. "Pretty. Kind. And probably went to Harvard at age six."
"You done?"
"No," I snap. "She looked at you like you were breakable, you know? Like the world couldn't survive if something happened to you."
He doesn't say anything, but something in his face tightens. Not in anger. In memory.
"And you…" I narrow my eyes. "You called her Rania. You said her name so damn sweet. Like it was a lullaby."
"You jealous?" he asks.
My eyes widen.
"Of your sister? Ew. No. I'm just—" I flail a hand. "
And he smirks.
Fucking finally.
I hate him.
I also kind of like the way he's looking at me now. Not cold. Not distant. Just… here. Real. Breathing. The same jerk who let me think he had a goddess for a girlfriend—and now I know she's family.
And somehow…
That changes everything.
I smile before I can stop myself, stupidly wide and probably looking like I just won a goddamn war. My heart's still kicking around my ribs like it's high on something. A sister. That sweet-voiced, goddess-faced girl is his fucking sister. Not his girlfriend. Not someone he secretly loves. Not the woman he wakes up thinking about or dreams of kissing.
A damn sister.
The knot in my chest loosens so fast it leaves a hollow space behind. I let out a breath I didn't even realize I'd been holding for the past half hour. Or maybe for the entire fucking day.
"You must be really close to her," I say, trying to sound casual, even though my voice still has that giddy edge. "Like, normal sibling close or the annoying type? You know, the ones who fight like dogs but still sleep under the same roof."
His eyes flicker toward me lazily. His expression doesn't change much—just that blank, semi-cold stare he's mastered like an art form. "We're close," he says, voice low. "But not… like how you heard just now."
I tilt my head at him. "Not lovey-dovey?"
His mouth twitches, not quite a smile. "She rolls her eyes at me more than she blinks."
I laugh. "That's literally all I do when I talk to my older brother. He's twenty-four and still acts like I'm five. He'll see me enter the room and go, 'Why is this here?' Like I'm some walking garbage bag."
He actually chuckles at that. A real one. Soft and barely there, but I hear it.
I keep going. "And don't even get me started on my youngest brother. He's ten. Ten. That little gremlin kicks me . With his foot. Like full WWE energy. My family is not close—we're in a constant battle zone. I swear we need helmets in the dining room."
Zayan hums, his eyes still watching me. "Sounds peaceful."
I give him a look. "It's war. War with curry and slippers and burnt toast."
That makes the corner of his mouth curl again. Just a little. Barely noticeable unless someone's watching him obsessively. Like I am.
And now that the curtain is open, I can see him clearly. His head rests slightly tilted on the pillow, eyes half-lidded, those thick lashes casting faint shadows under his eyes. His jaw is sharp—knife-level sharp—and his hair's a little messy like he ran his hand through it, which makes it worse, because now I want to run mine through it too.
I glance away quickly and regret it instantly.
Because that's when I see it.
His collarbone.
Sweet mother of lust.
It's right there, peeking from the loose edge of his gown. The skin is smooth and golden, and that bone juts out like it knows it's dangerously hot. Resting along it is a thin silver chain, light catching on it every time he breathes. It dips beneath the fabric, hidden again, but not before it glints once, like it's teasing me.
My brain malfunctions.
God help me, why is that the sexiest collarbone I've ever seen?
And the chain—fuck, the chain is doing something to me. Something wrong. Something unholy. Like I'm seconds away from crawling across my bed, reaching over, and licking it.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
Control yourself, woman. He's injured. He's literally broken. You're disgusting.
My gaze shifts back before I can stop it. Because I have no self-respect, apparently. I keep catching myself staring. That chain. That stupid, sexy little chain. It doesn't even look like jewelry—it looks like something personal. Like he's had it forever. And the way it rests against his bone… like it belongs there. Like it was designed by horny demons just to ruin my life.
My cheeks burn.
I look away again, violently this time, like I'm afraid my thoughts might start showing on my face.
I distract myself. "I think…you're lucky."
He turns his face toward me. "Hmm?"
I keep my eyes on the wall. "Having a sister like that. Kind. Soft. Protective. I always wanted a sister. But I got sword-wielding brothers instead."
"Trade?" he mutters, dry as ever.
I laugh. "Nah. I'd end up ruining your dynamic. I'd probably bite her."
He makes a sound like he doesn't doubt it.
I peek at him again and—there it is—his damn collarbone again. Looking better than half the shirtless men I've ever seen. I clench the bedsheet in my fist. This is jail-worthy. I'm thinking jail thoughts.
I want to touch it. No—lick it. No—grab the chain with my teeth and tug it like I'm a feral cat in heat.
God, stop. STOP.
"What?" he says suddenly.
I blink. "What?"
"You're staring."
"No, I'm not."
"You are."
"Maybe I'm just admiring how broken you look."
His brow lifts. "Thanks."
I sigh, dramatic. "Anytime."
The silence returns, but it's thick now. Not awkward. Not tense. Just... heavy. And weirdly warm. Like the air between our beds has been replaced with something electric.
I clear my throat. "Anyway. I hope she visits again. She seems sweet."
He says nothing, but his jaw shifts slightly. Like he's biting something back.
And that stupid chain glints again.
I look away fast, hiding a smirk behind my palm.
Because I know—if I stare any longer—I'll say something filthy. Like:
"Is your collarbone always this rude or is it just misbehaving today?"
or
"Can I choke on that chain just once before I die?"
And if I do, he will judge me with that tilted head and sharp brow again. And I will combust on this hospital bed.
I bury my face in my blanket.
God help me.
I'm bored. Like soul-sucked, head-empty, brain-rotting bored. The kind where you've already counted the ceiling lines three times, memorized the drip pattern of the IV bag next to your bed, and considered chewing off your own fingers for entertainment.
And I can't look left.
No. Nope. Fuck that.
Because that side of the bed? Is cursed.
Specifically, cursed with a sexy-ass collarbone I am definitely not going to think about. Again.
Seriously, one accidental glance and boom—there it was. Carved like sin itself. The blanket had slipped just a bit earlier, revealing the slope of his neck and that... fucking collarbone, sharp and smooth and God-forgive-me delicious. And the goddamn chain. A thin silver chain glinting against his skin like it belongs there, like it was handcrafted by demons to tempt unholy thoughts out of desperate women. Like me.
I didn't even see the damn pendant—it was hidden beneath the blanket or maybe tucked under his hospital shirt—but the chain alone was enough to make my mouth go dry.
I'd looked away fast. Too fast. Because my brain had short-circuited into filth.
I wanted to lick it.
Yes, fuck you, I said what I said.
I wanted to trace that chain with my tongue and see how far it goes.
I wanted to bite the curve of his collarbone and feel his fucking pulse under my lips.
I needed help. Holy water. A priest. Maybe exorcism.
Instead, I clutched the bedsheet like a nun and stared at the ceiling like it could save me.
Nope. Not looking at him again.
I turn my face right, dramatically, like I'm in a soap opera, and yank the right-side curtain open like I'm starting a war. The little tray table is beside it, and I spot the TV remote like a gift from the gods.
Thank fuck.
I grab it, click the power button, and the screen lights up. A movie's playing, some trashy romcom with a guy confessing his love in a pouring rain scene.
"Huh. Barf," I mutter, and press the button again.
Click. A cooking show.
Click. Cartoons.
Click. A drama with people screaming.
Click. A religious channel. Ew.
Click. Click. Clickclickclickclickclick—
"You trying to break the damn remote?" comes that lazy, unbothered voice from the other side.
I don't even glance his way. "None of your business."
"Didn't know that many channels existed."
"I'm trying to find peace. You should try it too sometime."
Another click. Finally, the screen settles on a news channel. The anchor is speaking urgently, their tone sharp and fast. My thumb freezes on the button.
"In a shocking new development in what's being speculated as the vigilante case, French Millionaire Raoul Deveraux's body has been confirmed discovered this week—three months after his supposed vacation to a private island."
I frown.
"Investigators confirm the murder shares identical signs to the previous vigilante cases—no witnesses, total asset wipeout, and an erased digital footprint. Deveraux was under scrutiny last year for a string of rape allegations, all of which were dismissed due to lack of evidence and 'insufficient cooperation from victims.'"
My hand drops to my lap. My chest tightens.
They continue, "This makes the fifth case this year. Same pattern. Same aftermath. No evidence. No trace. Only the unspoken message left behind—justice, in its rawest form."
"Well, fuck," I whisper, eyes glued to the screen.
"You're into this kind of thing?" His voice floats over, amused but unreadable.
I lean back, keeping my eyes on the anchor. "The killer must be brilliant."
There's a pause. And then—
"You would say that."
I finally glance at him. He's lying the same as before, blanket up to his waist, head turned slightly my way—but his eyes are half-lidded, unreadable, amused in that slow-burn kind of way.
"What?" I ask, shrugging. "Look, I know he's a killer. But he only targets rich bastards who've hurt women and kids. Every single one of them was a fucking monster, and the law did jack shit."
"You think that makes him a hero?"
I tilt my head, considering it. "He doesn't just kill them. He erases them. Takes every dollar they have. Makes them nobodies. And then—poof—gone. He doesn't do interviews or speeches or post cryptic threats. Just vanishes. I respect that. Quiet, clean, efficient."
"You know what that sounds like?" he says.
"Hmm?"
"You read too much fiction."
I grin. "Of course I do. How did you guess?"
"Because you just called a brutal murderer 'brilliant' and sounded turned on by it."
I snort, laughter bursting out of me. "I am not turned on by it. God, I'm not that desperate."
"You literally just said 'fuck' like it was a prayer," he says dryly, voice a notch deeper.
I cross my arms, still laughing. "Alright, fine. Maybe I need therapy. But he's still sexy in concept."
"Yeah," he mutters, almost to himself. "Definitely therapy."
"Don't act like you wouldn't binge a show about that."
"I don't watch TV."
"Of course you don't. You probably read depressing books about war and betrayal and the futility of life."
"…That's disturbingly accurate."
I blink. "Wait. Seriously?"
He just smirks.
The silence stretches, but it's not awkward this time. My eyes drift to the screen again. But then—fuck me—I accidentally look back at him. Not his face this time. Lower.
And there it is again.
That damn chain. Silver. Smooth. Resting against his collarbone like it owns the spot.
I swallow hard. No movement. He's just lying there. Still. Unbothered. Eyes closed now.
But my brain? My brain is in the gutter. Deep. Wet. Sticky. Gutter.
What the hell is wrong with me??
All I can think about is that chain and how it would taste. And how fucking unfair it is that a man can just exist like that. Wrapped in a hospital blanket and still hotter than 90% of the population on their wedding day.
I snap my head away again and whisper to myself, "Girl, stop it. You're not just down bad, you're buried six feet under with no resurrection in sight."
The worst part?
I think I heard him chuckle.
The room is dim, only the flicker of the TV casting soft, blue-tinted light across the walls. Outside, the wind moans like a moody ghost, and inside, I'm perched on my hospital bed, half-wrapped in a blanket and mentally fighting off horny thoughts about a certain collarbone across the room.
God, not this again. Get it together, girl.
I force my attention back to the news, desperate for anything that doesn't make me want to commit sins under hospital surveillance.
The anchor's voice booms now, all serious and theatrical.
"And now, onto national affairs. His Majesty, King Rayhaan Zahir Nazrani, continues to set an unprecedented example of global diplomacy. The youngest monarch in the region, his influence in economic strategy and cross-border peace talks has only—"
I scoff. Hard. Loud. Rude.
I don't even try to hide it.
From the bed next to mine, he speaks, voice low and smooth but carrying that quiet edge.
"You just scoffed… at our fucking king?"
I shrug, keeping my eyes on the screen. "Of course I did. I have the right."
He lets out something between a snort and a cough. "If you were in public, you'd be in prison right now."
"Well, no shit. I know that." I roll my eyes. "That's exactly the problem, Zayan. You literally can't breathe against the Nazranis without getting handcuffed. They've ruled this place for generations. Like, congratulations on the longest-running PR stunt in the fucking world."
There's silence. He doesn't argue.
Encouraged, I keep going.
"Aaah, that reminds me," I say, cocking my head to glance over. "Hey, have you seen our precious prince?"
His eyes blink slowly. "Our prince?"
"YES. Our. Prince." I say it like a game show host now. "The poster boy of royal wet dreams. Shaiza, my best friend, she's got this full-blown, medically concerning obsession with him. Like I swear she dreams about him proposing to her with a diamond the size of his power."
"I've seen him," he says after a beat, his voice unreadable again.
My eyes snap to him. "You have?! How?! I didn't!"
He shrugs, barely moving. "It was brief."
"Is he handsome?"
A pause. Then: "Yes."
I scoff again, half to myself. "Well. Of course he is. My friend acts like he pisses holy water. And get this—she has a boyfriend. A living, breathing human boyfriend. But no. The prince is her Plan A. Delulu has gone terminal."
Zayan doesn't say a thing. Just listens. And I don't know why, but I like it.
I lean back, watching the glowing screen again. The anchor is now talking about some royal charity ball or some overpriced diplomatic gala. And then—of course—they say it.
"With the Nazrani family's public appearance at the summit, speculation remains over how much real power remains with the monarchy in today's economic climate…"
I raise a brow, eyes narrowing. Oh hell yeah. Here we go.
"Everyone knows the Nazranis are just puppets."
Zayan shifts, finally reacting. His head turns slowly toward me. "Wait—what?"
I smirk. "You heard me. Puppet kings. Dress-up monarchs. Real power isn't wearing that crown, babe."
He blinks, almost genuinely confused. "Puppets… of who?"
"Of fucking course, the Tavarians."
The lights go out.
Not a flicker. Not a warning. Boom—darkness.
Only the TV stays on, glowing like a creepy prophet, blue light dancing on the white sheets. I barely notice it, though, because now the shadows throw perfect sharp lines on Zayan's face—on his jaw, his cheekbone, the curve of his damn throat—and he looks like a sin-lit sculpture.
Fuck. Stay focused.
"You don't actually believe that," he says, but he's staring. Really listening now.
I grin. "Oh, I absolutely do. You think the Nazranis rule this country? Pfft. No. They act like they do. But the real throne? That belongs to TIG. Tavarian. Imperial. Group."
His brows twitch, but he says nothing.
"Have you ever really thought about it?" I ask. "No ads. No social media. No press releases. And yet? Every-fucking-one knows who they are. The richest family in the world, Zayan. Not just this country. The. World."
I sit forward, practically breathless now.
"They own everything. Tavarian Energy? The power grid. The fuel. You want to light your damn kitchen? Pay them. Or starve in the dark."
He watches me like I'm insane. But intrigued.
"Tavarian Medica? Only the top 1% get treatment. Gene therapy, cancer reversal, fuckin' anti-aging serums. You think you'll ever see that hospital from the inside?" I laugh. "Dream on."
He quirks a brow. "Okay, slow down."
"No." I point dramatically at the TV. "You're going to listen to this like your life depends on it, Zayan, because it might."
A grin tugs at his mouth. He's playing along. "Alright, fine. What else do they own?"
"Oh, baby," I say. "Sit tight."
I count them off on my fingers.
"One—aviation, marine. Jets, yachts, cars that can break the sound barrier if you bribe the right engineer."
"Two—AI and tech. Surveillance. Firewalls that eat other firewalls. You breathe near a Tavarian server? They already know your blood type."
"Three—luxury hotels. Not like 'room service and slippers' luxury. I mean underground palaces, where billionaires go to disappear and snort gold dust off imported marble."
"Four—biochemicals. They don't just make drugs. They make viruses. And the cure. You get sick? They already decided whether you'll live or not."
Zayan's smile has faded slightly now. Not laughing anymore. Just… listening.
I drop my hands.
"They don't advertise. They don't campaign. But they don't need to. Because power recognizes power. The Tavarians are the fucking empire. The Nazranis are just the crown on a borrowed throne."
"You're being ridiculous," he murmurs, but it's softer this time.
"I'm being honest," I whisper.
Another pause. The room feels heavier.
He tilts his head. "So you're saying… the Tavarians control the king?"
"Definitely."
He's quiet again.
I scoff, heat rising behind my voice now. "And they're not even alone. They're besties with the Alzirah bankers, and the Idrakhan real estate mafia. Between them? They could collapse the world in a week. And you know the most insane part of it all?"
Zayan's voice is almost reluctant. "Do I want to?"
"The Tavarian heir."
He lifts a brow.
I continue, full dramatic mode now. "No name. No photo. No slip. No scandal. You ever seen a billionaire kid grow up without one blurry paparazzi picture? No. But Tavarian? He's a fucking ghost. No birthday. No leaked sex tape. No blurry club shot. No LinkedIn. Just… nothing."
"Maybe he's ugly," Zayan says, smirking.
I burst out laughing. "Are you hearing yourself?! UGLY? The Tavarian heir?? Ugly?! Their chairman is like 73 and built like a Navy SEAL. He climbs stairs faster than I can open a snack. Have you seen him?"
Zayan laughs now too. "He does look pretty intense."
"With those genes? The heir is probably carved out of diamonds and testosterone. He's not ugly. He's hidden. And you know why? Because they're hiding something dangerous."
Zayan watches me. His eyes are gleaming now, fully alert, slightly amused but interested. "Sounds like you've done your research."
I snort. "It's not research. It's survival. Everyone fears the Tavarians. You have to. They could erase you before your morning coffee."
He nods slowly. "You're not wrong."
"I'm always right," I say proudly.
"Except when you said the killer was sexy."
"That was accurate too," I say, grinning.
He chuckles again, then shifts under his blanket slightly. "So what, you think Tavarians eat babies for breakfast too?"
"I think they eat someone's babies for breakfast," I say, deadpan. "And charge you for the silver spoon."
He shakes his head. "You're fucking insane."
I lean toward the curtain, lowering my voice, suddenly softer.
"You know there's a rumour about the Tavarian hospital?"
His eyes flick to me. Sharp. Curious.
I smile. Wicked. "They only treat the actual rich. Like you need a net worth higher than oxygen to even breathe inside. And…"
"And?" he echoes.
"There's a whisper they do illegal organ trading. Behind closed doors. Take a poor man's kidney, sell it to a warlord. Take a child's lung, put it in some old prince. That's how they stay rich. Not clean money. Dirty. Blood-stained, perfectly folded money."
He blinks. His lips part. Shocked—but maybe not entirely.
"Do you really believe that?" he murmurs.
I stare him dead in the eye. "I know it."
And in that moment, with only the blue light of the screen dancing across our faces, and the silence of the hospital wrapped around us like a noose—I see it.
Not doubt.
Not mockery.
But respect.
Maybe he thinks I'm crazy.
But he's listening now.
And God help me—I don't think he'll ever stop.
"Everyone in this damn country knows the Tavarians," I say, my voice practically dripping with sarcasm. "They're the fucking celebrities of this goddamn nation. You breathe wrong and someone somewhere probably connects it back to Tavarian stock."
I scoff, flipping the pillow under my head like I'm adjusting it, but really I just need to vent.
"And don't even get me started on the media," I continue, half-laughing. "They're like a bunch of starving hyenas. Desperate for a scrap. Anything—an ounce of dirt on the Tavarians? Boom. They'll sell their own kidneys for it. But guess what? They never get anything. And even if they do, they can't telecast jackshit. Not unless they wanna wake up the next morning without a job. Or a spine."
I tilt my head toward the ceiling, grinning to myself because I'm on a roll now.
"Then there's those four golden assholes. The Sovereigns, right?" I put air quotes with both hands like it's the dumbest name I've ever heard. "Like—wow—fancy title. What is this, Game of Thrones? Tavarian, Alzirah, Idrakhan, Nazrani. The Four Fucking Pillars of Royal Pain-in-the-Ass."
I scoff again. "The media treats them like gods. Like they're untouchable legends walking among us. But please. Just because they're rich and powerful doesn't mean they shit diamonds."
There's silence for a beat. Then his voice, smooth as ever, cuts through the room.
"How do you know all this?" he asks, calm but curious. He's not mocking me. Not yet.
I grin wider, smug. "My best friend Ifrah works at TIG. She's like, the nerdiest stalker ever. She's obsessed with the Tavarians and their whole dark prince vibe. The way she talks about them? You'd think she wants to marry all four and birth a new empire. ."
I glance at him from the corner of my eye, still not fully looking at him, because I don't want to. Not when I know his damn collarbone exists under that blanket.
"And my dad," I go on, "he's a walking, talking, screaming news station. The man never shuts up about politics, corporations, media bias. I practically grew up to the sound of news anchors yelling and him giving his commentary like he's on a debate panel."
There's a pause. I twirl the end of my hair.
"I might've done some research myself, too," I admit. "Curiosity, you know? It's kinda fascinating how the Tavarians control everything like puppeteers. No one sees the strings, but they feel the pull."
I chuckle to myself, then add under my breath, "Entitled bastards with money coming out their nose.and Tavarian Imperial Group,that name should be in prison,what a name , right?? Fucking powerful "
The room is still, quiet, but I can feel him. That energy. Like static clinging to my skin. I don't look at him, but my body knows where he is. It's magnetic and annoying.
Then, without warning, I feel it—his smirk. That little bastard smirk of his. I don't even need to turn my head. I feel it curling at the corner of his lips.
And just like that, my spine stiffens and something traitorous in me flutters.
Fuck.
Why the hell does a smirk I didn't even see feel like a lightning bolt down my goddamn spine?
---
Okay guys—listen up. The story is about to blow the hell up. What you just read? Just the calm before the storm. Tension's rising, secrets are crawling up from the dark, and these two? They're barely getting started. If you think this was spicy—you've seen nothing yet.
So don't forget to vote, comment, share, and stay strapped in. Shit's about to get real.