ZAYAN'S POV
Ghosting her isn't just hard—it's brutal.
It's the last fucking game, and she has no idea she's playing it.
I'm still there, always there—like oxygen she doesn't notice she's breathing—but I make it look like the stalker vanished into thin air. No balcony visits. No neck-breathing. No proof I exist.
And it's driving her insane.
She finds my burner Instagram.
Smart little devil.
The one I used to upload "coincidental" stories—café tables, city lights, alleys she passed through ten minutes earlier. Crumbs, just enough to keep her guessing.
Now, she's messaging me.
"Why don't you come tonight?"
"I'm waiting for you."
"Let's draw some fucking goddamn portraits together."
I sit there with my phone in hand, knuckles tightening until the screen creaks.
Kitten…
I tip my head back against the leather chair, a low, dark laugh ripping out of me.
You wanna draw? Yeah, we will. But not now. Not with pencils. Not in your room. We'll draw later—on skin, with paint, sweat, and teeth. You'll be under me, clawing, begging, losing your mind. We'll draw in ways you won't forget until your last fucking breath.
But not tonight.
Because I know her.
The moment she thinks she's safe, thinks I'm gone? That's when she'll want me most.
---
Her 21st birthday.
I make my move.
It's a weekday afternoon, rush hour. Pedestrian chaos at the crosswalk—suits brushing past teens, everyone glued to screens like nothing else exists.
She's there, crossing with the herd. Sunlight hits her face, and for a moment, I swear the world stops spinning.
I step out, sliding between bodies, faceless in the crowd.
She doesn't see me.
Doesn't know that I'm close enough to breathe her in.
Then—
A bouquet of white roses flies from my hand and lands in her arms.
Not hard. Not rough. Just… sudden enough to rattle her. She fumbles, almost drops them, fingers scrambling before finally gripping the stems.
She freezes.
Everyone else keeps walking, horns blaring, someone yelling about coffee orders.
But her?
She just stands there in the middle of the chaos, eyes wide, bouquet clutched like someone threw her a live grenade.
She doesn't know it's me.
Doesn't see the man standing a few feet away, fading back into the moving crowd.
And when I see her lift the roses to her face, breathing in like she's inhaling a secret only we share—
I almost break the fucking rule and go to her.
Almost.
---
A year passes like that.
No balcony. No whispers. No sign of her stalker.
But on graduation day, I can't resist.
She's standing on stage, tassel swinging, lips curved into that god-killing smile. Top of her department. Queen of Literature.
She doesn't see me watching from the shadows.
Doesn't know the flowers filling the ground came from me.
Hell, Shadin shows up with shitty bouquets, and she actually thanks him—thinks all of them are from that smooth-talking bastard.
I should be furious.
I should tear his smug ass apart.
But I just stand there in the crowd, jaw tight, letting it burn.
Because she's happy.
And I'd set fire to my entire kingdom just to see that look on her face again.
---
Her friends are all moving forward—Ifrah at TIG, Shaiza in another company, Ruby starting her dream café.
But Arshila?
She does… nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
Graduated. Topped her class. And yet she's stuck.
She stays home, quiet, a little dimmer than before.
And I don't know why.
I lean against my car one night, staring up at her window, chain cold against my collarbone, and my chest aches with something ugly.
Because this isn't about the stalker.
This isn't about the game.
Something's eating her alive, and I can't fix it without breaking my own rules.
And god knows, I've been breaking her for years.
One more move, baby… one more.
Because when I finally take you, it won't be as a ghost.
It'll be as the man you can't escape from.
________
Paperwork. Numbers. Contracts worth more than small countries.
None of it matters.
Not when Izar walks into my office without knocking, face like someone just dragged him out of hell.
I don't even look up. "What?"
There's silence. Heavy. Unnatural.
Then, he says it.
"Her engagement's fixed."
My pen stops mid-signature. My pulse spikes, ears ringing. Slowly, I lift my head.
"…What the fuck did you just say?"
Izar stands there, hands in his pockets like he's holding himself together. "Her engagement. It's fixed. Family arrangement. End of next week."
I'm on my feet before he finishes, chair screeching back so hard it slams into the wall. "She's twenty-one. Just out of university. Engagement?" My voice drops, sharp and lethal. "Who the fuck allowed that?"
He doesn't flinch, just walks forward and slides a thin file onto my desk. "This is the guy."
I snatch it, fingers tight on the edge as I rip it open.
First page—photo.
Handsome. At least, that's what people would call him.
My lip curls.
"This?" I hold the file up like it's trash. "This is supposed to be handsome? Bullshit."
Next line—name.
"Aydin," I read, voice dripping venom. "Aydin?" I throw the folder down, laugh sharp and humorless. "That fucking name doesn't even sound right for her."
Then my eyes land on the last detail.
Position: TIG.
Department: Finance.
The laugh dies.
I go still, every muscle locked, before a slow grin spreads across my face.
"This fucker…" I drag my tongue across my teeth, pulse thrumming. "…works at TIG? Under me?"
Izar nods once.
I lean back against my desk, chains biting into my collarbone, a dark laugh breaking out of my chest.
"Interesting," I murmur. "Very… interesting."
So this pretty finance boy thinks he's gonna slip a ring on my girl's finger?
While working in a company I own?
Cute.
Fucking adorable.
Should I fire him? Ruin his career before he even figures out what hit him?
No.
That's not how this is gonna work.
I'm not just gonna take his job.
I'm gonna take everything.
I'm gonna let him walk into that engagement thinking he won. Let him touch what's mine. Let him dream.
And then I'll rip it out of his hands so hard he'll remember the taste of failure every time he hears her name.
I close the file slowly, tapping it against the desk, voice low and final:
"I'll break that engagement."
My grin sharpens, dark, certain.
"And when I'm done, that finance fucker's gonna watch me put my ring on her finger."
----------------
Last night… I saw her cry.
From her balcony. Shoulders curled in, face buried in her palms, silent and shaking like the world just dropped dead at her feet.
I know why. I know about the engagement.
And I swear on every breath I'll ever take—I'll let the sky fucking collapse before I let anyone put a ring on her finger that isn't mine.
---
Today's Ruby's café opening. She'll be there.
I'm in the garage, standing between my car and the bike. My hand goes for the car key, but then my eyes catch the machine parked at the far end.
BMW M 1000 RR. Black. Sleek. Hungry.
And just like that—I remember that day.
°°°°°°°°°°°°
Traffic jam. Horns screaming. Chaos everywhere.
Low. Deep. Sharp enough to slice through all of it.
A rev. Intentional
Not some whiny scooter. Not a clunky cab.
This was mine.
I sat there, hand resting on the throttle, leather jacket stretched tight across my shoulders. Helmet still on. The world was noise. Forgettable.
Until instinct told me to move.
I reached up, peeled the helmet off.
Dark hair spilling out, messy from the heat. I ran my hand through it, pushing it back, and that's when it happened—
I felt her eyes before I saw her.
And when I did see her—
Fuck.
Everything inside me died.
She was standing at the bus stop looking at me like she wanted to burn me alive and keep me all to herself at the same time.
Her gaze slammed into me like a bullet. My chest locked, breath stuck in my throat, heartbeat gone.
It wasn't just looking.
It was consuming.
Like for that single second, she owned me.
And she didn't even know it.
---
Now, gripping the bike handles, that same tightness coils in my chest. That same wrecked feeling crawls up my throat like claws.
I gun the throttle. The city blurs. The engine's growl vibrates through my bones as rain starts, soft, misty, clinging to my leather jacket.
I'm almost there.
Almost at her.
And then—
I see her.
Crossing the road.
Head down. Not looking.
My pulse spikes.
"Fuck!"
I slam the brakes, tires screaming against the wet asphalt. The bike fishtails hard, metal grinding against pavement. My grip is iron on the handles, but it's raining, the road's slick, and physics is a bastard I can't fight.
I don't have time.
I don't have a chance.
Impact.
Her body twists as I hit her, My bike slams sideways, metal screeching, sparks spitting across black asphalt as we both go down.
Pain explodes through my side. My head cracks against the ground, vision slicing in and out like a broken film reel.
Through the chaos, through the agony, I see her face—
Bloody.
And it's like every cell in my body screams GET UP, PROTECT HER
Then—
Nothing.
Just darkness swallowing me whole.
---
---
Pain.
Not a dull ache. Not something you grit your teeth through.
This is massive. Crippling. Like my bones are splintered glass cutting through muscle, like someone's peeled my skin raw and set my veins on fire.
My eyelids twitch but won't open. My body feels like it's been buried under concrete. Dead weight.
And through that storm of agony, one thought detonates—
Is she safe?
Then I hear it.
A voice. Fragile. Shaking. Breaking through the chaos like a lifeline pulling me from a black sea.
"Please… wake up. Don't die."
Her.
It's her.
I swear, my soul sighs. Every muscle screams but something deep in me lets go, like oxygen finally fills my lungs again. Because if she's here—if she's begging me to live—
She's alive.
And that's all that fucking matters.
---
Flashes hit me hard and fast.
The rain.
The road.
Her small frame in front of my bike.
The sound of metal and bone colliding.
Her blood.
I want to tear my own flesh off. If I'd reacted faster…
But I didn't. Fate slammed its fist down on us like a goddamn bully.
---
I try to move. Fingers. Toes. Anything. Nothing works.
The doctor's voice cuts through from somewhere distant.
"One month… coma… survived impact… near miracle…"
A month. Gone.
But the only thing echoing in my head is she's alive.
---
The door clicks. Steps.
Izar.
When he comes into view, his face is carved with worry so raw it almost makes me laugh if my lungs weren't wrecked. My right-hand man, Tavarian-trained to face wars without flinching, now looks like a ghost.
"zayan…" he mutters, voice low, careful, like even sound could shatter me.
I want to snarl at him to spit it out. But my throat's fucked.
He steps forward, hesitates, then reaches for the curtain separating me from the right side of the ICU. Slowly, like it's made of glass, he pulls it back.
And there she is.
Everything inside me stops.
Machines surround her. Tubes snake from her arms. The faint, steady beep of a monitor is the only proof that she's still tethered to this world.
My chest twists viciously.
If I could move, I'd rip out every wire in my body, crawl across this sterile hell, and rip the pain away from her.
But I can't.
So I lie there, eyes shut, burning alive in my own helplessness.
---
A nurse comes in, draws her curtain wider.
And then—
Soft. Shaky. Wrecked.
"I'm sorry… I'm so sorry…"
The sound cuts into me sharper than the crash did.
She thinks she caused this.
She thinks she's the monster.
My jaw clenches. My pulse spikes. I can't take another second of hearing her crucify herself for something that's on me.
So my eyes snap open.
Like a whip cracking in the silence.
And I lock on her.
Her crying halts mid-breath.
Her chest stutters like I just punched the air from her lungs.
For a long, brutal heartbeat, it's just us—our eyes locked, her tears glinting, my rage at fate bleeding out through my stare.
Then I turn my head away.
Because looking at her like this… knowing I'm the reason she's shattered—
It's worse than any hell I've survived.
---
Days pass. They move us into one room. Tavarian Medica makes it look like a luxury suite—gold accents, silk sheets, city lights bleeding through tinted glass.
Doesn't change a thing.
Curtains still hang between our beds. My order.
Because if I look at her, I won't be able to stop myself from breaking.
She apologizes constantly. Morning, night, whispering it like a prayer.
It's madness. Pure madness.
Because I'd burn the world to make sure she lived—
Even if it meant crawling through hell to do it again.
---
I should be grateful.
She's alive. Breathing. Machines humming where silence could've been.
But every time I remember that moment—her stepping into the road without looking, my bike skidding, metal screaming—it's like my ribs crush inwards. I'm fucking furious. At her. At myself. At fate for throwing us headfirst into hell.
And the way she apologizes?
It's turning me into a monster.
Every soft, broken "I'm sorry" slices deeper than the crash did. She says it like she's the reason we're lying here, like she didn't almost die.
---
Her friends visit one afternoon. I only know because they're loud. Loud enough to shake the walls. Loud enough to remind me that this world still spins outside these curtains.
It's ugly sobs and chaotic chatter, and my body aches with every sound. Finally, I can't take it.
I rasp out, voice rough, barely there:
"Your friends… are fucking loud."
There's a beat of silence, like she's processing the voice of the guy sharing her room.
That's the thing.
We're together.
Same room. Same air. Same ceiling.
And she doesn't know who I am.
That's the only thing keeping me sane.
Because if she knew—if she even guessed—I wouldn't get this. These stolen seconds of her voice. Her presence this close.
---
She opens the curtain sometimes. Just a little.
Every time, I shut it.
I can't look at her.
Not because she's broken or hurt—but because if I do, she'll see it.
She'll see the concern burning in my eyes, the love I've buried for years, clawing to the surface every time her breath hitches.
And I can't let her see that.
Not yet.
---
One night, her voice breaks through the silence, fragile but curious:
"What's your name?"
My heart stops.
Everything inside me freezes like someone just pulled a trigger.
I want to tell her everything. My full name. My entire existence. I want her to know.
But if she knows I'm a Tavarian, it's over. She'll pull away. Hate me even more than she already does.
So I swallow hard and let out the smallest piece of me.
"Zayan," I say, voice flat, hiding the quake in my chest.
Just Zayan.
Not Adam.
Not Tavarian.
Just… Zayan.
She doesn't push. Doesn't ask for more.
And for the first time since the accident, my lungs stop burning.
---
I play it cold. Always. Rude when I have to be. Detached when she tries to thank me for something I didn't even do.
Because if I slip—if I let even a flicker of what I feel bleed through—
She'll know.
---
Izar comes only at night, when she's sleeping. Checks on me, gives updates, leaves without a sound.
And I've forbidden my family from stepping foot in this place.
If they do, she'll see it. She'll know exactly who I am.
And I'm not ready to lose her voice yet.
Not when it's the only thing keeping me alive.
---
It's a Tuesday when that bastard shows up.
I know before I even see him because her voice changes—shaky, brittle, trying to sound stronger than it is.
Then I hear him.
Aydin.
Fucking Aydin.
He's standing by her bed, spewing garbage about how she's responsible for the accident. How she's the reason their "perfect engagement" blew up.
Like she wasn't the one who almost died.
Like I didn't end up in a month-long coma because of it.
He even has the audacity to puff his chest and brag about his job at TIG.
Finance. Corporate drone. A middle-tier nobody.
I swear, even with tubes in my arms and my body stitched together, I want to rip this IV out and show him what happens when someone talks to my girl like that.
But I don't move.
I listen.
I watch through the small gap in the curtain, memorizing his fucking face.
And when Izar comes that night, I don't waste time.
"Fire that fucker," I rasp, voice like sandpaper.
Izar doesn't ask why. He just nods.
By morning, Aydin is jobless.
And I feel… lighter.
---
Days pass. Nights blur.
And somehow, she ends up talking to me more.
Not knowing who I am.
Just thinking I'm some random guy recovering beside her.
And holy hell—it's like getting air after drowning for years.
She's sarcastic, sharp-tongued, fearless.
She badmouths me—me, Tavarian heir—straight to my face.
She rants about how the Tavarians are overrated, filthy rich assholes who think they own the country.
She even says Tavarian Medica is running illegal organ trading.
Bullshit. Complete, fabricated bullshit.
But the way she delivers it—confident, proud, like she's on a damn TED Talk—
I almost choke on my laugh.
I play along, pretend to believe her, and she beams like she's won some invisible debate.
---
What gets me the most?
She doesn't recognize my friends.
Not Rafaen, the actual prince.
Not Eshan.
Not Razmir.
Three of the most recognizable faces in the country, and she looks at them like they're strangers.
And me?
She's this close to me. Talking to me every day.
And still doesn't know.
It's fucking fascinating.
And for the first time in a long time, I think… maybe fate isn't just bullying us.
Maybe it's giving me time.
Time to make her mine.
When she said she's been in love with someone for over a year… someone she only met once…
It was like my chest cracked open and something hot and ugly poured out.
Hurt.
Anger.
Jealousy so sharp it burned.
Because whoever that motherfucker is—whoever had that one moment with her—he got something I didn't. Something that should've been mine from the start.
But here's the thing…
Even if she thinks she loves him… even if she says his name with that soft voice that makes my blood boil…
She's mine.
Period.
---
Then she finds out who I am. Who my friends are.
Not from me.
From her own friends, whispering like they've just uncovered a secret buried under a goddamn mountain.
And she freezes.
Stops talking to me. Stops looking at me.
Like sharing a room with a Tavarian is something to fear.
Which, yeah… for anyone else, it would be.
But this isn't anyone else. This is her.
And the way it makes me feel—like the ground's been ripped out from under me—is something I can't fucking stand.
So I do what I always do when silence cuts me open.
I command.
"Talk to me."
Nothing.
"i said," I growl, voice low, dangerous enough to shake the sterile air between us. "… talk to me."
She does. Eventually.
But it's less. Always less.
And that tiny scrap of her voice is the only thing keeping me from losing my goddamn mind.
---
[END OF FLASHBACK]
---
Now…
Thunder cracks, rattling the glass walls of the hospital room. Lightning throws the storm into stark flashes of white and black. Rain streaks down like the sky's bleeding out.
She's lying on the other bed, tubes running to her arm, her frail body half-turned toward the window.
Just… staring at the storm.
Not moving.
Not blinking.
Like she's letting the chaos outside do what words between us can't.
And I'm on my bed, wrecked, useless, staring at her instead of the storm.
Because she is the storm.
The chaos. The fury. The wild, unstoppable force that could tear me apart and I'd thank her for it.
And me?
I'm the thunder.
Loud. Relentless. Meant to follow her wherever she goes.
Even broken.
Even silent.
She doesn't know I'm watching her now, my eyes burning into the side of her face, every flicker of lightning making her look like something not meant for this world.
She doesn't know she's the only thing that makes this pain worth it.
Because she's mine.
Even if she doesn't know it yet.
---