ZAYAN'S POV – FLASHBACK (Four Years Ago)Grandfather's Study | Tavarian Estate Mansion |
___________
The fucking boss is about to die.
My thumbs tap faster. Combo. Dodge. Slice. He's this close to eating dirt, and I've been after this bastard for days. I'm slouched deep into this sinfully soft couch in the farthest corner of Grandfather's study, legs stretched out like I own the floor.
Which I do.
The heavy silence in the room isn't silent at all—it's filled with muffled nerves, shifting suit fabric, the stench of desperation.
There's a group of six men standing in formation like little pawns in front of Kamal Rashid Tavarian, seated like a goddamn emperor in that high-backed leather throne he calls a chair. His face? Blank. Classic. That cold Tavarian expression that could make grown men piss their pants without blinking.
I don't look up. I don't give a shit. I've seen this scene a hundred times. I'm only here because the old man called me like it was urgent. Said it was important. And I was like, fuck me, what now?
Still, boss HP is almost gone—
"Mr. Taveerien," one of them says.
My thumbs freeze mid-motion.
Oh, you poor stupid fuck.
I don't look up. But I can feel Grandfather turn his head. Slow. Controlled. Heavy with death.
The man doesn't notice. He keeps talking. Jesus Christ.
"We're honored to be here today, Mr. Taveerien," he says again, confidently oblivious. "We represent the NexCore Alliance—with active branches in Dubai, Shanghai, Berlin, and two more opening in Brazil. Our initiative—"
Smirk. Kamal smirks. Shit's about to go downhill and this idiot's cruising in a convertible with no brakes.
"Our initiative is to create a cross-continental financial framework. By partnering with Tavarian Imperial Group, we believe—"
Tavarian. He says it again. Wrong.
"Tha-vaa-ri-yan," I mutter, still not looking up, thumbs casually dragging across the screen. "Practice every day. Might help you close an actual deal next time."
The room stops breathing.
Then I slowly lift my head, eyes landing directly on that unfortunate excuse of a man who just butchered our name like it's fucking gibberish on a shopping list.
"You're done."
That's it. I don't shout. I don't need to. It lands like a goddamn gunshot.
Grandfather doesn't say a word. Just gives one small nod to his right. His bodyguard—stoic as hell—steps forward.
"You can go now."
The NexCore group blinks. Staggers. Scrambles. They leave like someone just ripped their spines out. One of them mutters something about coming back next quarter. Another says they'll email the proposal again. None of it matters.
They're already dead.
They don't even know it wasn't the name that got them tossed out like trash. It was the ego. The presumptuous tone. The desperate pitch like they were doing us a favor. Fucking amateurs.
I go back to my game.
And finally—boss down. Victory. My screen explodes in glorious, violent pixels. Fuck yes.
"Why did you call me?" I say, still focused on the screen. "What's so urgent, I had to cancel dinner with my friends and deal with this brain-dead PowerPoint session?"
Silence.
Then Kamal says, "You're twenty-one now."
I roll my eyes. "Thanks for the birthday reminder, old man."
He ignores that. Of course he does. Kamal Rashid Tavarian doesn't do sarcasm. Doesn't do emotion. He speaks in declarations.
"You're going abroad. Five months. Final preparations are in progress."
"Okay." Still not looking up. "Cool. Paris? Milan? Gotham?"
"I'm assigning you a new bodyguard."
That makes me pause.
I blink. Game screen dims in my hand. I glance at him. "For what? I'm not some scandal-prone heir running through parties with coke in my nose and daddy's wallet in my ass pocket."
"You are a Tavarian," Kamal says cold. "Just because I haven't declared my heir publicly doesn't mean you're not under my command."
I stare at him, the vein in my jaw twitching. "What the fuck did I even do now?"
"You ride bikes like you don't bleed," he says flatly. "You race cars at 3 AM in the hills. You took a private plane to Cairo just to eat one specific dish. What's next? A fucking submarine tour?"
"...A ship, actually." I mutter.
Kamal turns his head slightly to the bodyguard. "Bring him."
A beat.
Then the door clicks open.
In walks a tall, polished guy—clean-cut, sharp suit, military back straight, eyes alert like he's been trained to spot a sniper in a shopping mall. He looks maybe my age. Maybe a little older. Barely.
"This is Izar Haleem," Kamal says. "He's your age. Disciplined. Trained. You won't feel bossed around. I picked him for that."
Izar bows slightly, all respect and professionalism. "Mr. Tavarian. I'm Izar Haleem. Looking forward to working with you."
I stand. Slowly. Toss the phone onto the couch.
My fingers crack once. Twice. I stare at him. Long. Silent. Measuring.
I don't say shit. Just walk right past him.
And he follows.
Of course he fucking does.
Because that's what bodyguards do.
Because I'm Zayan fucking Tavarian.
And no matter how far I run, ride, or fly—I'm still chained to this empire like it's stitched into my damn blood.
But if they think one guy's gonna keep me controlled, they can suck a diamond-studded middle finger.
Because I may be born Tavarian.
But I'm gonna own it my way.
No matter how many fucking eyes are on me.
I hate being followed.
Especially when the bastard doing it walks like a damn ghost.
Boots silent. Steps calculated.
Like he thinks he can out-slink me on my own rooftop.
I don't even turn. Just head straight to the edge, where the whole damn city glitters like it doesn't know it's built on Tavarian blood. My blood.
I let the wind smack my face. It's cold. Sharp. Fucking perfect. I needed this.
And of course, he follows.
Stops three feet behind me. Classic bodyguard move.
Like I'd shove him off the building or something.
I turn around slowly. Eyes locking to his. He doesn't flinch.
Brave, aren't we?
I raise a brow. Tilt my head a little—just enough.
That's always the test. Tilt, stare, wait.
People either break or beg.
He looks away.
There it is.
I smirk.
"So." My voice cuts the wind. "You're my new bodyguard?"
He straightens like someone shoved a stick up his spine. "Yes, sir."
Sir. Ugh. Fuck that. I'm twenty-one, not seventy.
Still, I let it slide.
I squint at him, lips twitching. "You know I didn't ask for one."
"I'm aware, sir."
"But you came anyway."
"Orders from Chairman Tavarian."
Of course. Grandfather strikes again.
I cross my arms, the chain on my neck cold against my skin. The locket taps lightly on my chest, like it's warning me to behave.
I never do.
""What do you know about me?" I ask, just to see how prepared he really is.
Izar lifts his chin slightly. "Adam Zayan Tavarian. Youngest grandchild of the Tavarian bloodline. Official heir. Declared at sixteen. Graduated from the University of California, Berkeley with distinction—"
"Berkeley?" I mutter, amused. "Go on then."
"Soon to begin your second program at the London School of Economics and Political Science. High school at Institut Le Rosey in Switzerland. Middle school… here, in the city. No scandals. No recorded romantic involvements. No spotted affiliations. No visible weakness."
Jesus. Did he read that off a fucking MI6 file?
I bark a laugh. "So basically, you stalked me."
"No, sir." He doesn't blink. "I did my job."
"Your job sounds creepier than mine."
He hesitates. Then says, a little stiffly, "There's one question Chairman Tavarian insisted I ask you personally."
I narrow my eyes. "Of course he did. What is it?"
Izar takes one step back. Clears his throat like this is the most serious question of his goddamn life. Then says:
"…Are you gay?"
The silence afterward is so thick I could slice it with the chain around my neck.
And then—I laugh. Hard.
"That old bastard sent you to ask me that?" I snort, wind whipping my hair into my eyes. "Waaah. Can't even ask his own damn grandson straight up."
Izar waits. Face blank. "You didn't answer it, sir."
I take my time with this one. Run a hand through my hair, tongue pressing behind my teeth.
Then I mutter, mostly to myself, "I didn't meet anyone who made me want them."
Not one. Not a fucking soul. No girl. No boy. No… no anything.
Just felt like I was walking through life with static noise around me. No spark. No itch.
Dead calm in a stormy world.
I look him in the eye again. "If I ever see someone who makes my heart skip in a weird way… we can consider it."
"Understood." His voice doesn't change. "I'll inform the Chairman."
I scoff. "You do that."
He nods. "Yes, sir."
God, he's such a straight edge.
I turn back to the city view. Let the wind wash over me again.
"Guess you're coming with me to LSE then?"
"No, sir."
"What?" I glance back, raising a brow. "Why the fuck not?"
"I'm not here to study. I'm here to protect you."
I grin. "What if someone tries to shoot me in the middle of a lecture?"
"That won't happen."
"And how the fuck are you so sure?"
"Because I'll make sure it doesn't."
That calm tone again. Like murder is just another Tuesday.
I lick my teeth, chuckling under my breath. "So you're refusing college to follow me around with a loaded gun?"
"I'd rather kill three men than attend a lecture about financial derivatives, sir."
I laugh—loud and real this time. "Fuck, that's the best thing I've heard all month."
Izar nods once, deadpan. Like he just said the weather forecast.
Alright. Fine.
Maybe he's not that bad.
Still boring as hell, but there's something in his eyes I can't quite place.
Not fear. Not devotion. Something steelier.
Loyalty maybe. But not the kind you buy.
I keep laughing as I walk past him to the stairs, slapping him on the shoulder.
He stiffens like I stabbed him.
"Relax," I mutter. "If someone does shoot me, at least you won't have to attend that derivatives lecture."
He exhales slowly. "A silver lining, sir."
God. What a weirdo.
I think I like him.
I don't say a word when I walk past him. Not when I head down the stairs, not when I step out the damned glass doors, not even when the first gust of that thick, storm-heavy wind slaps against my cheek like nature's own warning.
I hear him behind me, boots steady, pace calculated.
Good. He knows how to track.
But he doesn't know me.
Not yet.
I stop in front of the matte black Ninja H2R.
Beast of a thing. Sleek, deadly, and loud.
Like me.
I swing my leg over the seat, kick the stand up, and just as I'm adjusting my gloves, I hear his breath behind me.
Still fucking following.
"Do you know how to ride?" I ask, not bothering to turn around.
A beat.
Then he says, "Bike?"
I do turn at that. Slowly. Eyebrow lifting. Head tilting just enough to make him shift his weight like he's not sure if I'm about to praise him or gut him.
"Then what the fuck did you think I meant?"
He clears his throat, real quick. "Yes, sir. I know how to ride."
I smirk, flipping the visor up. "Good. Then don't fucking follow me."
And before that bastard can open his precious mouth again—
I twist the throttle.
The bike screams as I rip down the driveway, leaving him in a gust of exhaust, dust, and a fuck-you silence that should tell him exactly where we stand.
Which is this—
He doesn't chase me.
I let him follow.
And right now, I'm not in the mood to let anyone do shit.
The wind claws at me as I push faster through the streets. The sky above's a mess of bruised clouds, dark and violent, hanging so fucking low I feel like I could punch them.
And maybe I would, if it helped.
But nothing helps right now.
Fuck rain.
Fuck this weather.
Fuck my grandfather for assigning me a babysitter like I'm some porcelain bitch boy about to break in public.
And fuck—
him.
Izar.
That stiff, quiet, suspiciously good-looking idiot with a face carved out of whatever marble they used in Roman statues. The man walks like he's calculating every single step for assassination or choreography. I don't know which. Maybe both.
I told him not to follow.
And I meant it.
But part of me—
Part of me kind of wanted to see if he would.
Pathetic.
I know.
I'm aware.
But I haven't been around anyone like him before. That much is clear.
I don't like people.
Don't trust them.
And I sure as fuck don't want them crawling up in my business or standing near me like they belong in my space.
But him?
He didn't even flinch when I looked him in the eyes.
Not until I made him.
That shit got under my skin.
And now I can't get it out.
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.
And 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.
Horns blast behind me, loud and violent, shoving me out of whatever the hell just gripped my soul and ripped it clean open.
I blink. Once. Twice. The red light's gone. The traffic's already in motion. I'm still frozen, legs locked on either side of the bike, hands clenched around the throttle like I'm holding on to something I don't even understand.
Rain slides down the sides of my helmet, mixing with sweat. My breath fogs up the visor.
I start the engine again—don't even remember turning it off. The bike hums under me, but I don't feel it.
I don't feel anything.
Except that fucking laugh.
That wink.
That mouth.
That fucking mine.
What the fuck was that?
I've seen beautiful girls. I've had them thrown at me like they're party favors with perfume and ambition. I've walked past dozens who tried to grab a piece of me, get in my orbit, wear my name like a necklace.
And I've never—
Never—
Given a single, solitary shit.
So why the hell is my chest tightening like this?
Why are my hands shaking beneath the gloves?
Why do I want to turn this bike around and find her?
Track her. Pin her. Ask her what the hell she did to me—
No.
No.
This is bullshit.
I shake my head hard, swipe at the visor, and rev the engine. The bike jerks forward. I don't know where I'm going. I don't care. Just ride. Just fucking move. Let the rain drown the thoughts out.
But it doesn't.
Because every time I blink—
I see her face.
Those fucking eyes.
And that stupid mouth mouthing sorry like it's a joke. Like she didn't just break me open and walk away like I'm nothing but a curiosity.
I grip the throttle tighter. My veins feel like they're on fire. My jaw's locked so hard it hurts.
And then—
I'm there.
I don't even know how.
But I'm standing in front of Eshan's building.
I stare at the door. My hand lifts, enters the code.
I know it. Muscle memory.
Still no clue why I came.
–––
The apartment's warm, dim, and smells like too many colognes mixed with whiskey and expensive wood.
I'm soaked. Water pools at my boots. My jacket clings to my skin like second punishment.
They're all there.
Eshan's just coming in from the snack bar, a bag of chips in one hand, soda in the other, brows arched like he walked in on a murder.
Razmir's lounging on the floor, one headphone in, chewing on something like he's half-listening, half-plotting.
Rafaen's sunk into the couch, PS5 controller in hand, eyes locked on the screen, fingers tapping rapid-fire like the game's his only god.
All three heads snap toward me like a fucking scene out of a mafia movie.
Eshan blinks. "You said you weren't coming."
I close the door behind me. "Did I?"
They exchange looks. I don't care. I drop into the couch like my bones don't work anymore. Lean my head back against the headrest.
The chandelier above spins slightly from the wind. I watch the crystals twist, refracting light into sharp splinters.
I can still hear her.
That fucking laugh.
"Bro," Razmir says, voice low. "What happened?"
Rafaen frowns. "You look like something just climbed out of hell and kissed you on the mouth."
Eshan leans forward, sharp now. "Zayan. You're scaring me. What the fuck happened?"
I don't answer.
Can't.
Because I don't know.
I close my eyes.
But she's still there.
Her legs tangled under her. Her palms on the wet road. The way she looked at me like she already knew what she was doing.
My throat's dry.
My heart's fucked.
My hands ache.
And I know—know—that this shit isn't going to go away.
I open my eyes.
All three of them are staring.
I stand.
Eshan straightens. "Wait—where the hell are you going now?"
I look at him. Then at the others. My voice low. "I'm going."
Rafaen blinks, sits up straighter, controller forgotten. "What? But you just got here."
.
I ignore him.
I open the door. Step out.
And behind me, I hear Razmir say under his breath, "What the fuck is wrong with him?"
I wish I could tell him.
I wish I fucking knew.
–––
The rain's heavier now.
Sheets of it crashing sideways.
The world's gone slick and silver and deafening.
But I ride.
Hard. Fast.
Like I can outrun whatever the hell's cracked open in my chest.
Every red light is a blur.
Every corner is sharp.
Every second without her face in front of me feels like it's skinning me alive.
What the fuck is happening to me?
I've never wanted anyone. Never needed anyone. Never let a stranger plant a fucking flag inside my ribcage like it's a goddamn claim.
But here I am.
Soaked to the bone.
Teeth clenched.
Heart pounding like it's been hijacked.
And all I can think is—
Where is she?
Who is she?
And why the fuck did the universe just hand me my own ruin in the middle of a goddamn storm?
The guards at the gate straighten the second they see me.
One of them lifts his hand, like he's going to ask something, but then—he freezes.
They all do.
Because I look like hell.
I know it.
Soaked head to toe. Hair plastered to my forehead. Leather jacket clinging to me like a second skin. Boots leaving wet prints across the marble. The bike still hissing from the rain in the driveway, steam rising like it's just escaped the belly of hell.
I don't say a word.
They part.
I move through the house like a storm that doesn't touch anything, just bruises the air. I know the help can hear me, feel me, but no one speaks. No one dares.
They've never seen me like this.
I don't even know who the fuck I am right now.
My hand is still tight on the key by the time I reach my study.
I push open the door.
Drop into the chair.
And for the first time in twenty-one years—
I let out a breath that hurts.
I stare at nothing for a long time. The soft hum of the AC in the background, the sound of rain battering the tall windows, and the taste of something bitter, heavy, and fucking unknown in my mouth.
What the fuck just happened to me?
Why can't I stop seeing her?
That laugh. That mouth.
That fucking look.
I rub my hands over my face, hard. My skin's cold. My pulse won't settle.
It's insane.
I'm insane.
No woman's ever done this to me.
No thing has ever touched me like that.
I've killed without blinking.
Fought.
Led.
Bled.
Built a name out of violence and silence.
But this?
This feels like I've been possessed.
I don't even know her fucking name.
And somehow—
Some sick, twisted, cosmic fuckery has made my soul branded with her smile.
Why?
Why the fuck would God hand me something like this?
To taunt me? To break me?
I slam my hand against the desk. The echo rings loud in the silence.
I sit there, breath shaking, teeth grinding, until my eyes catch the old pencil set in the corner drawer.
Something clicks.
No—
Something burns.
I yank it open. Pull out a blank white sheet and the sketching pencils I haven't touched in years.
A Tavarian doesn't draw.
A Tavarian destroys.
Creates through power.
Not fucking graphite and lines.
I never knew why I was given this useless talent.
Why I could draw like a fucking artist when I was born to rule through fire and steel.
But now I do.
Now I fucking do.
God gave me this so I wouldn't forget.
So I could capture the thing that's crawling under my skin.
I press the pencil to paper.
And I draw.
The jaw.
The mouth.
The way the rain slid down the curve of her cheeks.
The lines move fast, but exact. Controlled. Precise. My hand doesn't tremble—my soul does.
I draw the way her eyes cut through the downpour. The madness behind her little wink. The fucking challenge that tore me open.
She's alive on this page.
And I'm burning.
When it's done, I stare at the image.
And feel like I've carved my obsession into existence.
My ruin, on paper.
I grab my phone. Tap one button.
"Izar. Now."
Seconds later, the door creaks.
Izar walks in, stiff-backed, alert, eyes on me like he's expecting a new job—or a corpse.
"I didn't follow you," he says, deadpan. "But I will next time. Sir."
I stare at him.
He looks at me once—then looks again.
Brows twitch. "You look wrecked."
"Didn't I say earlier," I mutter, my voice low and sharp, "if I saw someone who made my heart skip—I'd fucking care?"
Izar's brows knit. I shove the paper toward him.
"Find her."
He steps forward, lifts the drawing, and the moment his eyes land on it—he pauses.
Whistles low under his breath. "She's… pretty."
I shoot him a look.
He straightens instantly. "I mean—yes, sir. Of course. I'll find her."
"Whatever it takes," I say, my voice steel. "Every face scan. Every city cam. I want her found. Before this fucking madness eats me alive."
"Yes, sir."
And he's gone.
I drop back into the chair.
Close my eyes.
The thunder rolls outside, long and deep.
I let the sound bury me.
But I can't bury her.
Because she's there.
Right behind my eyelids.
Mocking me.
Calling to me.
And all I can think—
All I can fucking think—
Is mine.
Even if she doesn't want me.
Even if it breaks her.
She will be mine.
Even if it kills us both.
---
–––
Two weeks.
Fourteen days.
Three hundred thirty-six hours.
Twenty thousand goddamn minutes.
And not a single fucking whisper of her.
Every street cam checked.
Every face-recognition system run.
Every foot of footage rewound, paused, zoomed.
Nothing.
It's like she slipped through reality itself.
Like the universe handed her to me for one brutal second—
Then ripped her away just to watch me burn.
I'm not sleeping.
I'm not eating.
Not because I can't.
Because I don't fucking want to.
Everything tastes like ash.
Everything smells like rain and memory and her skin—
Even though I never got close enough to smell it.
And that's what makes it worse.
That I didn't have her, and I'm still losing my goddamn mind like she was mine once.
I sit in the same chair every night. The sketch lies on the desk.
Crisp paper. Inked lines.
Still perfect.
Still devastating.
The room's gone quiet these days. Not silent—dead.
No music. No company. Just the hum of the AC and the low flicker of the candle I let burn to the bone.
The staff doesn't come near me.
They shouldn't.
Because I am not myself.
I'm something else.
Something unfinished. Incomplete. Dangerous.
Izar comes every day.
Same hour.
Same walk.
Same goddamn answer.
"Nothing yet."
And every time I look at his face, it takes everything in me not to fucking throw the desk across the room.
But it's not his fault.
It's hers.
She did this to me.
Without a word.
Without a touch.
Without meaning to.
And it fucking kills me.
Because I don't even know how to explain this—
This sickness crawling under my ribs.
This need.
Not for her body.
Not for her name.
Just…
Why.
Why did she look at me like that?
Why did she smile like she knew me?
Why did she laugh in the rain like it was a goddamn gift, while I was sitting there—
Falling apart inside a helmet?
Why the fuck did she wink at me?
Why did that break something in me I didn't know existed?
I've never dated.
Never kissed.
Never fucked.
Never needed.
I've had control over myself since I was old enough to stand.
I was raised on rules, on silence, on blood and steel and legacy.
I've watched men ruin themselves over girls and laughed.
I thought I was better. Stronger.
But now?
Now I'm the one rotting from the inside out because of a stranger.
What the fuck is happening to me?
I grab the sketch off the desk again, eyes scanning her face like I haven't done it a thousand times. Like it's going to suddenly talk to me. Tell me her name. Tell me what she wants from me.
Because that's what it fucking feels like.
Like she took something and left with it.
Like she branded me with her smile and vanished.
And now I'm stuck.
Cursed.
Imprisoned in my own mind with a ghost that doesn't even know what she's done.
The door opens behind me. Soft knock.
Izar. Again.
"Sir."
I don't turn.
"I know," I say.
His voice is softer this time. "We've pulled footage from every corner of that block. Checked every café, every alley, every store. Still nothing. We're trying facial composite routes now, widening the range across districts—"
"She doesn't exist," I mutter. "Right?"
Izar hesitates.
"She has to," he says.
"Then why the fuck can't we find her?"
He doesn't answer.
I finally turn to him.
There's no rage in my face anymore.
It's emptier than that.
Worse.
"I don't want her to fall in love with me," I say. "I don't even want to touch her."
Izar's eyes flicker. He doesn't speak. He knows better.
"I just want to ask her," I go on, voice quieter now. Raw.
"Why did she do this to me?"
Izar opens his mouth. Closes it.
I nod once.
"That's all. That's it. That's all I fucking want."
My hands clench against the sketch.
"I was fine before her," I whisper. "I was fucking fine. I knew who I was. I had my goddamn control. But now—every night, every second—she's in my head."
Silence stretches. Long. Heavy.
"She's probably nothing," I say. "
Just some random girl. Stupid. Reckless. I don't even know if she meant it. The wink. The smile. Could've been nothing."
Another pause. My voice lowers even more.
"But it wasn't nothing to me."
Izar shifts. "You still want me to keep searching?"
I glance down at the sketch again.
My breath catches.
Like it always does.
I nod slowly.
"Yeah," I say. "I need to see her again."
"And when you do?"
I look up at him.
"I don't know."
I don't fucking know.
And that's the most terrifying part.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
Three months.
And two fucking weeks.
Ninety-nine goddamn days.
I've counted.
Every hour.
Every minute.
Every breath I never asked to carry this weight with.
There's still no trace of her.
Not a footprint.
Not a flicker.
Not a shadow left behind.
Izar's running out of tech. Out of people. Out of cities to comb through. But he knows better than to say that to me.
He walks into my study every morning, gives me the same empty update, and I don't react anymore.
Not with words.
Not with rage.
Just silence colder than war.
I've stopped asking.
Not because I've given up.
But because giving up is not an option.
Because if I let this go—
If I pretend it didn't happen—
Then I'll go completely fucking feral.
I don't know what I want from her.
An answer, maybe. A goddamn explanation.
A map back to whoever I used to be before she turned me into this unrecognizable version of myself.
But none of that matters right now.
Because today, I'm expected at the family house.
Mother called last night.
Said grandfather and grandmother would be joining us.
Said it's a small lunch before I fly to London again for my next program.
Said they wanted to see me.
And I said I'd come.
Because no matter how far gone I am, I'm not ungrateful.
Not unkind.
And never disrespectful to the ones who built the roof over my head.
So I go.
Suit clean. Collar sharp. Face unreadable.
The black car glides down the old private road, past trees that remember my childhood, past the gates that only open for blood.
When the house comes into view, I exhale slow.
Not peace.
Not dread.
Just the hollow sound of muscle memory.
Grandfather's Rolls royce is parked out front. Of course.
The man never lets a Tavarian gathering happen without arriving first.
The guards bow when I step out of the car.
I nod once. Tight. Polite.
Not Zayan the storm.
Not Zayan the obsessed.
Just Zayan the son.
I walk up the marble steps, and the heavy double doors open before I even lift a hand. Familiar faces greet me from the hallway—old staff, kind eyes—but I barely see them.
Because my mind's not here.
It never really is anymore.
Inside, the scent of something rich and warm wraps around me—Mother's cooking. Real food. The kind no five-star chef can ever replicate. It drags a ghost of a smile to my lips, but it dies before it can reach my eyes.
She finds me in the foyer.
And she smiles the way only a mother can. Like I'm not ruined. Like I'm still hers.
"Zayan," she breathes, arms wrapping around me before I can say a word.
I hug her back. Not forced. Not fake. Just... quieter than I used to be.
"How are you doing, Mom?" I ask, pulling back just enough to see her face.
"I'm good," she says, brushing a hand down my shoulder. Her gaze lingers. Concerned. Soft. "But is everything okay with you?"
"Yeah," I lie.
It sounds like the truth.
I've practiced it enough.
Her eyes search me, but she doesn't push. She never does.
She just touches my cheek once and smiles, like maybe love can fix what logic can't.
She turns, leading me into the living room.
That's where I see him.
Father. Sitting in his chair like a pillar—stoic, unreadable, and still managing to fill the room without saying a word. Next to him, Grandfather. still sharp as glass and twice as dangerous when he speaks.
They both nod as I enter.
I greet them the way I always do. Formal. Measured.
"Father."
"Grandfather."
They return it in kind.
Nothing loud. No theatrics. Just centuries of bloodline discipline wrapped in warmth no outsider ever sees.
Then comes her.
My grandmother, soft haired and still somehow the fiercest of us all. She cups my face in her hands like I'm ten again, and I let her. Because you don't deny a queen her ritual.
"My beautiful boy," she murmurs. "You don't visit enough."
"I know," I say quietly. "I'm sorry."
Her eyes narrow playfully. "And so handsome, still. "
I almost laugh. Almost.
But it never reaches my throat.
Because she's still there.
The girl in the rain.
She's there in the back of my mind, scratching behind my ribs, tugging at a part of me I can't silence.
Even here. Even with them.
Lunch is served in the sunroom.
The staff lays out courses like a fucking Michelin spread—slow-cooked lamb, warm spiced rice, roasted olives, handmade flatbreads, the works. But I barely touch my plate.
Not because I'm trying to be rude.
I just can't taste anything anymore.
And they notice.
"Excited for London?" Grandfather asks between bites, his voice crisp, calm, never wasting a syllable.
I nod once. "It starts in two weeks."
"And your program?" Father asks, tone even.
"strategic finance" I say, taking a sip of water instead of answering the real question.
They want to know if I'm looking forward to it.
But I don't give them that.
Because I'm not.
Because how the fuck can I care about spreadsheets and sovereignty when I'm being haunted by a goddamn stranger?
Grandfather eyes me over his glass. "Your mind is elsewhere."
"Sorry," I murmur, straightening. "Long week."
That's all I say.
That's all I'll ever say.
Because what the fuck am I supposed to tell them?
That I saw a girl in the street and now I don't sleep?
That I've built an empire of silence, and she broke it in two seconds flat with a smile?
No.
They don't need to know that.
No one does.
The meal winds down. The plates clear.
Conversation flows. Stories told. Jokes made.
I say little. Listen more.
Smile when I have to.
And when it's done, I rise first.
Mother catches my hand as I pass. "You're leaving already?"
"I've got work to finish before the flight," I say.
Another lie.
One of a thousand lately.
She nods, but her eyes hold me for a beat too long.
Then she lets go.
I hug her again.
Respectfully nod to my father.
Kiss my grandmother's hand.
Offer my grandfather a parting word.
Then I walk back out into the sun.
The guards straighten as I approach.
Doors open. Engine hums.
I get in, shut the door, and the moment it clicks—
The breath I've been holding finally drops from my lungs.
Not peace.
Just pressure.
Fucking everywhere.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
Izar.
I answer. One word. "Talk."
"We're extending to out-of-city regions," he says. "Got a few matches to the sketch, but nothing concrete. Still running analysis."
"Keep going," I say flatly. "I don't care if it bankrupts us."
"Understood."
I hang up.
Lean back.
Stare out the tinted glass as the estate shrinks behind me.
And once again—
Once fucking again—
I'm left with nothing but her face in my mind.
Smiling like she didn't just destroy the only version of me I ever knew.
_________________
The rain hasn't stopped since morning.
It's the angry kind.
The relentless kind.
That kind that makes the air smell like heartbreak and rusted metal.
I'm in the backseat.
Window fogged.
Heartbeat loud.
Head tilted, jaw clenched, tie loosened, eyes glued to nothing.
Izar's driving. The bastard hasn't said a word since we left the city. Doesn't have to.
He knows I'm somewhere else.
Somewhere I haven't left in ninety-nine fucking days.
London is in six.
And I haven't seen her again.
Not since that day.
Not since she slipped and laughed and destroyed me.
The car hums. The road stretches endlessly ahead. The highway is a blur of trees, light, storm, and silence.
I lean my head against the glass. It's cold. Everything is cold.
And I think—
Just once.
Just one more time.
Before I leave.
Before the world spins again and I'm stuck pretending I'm someone with purpose.
Just let me see her again.
That's all.
A glimpse.
A breath.
The proof that I didn't imagine her.
I close my eyes.
And then something inside me pulls.
Yanks.
Hard.
Sharp.
Violent.
My eyes snap open.
Through the foggy glass, the blurred movement of a figure walking along the pavement slices into my vision like a blade.
My pulse stutters.
My chest locks.
No.
No, no, no.
It can't be.
But it is.
It fucking is.
There.
Right there.
On the goddamn sidewalk.
White blouse, soaked.
Navy skirt, clinging to her thighs.
That blazer.
Those long, socked legs moving like they've got nowhere to be.
And her face—
Her face—
Isn't the same.
No smile.
No sparkle.
No chaos.
Just silence carved into soft features. Rain on lashes. Shadows under eyes.
But it's her.
It's fucking her.
My heart stops, and then—
Slams.
"STOP THE CAR."
My voice doesn't ask. It doesn't shake.
It demands.
Izar jerks in his seat. "Sir—"
"STOP THE FUCKING CAR."
The brakes scream.
I don't wait for it to stop completely. I'm out before the tires kiss the curb.
Into the rain. Into the flood.
Soaked in two steps.
Shirt plastered to skin.
Shoes sinking into the road.
But I don't feel it.
I don't fucking feel anything—
Except the pull.
Except the fire.
I run.
Across the slick street. Past the noise, the horns, the shouting stormclouds above.
And then—
I'm there.
Close.
So close.
Walking behind her.
Breath caught in my throat.
My eyes never leaving her.
She doesn't hear me. Doesn't turn.
Just walks.
Slow.
Alone.
Like the world doesn't exist.
Like she's somewhere else, too.
I don't call her name.
I don't even know it.
I just walk behind her.
One step. Then two.
Like a shadow that finally found its sun.
She turns down a quiet road.
Green. Old. Ghostlike.
A soft gate creaks open.
She walks in.
Steps up to a little house.
Not big. Not small. Just hers.
She pulls a key from her soaked blazer.
Opens the door.
Goes inside.
And I just stand there.
Soaked.
Silent.
Eyes wide open.
Mouth half-parted.
Dripping with the kind of storm you don't recover from.
Then—
A creak.
Up above.
Second floor.
A window cracks open.
Her window.
The light flicks on.
Soft. White. Home.
She walks into the frame.
Takes off the blazer.
Brushes her wet hair back.
Moves around like I'm not down here—
Like she didn't just save me.
A smile blooms on my face.
Slow.
Uncontrolled.
Ugly.
Beautiful.
The kind that hasn't touched my mouth in months.
Because I found her.
I found My Ruin.
Again.
On the hundredth day.
The fucking universe blinked.
And gave her back.
I turn.
Walk away.
Not because I'm done.
But because now—
Now—I'll never let her go.
---
AUTHOR NOTE 🥸
The fucker is possessed by her.
Hahahaha
I'm not even joking—Zayan Tavarian got struck by a silent storm in heels and now he's walking around sketching her like a man who lost his meds and found art therapy instead.
This chapter? This was the start of his downfall.
He didn't fall in love. Oh no.
He crashed into it—bleeding, cursing, and clinging to a girl who didn't even look at him twice.
And I loved writing his pathetic little spiral.
He thinks he's the danger.
But baby, she walked in and rewired him without a single word.
She blinked and this Tavarian heir started seeing God. 😭💀
NOW.
Don't be silent, okay? I don't want ghost readers.
Even if you hated it, say it.
Even if you wanted to punch Zayan in the face or bite his lip—tell me. I can't get better or get bolder if y'all sit in the shadows like you're auditioning to be his trauma.
Drop your thoughts below—scream, cry, simp, roast, overanalyze, or unhinge like me.
I'll read every comment like it's a holy scripture from Mount Tavarian.
Now tell me…
Was he ruined?
Or was this just foreplay?