Waaah.
I've been badmouthing a fucker to the same fucker.
To his face. With detail. With conviction. With passion, for God's sake. To his actual fucking face.
And now I'm going to die in a Tavarian hospital bed, in the same room, in the same linen, right next to the heir of a family that could probably trade my organs like Pokémon cards.
My spine's rigid against the mattress. Breath shallow. Every beep of the heart monitor is a slap reminding me I'm alive for now.
And then—
His voice.
Low. Smooth. Like someone casually asking for a wine list, except this time the item is a human organ.
> "Razmir. How much does a young organ cost?"
My stomach drops.
Razmir's voice, sharp and emotionless, answers instantly like it's a stock quote:
> "Millions."
Millions.
Oh my God. Oh my fucking God.
My heart spikes so hard the monitor throws a tantrum. The noise is too loud, too fast, like it's trying to scream for me.
I squeeze the blanket in my fists, tight enough to strangle a ghost. My jaw clenches, eyes locked on the thin line of the curtain between our beds. The same curtain I used to casually flick open like it was some barrier in a teen drama. Now? It's the only thing separating me from death. From him.
I told him. Two days ago. I told him straight up Tavarian Medica does illegal organ trading. I said it out loud.
With my own traitorous mouth.
Mocked them. Mocked him.
And now?
The curtain slides.
Fast.
The sound is violent. Rips across the room like thunder tearing silk.
I flinch so hard my neck jerks. My entire body curls up involuntarily, pulling the blanket over my chest like it can shield me from a Tavarian execution.
And then I see him.
Zayan.
But it's not him—not the one who listened to me ramble and smirked at my insane conspiracy theories.
No. That version is gone.
His face is carved from stone. No smile. No smirk. Nothing. Just silence wrapped around his jaw like armor. His eyes aren't human anymore. They're just cold. Focused. Like I'm not even me. Like I'm a transaction waiting to happen.
My vision blurs.
Tears hit the corners of my eyes without permission, hot and humiliating. Not the emotional kind. The pure fear kind. The kind your body makes when it thinks it's about to fucking die.
From behind him, one of the others—their voice cuts through, grinning:
"So we're going. Bet you'll get her organs."
And they laugh.
Laugh.
Like it's a goddamn joke.
I can't move. I can't breathe. I'm frozen in place like my body's been filled with cement. The air stinks of sanitizer and dread.
The door shuts behind them.
Now it's just us.
Me.
And
him.
I want to beg. I want to scream. But all I can do is whisper, raw and broken:
"Please. I didn't know you were Tavarian. I swear. Just… spare me."
He doesn't blink.
"Why?"
"It's not fun."
Not fun.
His voice is so casual, so smooth, like a bored villain in some Netflix series. Except this isn't fiction. I'm not the quirky protagonist. I'm the example. The stupid girl who ran her mouth and now has to die with her stomach sliced open and sold to an oil prince in Zurich.
"We're not doing charity," he adds.
My body starts to shiver. The air suddenly feels colder, or maybe that's just the dread wrapping around my spine like a serpent. I want to crawl out of my skin. I want to disappear between the bedsheets and reappear in a universe where I kept my dumb mouth shut.
I reach for the curtain, desperate to put it between us.
A tiny mercy. A thread of fabric. Something.
But the second I pull it halfway—
He yanks it open.
Hard.
The rings clatter on the rail, echoing like gunshots. I gasp, jerking back into the bed.
His face is right there.
Expression unreadable. Dangerous.
"You're the one who always opens this," he says, voice low.
"Why not today?"
"Or forever?"
My breath stutters. I can't even blink. My eyes are locked on his like he might explode if I look away. His gaze is heavy—hot and cold at the same time. Like it could burn and freeze me in the same breath.
I want to turn the other way. Face the glass wall. Pretend he's not real. Pretend this isn't happening. But he's there, leaning against the bed like he's got all the time in the world to watch me unravel.
So I do it.
I turn. Slowly. Deliberately.
Lay flat, back to him, eyes on the wall.
If I die, I don't want to see it coming.
And that's when he says it.
The voice drops lower. Like silk over a blade.
"Talk to me."
"Or you'll have to."
I don't want to know what "have to" means.
My pulse is screaming. My ribs feel too small for my lungs.
And still, I can't speak. I won't. Because if I do, I might cry or say something even dumber. Something like:
Please don't hurt me.
Please don't take my fucking kidney.
Please don't make me regret being born.
So I lie there. Frozen. Every inch of me tight with panic. Staring into the glass reflection of my own damn terror.
And behind me, I hear him breathe.
Steady. Calm. Amused.
I feel it.
The storm.
The inevitability.
Zayan .
Tavarian heir.
The devil I mocked.
The man I'm trapped with.
And maybe—
Maybe I won't make it to morning.
And I'm still facing the other way—staring at the sterile glass wall like it's holy, like it'll protect me from the storm behind me.
But I can feel him.
Zayan fucking Tavarian. Heir of the Tavarian dynasty. Man with a voice like silk and eyes like ruin. He's behind me, not moving, not speaking. Just there.
Watching.
Breathing.
Lying on the hospital bed right next to mine, like this is all just a lazy afternoon and not the part of the story where I get butchered alive.
I don't dare turn.
My heart's still a frantic mess. My pulse punches my throat with every beat.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
Maybe if I pretend to sleep—
"I said," he murmurs, too low, too calm, "talk to me."
My blood freezes.
That voice.
Smooth. Heavy. Like honey over a blade.
And I don't want to talk. I don't want to give him anything. Not my words. Not my fear. Not my attention.
But I'm shaking now. I know he sees it. I feel the bed vibrate under my hands with every tremor that rolls through me. My fists are clenched under the blanket so hard my nails bite my skin.
"I said talk, ," he repeats—slower this time. Like he owns it now.
So I do.
I speak.
Not because I want to. Because I have to. Because silence feels like surrender and I still have enough panic left in me to throw a punch—even if it's made of words.
"You're a manipulator."
My voice cracks mid-way, small and raw, like a match barely lit.
"You lied to me."
Silence.
Then his reply—like velvet laced with gasoline:
"Did I?"
That tone.
It's not confusion. It's not denial. It's mockery, tailored in gold.
I bite the inside of my cheek.
"You never said you were a Tavarian."
"You never asked."
My heart spikes. My mouth dries instantly.
That's what he's going with? That's the defense? I want to scream, but all that comes out is breath and disbelief.
"You said you did part-time jobs and made hundreds of dollars in an hour."
"And I did."
"In my company."
"I just… cut the 'million' part."
"I don't like flattering."
I blink.
Hard.
Then again. Because I can't process what the fuck I just heard.
He says it like it's nothing. Like being born into a throne room and casually shaving zeroes off your net worth is just quirky banter.
And then it hits me.
He's enjoying this.
Every inch of it.
The panic. The confusion. The fear pooling in my voice like a drug he can sip slowly while I unravel at the seams.
I finally turn. Slowly. My whole body feels like glass about to shatter, but I have to look.
And there he is.
Lying across from me, head propped on the hospital pillow, expression unreadable—but eyes bright. Like someone watching fire devour a house. And enjoying the warmth.
"You didn't stop," I whisper, voice shaking, cracking. "When I said all that… all that shit about Tavarians. When I said all of it—you didn't stop me."
His eyes don't flinch.
"Why would I?"
"I was being entertained."
Entertained.
The word slaps me.
I jerk upright a little, but pain coils in my ribs and anchors me down. My body's still healing. Still stitched. But he doesn't care. His voice is casual, bored. Like this is fun.
And I realize—
He was never listening to me. He was watching a car crash. And I was the driver. Spiraling. Burning. Laughing about how ugly Tavarians were while I shared a fucking room with the prince of them all.
He knew.
He knew.
And he let me sink deeper. Smile after smile. Joke after joke. Lie after lie. Until now—when he's finally standing in the smoke, asking for a front row seat to my damn destruction.
"You're sick," I breathe.
But even as I say it, my voice trembles. I want to sound brave. Defiant. Like I'm not about to throw up from sheer terror.
He shifts, just a bit, rolling his head to face me. His gaze pins me like a moth under glass.
"I let you say everything."
"I gave you rope."
"You tied the noose."
"Now you're upset that it fits."
I flinch.
It's not even what he's saying. It's how calm he is about it. Like this is natural. Logical. Inevitable.
And deep down, I know he's not going to kill me.
Not yet.
Because this? This is worse.
This game.
This slow burn of fear, fed by silence and words that sound like smoke.
I shift away, instinctively pressing my back into the bed like I could sink through it. My hands are sweating. My skin's clammy. I feel small—so small—in this sterile bed, wearing hospital linens and dread like it's a death shroud.
His voice slips through again.
"You should sleep, "
"You'll need your strength."
"Takes a lot of energy to survive regret."
My heart stops.
Or maybe it just feels like it.
He smirks. Finally. A flicker of cruelty beneath the perfect cheekbones. That Tavarian smirk I should've known from the start.
And suddenly, the chandelier above doesn't seem elegant.
It looks like a noose made of glass.
And I know—
I'm not healing here.
I'm rotting.
Slowly.
Under his smile.
And maybe—
Just maybe—
I won't survive the night.
The silence after his smirk feels like a blade suspended in air.
Waiting.
Watching.
Wanting to fall.
My lungs lock up. Muscles ache from tension. And still—I don't move. Not yet.
Because if I do… I don't know what happens next.
But then I do.
I turn.
Slow, deliberate, like I'm dragging my soul across broken glass. My head shifts on the pillow until I'm facing him fully. Until my eyes meet his—the storm made flesh.
And he's looking.
Right. At. Me.
His stare doesn't flicker, doesn't blink. Just holds. Heavy and unrelenting. Like his pupils are doors and inside them is something ancient and cruel, chained in velvet.
I lock eyes with the heir of a family that builds hospitals and whatever they own ,the way warlords build palaces.
And for one dizzy second, I forget how to breathe.
His face is emotionless again. Smooth. Too smooth. Like it's been practiced. Like it was crafted in the dark by people who think smirks are diplomacy and silence is power.
That's what Tavarians do, right?
They don't talk.
They watch.
And then they own.
My heart pounds like it's trying to claw its way out of my ribs.
He's not even reaching for me. Not moving. Just lying there. Sharing air. Sharing space. But every inch of this room feels like it belongs to him—the walls, the lights, the sheets under my body. Even my breath feels rented.
I can't take it anymore.
I reach—abrupt, panicked—and grab the curtain.
Shffft.
I yank it shut.
Hard.
The fabric slides between us with the grace of a guillotine. It doesn't block his presence. I can still feel him. Still hear the whisper of his breathing, steady and slow. But the visual barrier is something. A thin thread of pretend safety in a room full of goddamn wolves.
And I finally let it out.
The breath I didn't know I was holding.
It leaves me in one big gust—sharp, broken. Like I've been underwater and just barely made it to the surface. My chest rises and falls, too fast. My body shudders.
And then I curl up.
I pull the blanket over my head like a fucking child. Like this threadbare cotton can hide me from him. From what I saw in his eyes.
But it can't.
Nothing can.
My body might be under covers, but my mind—oh God, my mind is trapped in that stare. That smirk. That fucking voice.
"You'll need your strength."
What did that mean? Was it a warning? A countdown? A joke?
I close my eyes.
And the spiral begins.
I don't know if I'll ever see the outside world again.
The thought hits me so hard I almost gag. I squeeze the blanket tighter, fists balled up like I can squeeze the fear out of my own fucking blood.
Zayan. Zayan fucking Tavarian.
He could erase me with a single phone call.
A blink. A nod. A breath.
No evidence. No body. Just gone.
And the worst part?
I called him a fucker.
To his face.
With fucking flair. With drama. Like I was doing Shakespeare in hell.
I insulted his family. His legacy.
I dragged Tavarians through the verbal mud and he listened. Eyes half-lidded. Smirking. Filing every word away like weapons he'd use later.
Oh fuck.
Oh fuck.
How many times did I call him an elitist prick?
A bastard in a bloodline of snakes?
How many times did I mock his name like it was a goddamn punchline at open mic night?
I growl.
Low. In my throat. Not loud. Just enough to stop myself from screaming into the goddamn pillow.
What the fuck have I done.
My fingers are trembling. My legs won't stay still. I'm shaking like my nervous system is short-circuiting.
But I can't act scared. I can't let him see this.
Because the moment I do? He wins.
If I play the victim, he'll devour me.
If I cry, he'll sharpen the blade.
If I beg, he'll write my funeral with a smile on his lips.
No.
I need to face him.
Even if I'm dying inside. Even if my spine is jelly and my soul is trying to leap out of my body. I have to stare that monster in the eye and not fucking blink.
Because Zayan ? He doesn't back down.
And neither will I.
Even if my hands are shaking so hard the blanket looks like it's caught in an earthquake.
I roll onto my back, eyes wide open under the blanket. My teeth grit. My breath stutters.
I think about the first time he smirked at me. I thought it was cute. Charming.
No.
That wasn't a smile.
That was a trap with teeth made of silk.
I think about every time I called him names. Every smug, venom-dripping word I spat in his direction. I thought I was so clever. So bold. So untouchable.
Fuck.
I didn't know I was mocking a goddamn king.
And now?
I'm in his castle.
I'm in his bedroom of death.
And I can't fucking run.
Tears build again. I swallow them. They burn.
I can't show them. Not now. Not ever.
I'm not just scared.
I'm terrified.
But fear is his language. I can't speak it anymore. Not if I want to live.
So I breathe.
One shaky breath.
Then another.
And I whisper to myself under the blanket, voice barely audible:
"Face him tomorrow."
"Even if it kills you."
"Don't die a coward."
And deep in my chest—under all the shaking, under the wreckage of my stupid bravery—I feel something ugly begin to burn.
Hatred.
Not for him.
For me.
For being this goddamn naive. For walking into this like a lamb in lipstick. For thinking I could joke about the devil and not end up in his bed—bleeding or begging or both.
I don't know what Zayan wants.
But if he's going to kill me?
He'll have to do it to my face.
Because fuck him.
Fuck his smirk.
Fuck this fear.
And fuck the version of me that let her guard down.
She's dead already.
Tomorrow?
I'm not her.
I'm war.
But the truth is—I'm lying.
To him.
To me.
To the goddamn ceiling above my bed that's seen more confessions in silence than any church ever will.
I say I'll face him.
Say I'll look him in the eye like I'm made of rage and concrete.
But inside?
I'm crumbling.
Because this isn't some mafia heir cliché.
This isn't a spoiled rich boy with a Bentley and a few billion in offshore accounts.
This is Zayan fucking Tavarian.
A Tavarian.
And Tavarians? They're not a family.
They're a goddamn empire.
Born in steel. Bathed in money. Raised on secrets and sharpened by blood.
They don't just own companies—they own countries. Shadow deals, puppet leaders, half the goddamn internet. There are nations with smaller GDPs than the Tavarian portfolio.
They're not rich.
They're omnipotent.
And I… I called their heir a lying bastard with the empathy of a rabid wasp.
I mocked his name.
His legacy.
To His Face.
I loved him for over a year and didn't even know who the fuck I was loving.
God.
Goddamn it.
How pathetic am I?
I let myself fall—deep, messy, heart-first. .
I fell in love with the man behind the curtain.
And the whole time?
He was holding the strings.
A Tavarian.
And now I have to forget him.
That's the only move left.
Because if he were just some ordinary rich prick with a trust fund and a superiority complex, maybe… maybe I could've stood a chance. Maybe I could've fought.
But this?
Loving a Tavarian means loving death.
No one survives it.
Not really.
You just rot slowly while they smile and sip thousand-dollar wine over your grave.
My throat tightens. My eyes sting. But I bite down on the tears.
He can't know.
He can't ever know.
Not how much I loved him.
Not how much I still fucking do.
Not how every breath hurts like a ghost wearing his face is still sitting on my chest.
He doesn't deserve to know.
He doesn't get to have that piece of me.
So I clutch the blanket tighter. Press my lips shut. And when the first hot tear slides sideways down my temple, I wipe it away fast—furious—like it betrayed me.
I'll forget him.
Even if it takes years.
Even if every night feels like peeling him out of my bones with my bare hands.
Even if every dream whispers his name and every ache in my chest sounds like him laughing.
I will forget him.
Because what's the alternative?
Cling to a nightmare in silk?
No.
Fuck that.
Fuck him.
I close my eyes.
Force myself to breathe.
One.
Two.
Three.
The tears don't stop, but I don't let them fall. I swallow them. Bury them beneath the rage and the wreckage and the promise of survival.
And slowly—too slowly—I slip into the only place where he can't follow me.
Sleep.
It's not peace.
It's not escape.
But it's all I've got left tonight.
_________________________
Light.
Too much of it.
It pours in like a slap to the face. Harsh and golden and real—not the cold hum of luxurious hospital lights I've gotten used to.
This isn't artificial light.
This is sunlight.
Morning.
Unforgiving, honest morning.
I blink once.
Then again.
My throat's dry. My limbs ache. But it's not pain that coils in my gut. It's something colder.
Something wrong.
It takes me a second to notice what's changed. Why my breath is suddenly shallow. Why my skin feels peeled, flayed, left out under a magnifying glass.
Then I see it.
The curtains are gone.
Not just the divider between me and him.
All of them.
The right-side privacy curtain that blocked the wall.
The front curtain that kept my bed boxed in.
The left-side one that hung like a soft veil between him and me.
Gone.
Ripped away like bandages from a wound still bleeding.
I don't sit up. I can't. My body is too stiff, my legs still heavy, my muscles still half-dead from bedrest. But my heart? It sprints. Loud and raw against my ribs.
I turn my head.
He's already looking at me.
Zayan Tavarian.
Still in bed. Still perfectly still. And yet his eyes… they pin me.
Like he's been watching for a while.
Like he waited for me to wake up.
There's no smile. Of course not. He doesn't do smiles. Not for me. Not ever.
His face is unreadable. Blank. Not cold. Not cruel. Just… clinical. Detached. The way one might observe a test subject in a lab. The way a predator might wait for its prey to move, just to see which direction the fear leaks out from.
And then, with a voice as soft as silk and just as sharp, he says—
"You prefer it like this, right? No barrier between us?"
It's not a question. Not really.
It's a reminder.
Of what I said. Of how I yanked the curtain closed between us yesterday like it was a weapon. My last pathetic act of control.
And now?
There's nothing left to pull.
No safety. No shield. No fucking illusion.
I want to flip him off.
Middle finger. Right hand. Let it fly like a flag of defiance.
But I don't.
Because I don't trust my voice not to crack. I don't trust my hands not to shake. I don't trust myself to not scream or sob or beg for space I won't get.
So I stay still.
Stone.
Mute.
My fists curl under the sheets. White-knuckled.
I turn my head again, slowly, painfully, until all I can see is the massive glass wall on the far side of the room. The city beyond it gleams—glass towers, silver spires, the distant blur of clouds bleeding into skyscrapers.
I stare at it.
Hard.
For hours, maybe.
I don't move.
Don't speak.
Don't eat.
Just watch the world outside and pretend it's not burning behind me.
I don't look at him again.
Not even once.
But I feel his eyes.
Always.
Watching. Measuring. Dismantling.
The air between us doesn't feel shared anymore—it feels owned. His side of the room might as well have gravity, pulling everything into orbit around him. Even silence feels like it bends toward his mouth.
And still, I don't speak.
I won't give him that.
Because every second that passes, I'm understanding something new—something worse.
The curtains… they weren't for us.
They weren't for patient modesty. Not for infection control. Not for some fake idea of privacy.
They were for him.
The Tavarian heir.
The bloodline.
The crown that walks.
They were hiding his vulnerable state.
While he was hooked up to tubes and wires, someone wanted the world to forget he was ever weak. They wrapped him in fabric and silence and made sure the legend of Zayan stayed untouchable.
But now?
He's awake.
Stable.
Alive.
And that means the curtains came down.
Because Tavarians don't need veils.
They need thrones.
I stare harder out the glass. My eyes start to blur, not from tears, but from exhaustion and ache and the suffocating weight of knowing.
I'm not here by accident.
I'm not healed by mercy.
I'm not beside him because fate thought it'd be cute.
I'm here because he let me be.
And he can take that back. Anytime.
Every breath I take is permitted, not earned.
The silence stretches.
The sun shifts across the sky.
I don't know how many hours pass like this. But they do. Without a word. Without a flicker of kindness from the man behind me.
He never says my name.
He never asks me if I'm okay.
He never even moves.
He just watches.
And I pretend he doesn't exist.
Even though the room is shaped around him.
Even though I can feel his presence like heat bleeding through the wall.
Even though I've never felt more naked in my life—and I'm fully clothed.
I tuck myself deeper into the sheets. Not hiding. Just protecting what's left. My back aches from lying still so long. My legs twitch sometimes, but I don't let myself adjust. I don't want to shift and accidentally face him again.
Because if I do?
I'll see those eyes.
And I don't know if I'll survive it twice.
So I keep my gaze locked on the city. Cold, glittering, indifferent.
And I remind myself—again and again—that I can't love him.
Not anymore.
Not when he's this.
Not when he's everything I can't afford to want.
He'll never love me.
Never touch me like I matter.
Never see me as anything but an amusing contradiction. A girl dumb enough to snarl at a lion and think she'd live.
I close my eyes.
Just for a second.
And I whisper—so soft it gets swallowed by the glass and the silence and the ache in my throat—
"Forget him."
Even if it takes forever.
Even if it ruins me.
Even if every cell in my body fights it.
I have to.
Because loving him?
Means dying in slow motion.
And I've already died enough.
_______________
Sunlight again.
The kind that doesn't ask permission—just slaps you awake like it owns the sky.
Because apparently, everything in this godforsaken room wants to make me feel exposed.
Yesterday… I didn't say a word.
Not when the curtains vanished like magic.
Not when Zayan Tavarian looked at me like I was some inconvenient piece of furniture.
Not even when his voice slid across the room with that silk-dipped malice:
"You prefer it like this, right? No barrier between us?"
I said nothing.
Not a syllable. Not even a hiss.
Because I knew if I opened my mouth, it wouldn't be words that came out. It would be something else.
A scream. A sob.
Or worse—his name.
And fuck no, I won't give him that.
But today?
Today's different.
Not because I'm braver.
Not because I'm stronger.
But because I'm hungry and this palace-in-a-hospital-room won't stop feeding me like I'm a royal prisoner awaiting execution with a side of caviar.
I sit up—barely—and a nurse places the tray on the sleek chrome side table like we're in a five-star suite and not a place where I almost died.
I stare at the plate.
It's… art.
There's this rich golden omelet, folded like origami.
Microgreens that probably cost more per leaf than my childhood home.
Some kind of smoked thing that smells illegal. And toast—crisped to the edge of godhood, like someone threatened the chef's family if it came out burnt.
I should eat.
I should just fucking eat.
But I don't move.
Because I can feel him.
Zayan Tavarian.
Still laying there like a curse stitched into the mattress beside me.
No curtain. No barrier. No goddamn filter.
Just him. Too real. Too close.
And then, like the universe wants to see how many brain cells it can kill off in under three seconds, he speaks.
"It's a baby."
I pause.
Blink.
Did—
Did he just say—?
I slowly—so slowly—turn my head.
He's looking at me. Of course he is. Probably has been for hours. Because apparently sleep is optional when you're carved from war crimes and control issues.
I look at him.
And I give him the only look I have left:
What the actual, platinum-coated, diamond-encrusted, seven-layered fuck did you just say to me?
He nods—not smug, not smiling. Just calm.
Then looks directly at my plate.
And it hits me.
Oh. Oh fuck.
I remember.
That conversation.
"So what, you think Tavarians eat babies for breakfast too?"
"I think they eat someone's babies for breakfast," I said. "And charge you for the silver spoon."
God.
God-fucking-dammit.
I remember the exact way I said it—deadpan, like I wasn't even kidding. Because I wasn't. Not really.
I'd mocked him.
Mocked them.
Right to his perfect, expressionless face. Like some feral idiot who didn't realize she was toeing the line with a dynasty that could buy God on a loan and foreclose on Heaven by Thursday.
And now?
Now this psycho is referencing it.
At breakfast.
AT. BREAKFAST.
The spoon slips in my grip. I stare at the plate like it's about to cry. Or bite me. Or both.
Is this what it's like to lose your appetite in real-time? Because suddenly, this glorious, gold-glazed Tavarian spread tastes like ash and consequences.
My stomach does a flip.
A sour, traitorous little heh of rebellion.
I push the plate an inch away. Maybe more. Like it might explode.
Because now all I can think is:
What if it is a baby?
Not literally.
But like… what if this is their subtle Tavarian mind game? What if this omelet is laced with guilt and generational trauma? What if the smoked thing is some endangered delicacy I just called a murder snack?
I swear the toast is judging me.
And then he says it—
"I'm joking."
Just that. Calm.
No smirk. No warmth. No fucking smile.
Just that Tavarian-brand straight-faced chaos. Like he's so used to people scrambling to please him that he doesn't even know how jokes are supposed to land.
I hate him.
I hate him with my bones.
With my blood.
With the exact fucking rib that used to ache when I missed his voice at 2 a.m.
I don't say anything.
Don't react.
But inside?
I'm combusting.
Because what the hell am I supposed to do with that?
I already feel like a glass shard with legs. Already feel like I'm sitting naked in front of a man who's never looked at me like I was a person—just a puzzle he regrets touching.
And now he wants to make breakfast jokes?
What's next, a Tavarian knock-knock routine?
I look back at the glass wall. My only friend. My only witness.
And I decide, right then and there:
I am not eating that fucking baby omelet.
Not because I believe it's a baby.
But because I know what this is.
It's another reminder.
Of who he is.
Of what I'm not.
Of how even when he jokes—it's a weapon.
I'll starve before I laugh.
So I sit there.
Spine stiff.
Hands clenched.
Pretending that the food doesn't smell divine.
Pretending that my heart isn't thudding every time I feel his gaze, even when I don't look.
Pretending that I'm not dying to scream. Or cry. Or crawl across this bed and punch him in the mouth just to feel something again.
But I don't.
Because that would mean acknowledging him.
And Zayan Tavarian doesn't get anything from me today.
Not my attention.
Not my laugh.
Not my hunger.
Not even my middle finger.
____________________
I'm looking at the glass again.
It's the only thing in this godforsaken palace-room that doesn't breathe Tavarian.
Doesn't stare at me. Doesn't judge.
Doesn't talk about babies over breakfast.
God, yesterday.
Zayan with that voice—calm, cold, cruelly casual—saying "It's a baby," while I tried to eat a thousand-dollar omelet like a functioning human.
I remember that look he gave the plate. The way I remembered my own sarcastic words. Tavarians eat someone's babies for breakfast, and charge you for the spoon. Ha-fucking-ha. I haven't touched a bite since.
And I didn't say a damn word to him after that. Just stared at the glass wall like I could mentally launch myself through it if I stared hard enough. Escape velocity by sheer panic.
But now—
Now the air shifts.
I hear it.
The door opens.
Not the soft whisper of a nurse. Not the efficient hush of hospital staff trying not to disturb the expensive patient. No.
This door opens like it has a spine. Like it's afraid not to open wide enough. Like the hinges know their lives depend on it.
I turn. Slowly. Carefully.
And I see—
Him.
No.
No. No. Fuck. No.
My lungs forget how to work. My blood forgets where to go. My fucking soul short-circuits and flatlines like: No thanks, we're out.
It's Kamal Rashid Tavarian.
THE Kamal Rashid. The chairman. The legend. The nightmare in tailored suits.
I yank the blanket over my body like it's a fucking force field. Tug it up over my face. Over my head. Over my entire existence.
I hold my mouth shut.
Do not breathe. Do not move. Do not be perceived.
Because that man? That man doesn't enter rooms. He conquers them.
Even his shoes make a sound like judgment. Like bullets grazing your ribs. Every step feels like the sentence before an execution.
My heart is thundering. Violently. Loudly. I think I'm going to vomit. Or die. Or both.
He's speaking.
To Zayan.
His voice—fuck. It's like war in slow motion. Deep. Refined. The kind of cold that doesn't shiver—it cuts.
"Adam. How's your recovery going?"
My brain short-circuits again.
Adam?
Who the fuck is Adam?
Who the actual bloodstained, monogrammed hell is Adam?
Is Zayan—is he using a fake name? Am I sleeping two feet from a man whose name is a lie?
And then—
"It's fine," Zayan replies, voice emotionless.
No surprise. That tone could chill molten lava.
"Why don't you let anyone into this room?" Kamal asks next. "What now? Family can't get in?"
His voice is sharp. Measured. Like every syllable was passed through four security clearances and a moral abyss.
> "There's no need to see me," Zayan says.
I am barely breathing under this blanket.
I don't exist. I am a ghost. A smothered mouse. A shadow under linen. God, please, let this old man think the bed next to Zayan is a piece of furniture. Please don't let him see the very alive, very traumatized girl currently playing dead under overpriced thread count.
"You should have been more careful," Kamal says, voice like a knife sliding between ribs. "You do know this time is important to us, right?"
Zayan doesn't answer. Of course not. Silence is his native language.
Then Kamal hums.
Not kindly.
No. It's the hum of a predator circling a wounded lion. Of a king surveying his flawed heir.
"The SkyDawn Initiative is under control now," he says. "If you'd been more careful, you wouldn't be here."
Oh god.
It's that. That project. The one I mocked. The one he watched in total silence. The one I called a Tavarian wet dream on national television.
"It's been three months," Kamal continues. "The national arm is stabilizing. The overseas board finalized the Tokyo pivot. Our interests in Istanbul are back in our hands. Supply chain in the North is cleared. But that should've been your job. Not your uncle's."
Three. Months.
We have been here for three months.
Comatose. Half-dead. Disconnected from the empire that apparently runs the goddamn world.
And this man?
This fucking chairman of existence?
He's not here to say heal fast, grandson. Not a welcome back, not a you're alive.
It's just—
Business.
Business like Zayan's flesh doesn't still look bruised in places. Like the machines and the medication and the fucking silence aren't proof that he barely made it out alive.
And Zayan? Still cold. Still expressionless. Like all this death-slick disappointment just slides off his back.
And I'm still praying. Fervently. Desperately.
Please god, I'll start recycling, I'll give up swearing, just do not let this ancient death angel notice I exist.
Then—silence.
No footsteps.
Nothing.
I think it's over.
But then Kamal's voice drops.
Quiet.
Low.
Like a knife just before it enters flesh.
"Does she know who you are?"
My soul leaves my body.
I die.
Right there. Under the blanket.
I fucking die.
He knows. He knows.
He knows I'm here.
And he said she.
She = me.
Me = not okay.
Zayan answers, still emotionless:
"Yes."
And then the final nail in my coffin—
"Then you know how to handle it."
Zayan's voice, like ice and dust:
"I will."
I don't breathe.
I can't.
Because I've just heard my death sentence wrapped in business language and genetic obligation.
"Handle it"? Handle what, motherfucker?
Me?
My mouth?
My memory?
My existence?
What, am I a loose end now? A threat to the family brand? A scandal wrapped in cotton sheets?
I pray harder. Louder. Internally screaming at every deity across every pantheon.
Please don't kill me.
Please don't let this man order my disappearance like it's a goddamn lunch special.
And Zayan—he said yes.
He said I will.
No hesitation.
No emotion.
Just compliance.
Just Tavarian loyalty.
My skin is ice. My blood is screaming. My bones want to run, but they're too busy preparing to die.
I don't make a sound.
I don't twitch.
Because if I do?
That old man might look my way.
And I swear on every bone in my body—if Kamal Rashid Tavarian looks at me?
I won't faint.
I'll combust.
Right here.
In silk sheets.
Unfed. Unforgiven.
And fully, totally, fucking doomed
They could kill me.
They could actually fucking kill me, and no one would blink twice.
Not even my so-called parents.
They'll probably just nod like, "We only had two sons."
Like I never existed. Like I was never born. Like I didn't breathe their air or waste space in their photos.
I curl tighter under the blanket, every bone in my body shaking. My breath won't steady. My chest's too tight, like I've swallowed a knife whole and it's lodged right behind my ribs.
Then Kamal's voice slices through the air like it owns the goddamn world.
"Don't let the public know about this."
Zayan answers like a loaded gun. "No one will know."
"Good," Kamal says, like this was just a minor inconvenience in his day. Like I wasn't a human fucking being in this room, dying cell by cell.
"And get everything under control," Kamal adds, footsteps already turning away.
Control.
Yeah. Great. Because clearly I have none.
He leaves.
And I just… lie there.
Shaking.
Breathing like the air is poison.
I've lived for twenty-one years. And that's it. That's all I get. That's the full length of my pathetic life. Some people get decades to fuck up and try again. Me? I get twenty-one and done.
And for what?
For falling for the wrong goddamn man?
For being too stupid to ask questions?
For having a mouth that never knew when to shut up?
My life's going to end in a hospital with bulletproof windows, under a blanket that probably costs more than my entire education, with a heartbeat that won't shut the fuck up because fear is now my closest companion.
I peek.
Carefully.
Slowly.
Just a crack beneath the edge of the blanket. Just enough to see him.
Him.
Zayan. Or Adam. Whatever the hell his name really is.
He's not cold anymore.
No.
He's angry.
There's this fire burning in his face I've never seen before. Like something ancient just woke up inside him and now it's staring at the world through his eyes.
He's not speaking. Just lying there, jaw locked so tight it could break steel.
I whisper, barely able to hear my own voice. "Is your name… Adam?"
His head turns, slow and sharp.
"Yes."
I blink. My lips dry out instantly. "Then why did you lie?"
He exhales hard through his nose, like that question physically irritated him. "I didn't."
"Bullshit," I shoot back, sitting up halfway in disbelief. "You said your name was Zayan."
"It is."
I freeze.
"What?"
His voice is clipped. "its Adam Zayan."
I blink again, like my brain is glitching. Wow. Fuck. What a name.
It honestly sounds like something you'd write in a fantasy novel for a morally grey heir who kills people with a piano wire and never leaves fingerprints. Which, considering current events, might be dead-on.
"So you really are the heir?" I ask, almost hating how timid I sound.
He doesn't flinch. Doesn't look away.
"Yes."
"Then why'd you hide it?"
"I didn't." His voice tightens. There's an edge now. "The public doesn't know who it is. That's all."
Oh.
Oh fuck.
So this is what it feels like. Realizing you're in a room with a man the world doesn't even know exists, and he could erase you before the world even knows you were missing.
His tone is warning enough.
I don't ask more.
Not now.
Instead, I pray.
Like really pray. Like internally screaming God, I'm sorry for every single unholy thought I've had about his damn collarbone and chain and his stupid hot mouth, and please don't let me die in silk sheets without even having good sex once in my miserable existence.
I pray for my life.
Because the devil sitting beside me has a name now.
And it's beautiful.
And it's terrifying.
And it fucking belongs to the heir of the Tavarian empire.
He doesn't say a single fucking word to me.
Not even a glance.
And I sure as hell don't speak either. I just sit there under the blanket like a ghost bride on death row, pretending the air between us isn't a silent battlefield.
It should make me feel safe, this quiet.
It should.
But it doesn't.
Because the silence doesn't feel like peace.
It feels like absence.
Like missing him.
God, fuck me, I miss the bastard. His voice. His sarcasm. The way he pisses me off just enough to make me feel alive.
And that's what messes me up the most.
Because I shouldn't miss someone who might just get me killed.
Now it's evening. The air has that weird stillness like something's coming. Like the world's holding its breath.
And then—boom.
A low growl of thunder rolls through the sky like a warning shot.
I glance at the floor-to-ceiling glass wall.
The first droplets tap against it, soft at first, then louder—relentless.
"Waaah," I murmur, not even realizing I say it out loud. "It's raining outside…"
My voice trails toward him like a fragile olive branch. Or maybe a stupid attempt at normal.
He doesn't answer.
But I see movement.
He shifts slightly, still seated on the bed, his back supported by the headboard, head tilted into the pillow like some dark prince too tired to care.
But he looks out the window.
And I swear to God—
His eyes soften.
That sharp, cold, calculating glacier in his gaze melts just a little, like rain on stone.
It does something fucked up to my chest.
And then—just for a second—he turns his head and looks at me.
Directly.
Right into me.
But I panic like a damn coward and snap my eyes back to the storm.
Pretending I didn't notice.
Pretending I didn't feel that stupid flutter in my gut like a traitorous bitch.
Like a girl who forgot this man just let his grandfather talk about her death like it was business.
I keep staring at the rain.
And pretend I'm not crumbling.
°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°
His pov (Adam zayan pov)
She said, "It's raining."
So I looked outside.
The storm had arrived.
Of course it fucking had.
The sky had cracked open like a warning bell. The clouds spilled their guts in thick waves, thrashing against the glass wall like the world was trying to drown itself. Wind howled like a wounded god. Lightning forked through the sky, slicing the dark open with violent elegance.
She stared at it like it was magic.
Like the storm was beautiful.
Like it hadn't always been the omen of my worst obsessions.
Because it rains every time I get near her.
Every. Fucking. Time.
Like the universe is some sick bastard, baptizing us in disaster. Like God sees me getting close to her and says, Let there be rain, let them drown in it, let them suffer with something holy wrapped in something cursed.
And every time I see rain, I remember her.
---------------------------
Four years ago
__________
The rain is a fucking disgrace.
It slams against the pavement, against the metal of my bike, against the city like it's trying to drown everything in its path. Not just a storm—a flood. The kind that turns the streets into rivers, soaks through every layer, and makes everything slower, dumber, weaker.
I hate it.
Hate the smell of wet asphalt, the sluggish traffic, the fucking hesitation in people's steps as they scurry for cover. Hate the way it clings to the air, suffocating, thick.
The light ahead is red. I'm at the front, straddling my bike, fingers drumming impatiently against the throttle.
A sharp buzz in my ear.
I tap my Bluetooth. "Speak."
"Still a fucking asshole, I see," Eshan's voice comes through, dry as ever. "It's been a while, brother."
I exhale, rolling my shoulders back. "If you called for pleasantries, hang up."
"I called because Razmir and Rafaen are in town. Thought we'd catch up."
"Busy."
"You're always busy."
I don't respond.
He sighs. "You at least coming to the—"
A sharp knock on my visor. Raindrops hammer down harder, slamming against the city. The streetlights reflect off the drenched road, blurring the figures moving past.
Annoying.
Everything is fucking annoying.
Eshan is saying something, but my attention shifts. My fingers tighten around the throttle.
There's laughter.
Loud. Unapologetic. Cutting through the downpour like it doesn't belong in this miserable storm.
I turn my head.
A group of girls rushes across the zebra crossing, soaked, tangled in their own clothes, gripping each other's arms. They don't look miserable. They don't give a shit about the rain, about the traffic, about anything. They just laugh.
The sound irritates me.
I hate loud girls. Hate careless, reckless things.
And then—
One of them slips.
Hard.
Feet fly out from under her, her body twists, and she lands straight on her ass—right in front of me.
I don't blink.
The world keeps moving. The rain still falls. The traffic light still glows red.
But something—something I don't fucking understand—shifts inside me.
She doesn't get up immediately. Doesn't scramble in embarrassment.
She just—
Sits there.
Hands flat against the wet ground, legs awkwardly bent beneath her, completely still.
And then—
She laughs.
Loud. Unrestrained. Head tilting back, shoulders shaking, chest rising and falling with the force of it.
My pulse stalls.
Something tightens, burns inside my chest, digging into my ribs, searing my fucking insides like a sickness.
then—
She turns her head.
And looks directly at me.
My stomach fucking drops.
Dark, doe-like eyes, wide and shameless, glowing under the grey sky. Her cheeks are flushed, rain trickling down her skin, lips parted—fuck, those lips.
Not small. Not full. Just the perfect shape to bite.
She's young. Soft-looking. Her cheeks have that biteable curve, a mouth made for sin, a jawline that isn't sharp, just fucking perfect.
And then—
She winks.
Slow. Effortless.
A tease.
A challenge.
And then she mouths—
Sorry.
A vicious tremor rolls through me.
My hands flex around the bike handles, my chest fucking caves in—like something just clicked into place, like something dark and ruined and fucked up inside me just woke the hell up.
Her friends yank her up, laughing, pulling her away, and she lets them—
Lets them take her away from me.
Disappearing into the moving crowd like she never even fucking existed.
Like she didn't just shatter something inside me.
The light turns green.
Cars honk. The world moves.
But I don't.
I sit there, hands clenched, my entire body locked. My pulse slams against my throat, something wild, something unhinged clawing its way up my spine.
Mine.
She's mine.
And I will fucking make her.
Even if it breaks her.
______________________
✍️ Author's Note:
She thinks she fell first.
Bitch never knew… he fell harder.
And earlier. And deeper.
Rain wasn't just a weather update—it was a f*cking warning sign. 😵💫
Anyway—10K VIEWS?!?
WHAT THE ACTUAL—🤍🤍🤍
Thank you. Like genuinely, from the bottom of my overworked, under-rested writer soul, THANK YOU. You're making me cry in Helvetica. 🥹
BUT NOW LISTEN—
I'm pouring every drop of serotonin into this story. Dark circles? Yeah, they've unionized. Sanity? Hanging by Zayan's chain.
I'm writing my soul out and some of y'all just... read and vanish? 👁👄👁
Comment, damn it.
Tell me you screamed. Tell me you blushed. Tell me you hate me for the cliffhanger. Give me SOMETHING before my laptop gets water damage from my tears. 😭🔥
Your reactions = my fuel. Your silence = character deaths (don't test me).
So: React 😵💫😵💫😵💫
Drop hearts 🤍🤍🤍
Spam fire 🔥🔥🔥
And maybe, just maybe, I'll let him suffer a little less.