The screen flashes red with a breaking-news banner, the anchor's polished voice cutting through the quiet of the hospital room:
> "Star Group's CEO, Alexander Reed, has officially been declared missing. It has now been over three months since his sudden disappearance. No confirmed sightings, no communication, no leads. Family members remain deeply concerned, and authorities are unable to determine whether this is voluntary or a corporate abduction. Star Entertainment continues to operate under interim leadership while questions remain unanswered."
The words hang in the room, mixing with the steady beep of the monitors, the soft hum of rain still hitting the massive glass window. I'm halfway through chewing a bite of toast when my brain finally catches up.
Three months. Gone. No trace.
Missing?
I blink at the screen, fork frozen in midair.
Where the hell is he?
My mouth moves before I can stop it. "Isn't he the CEO of Star Entertainment?"
Zayan doesn't even look at me at first. Just a lazy blink, eyes still on the TV. Then, flatly, "Yeah."
I frown. "Isn't he… like, a nice man? Did you ever see him? Or know him personally?" I catch myself babbling and tack on, "I mean… yeah, obviously he's not on your level, but still. You might've run into him, right?"
Finally, Zayan's gaze shifts, just a fraction, like he's indulging me. "I've seen him once. Gala or something. But… no, I don't know him personally." His voice is so nonchalant it grates, smooth and dismissive, like a lion barely twitching its tail.
He keeps staring at the TV.
I let out a dry little laugh, trying to cover my awkwardness. "Of course. Why would you be friends with an entertainment CEO?"
He says nothing. Not a damn word. Just sits there, profile sharp as a blade, eyes locked on the glowing screen like it's hiding something only he can read.
I don't know why it irritates me. Maybe because silence with him isn't just silence. It's heavy. It presses down, demands you notice it.
I sigh and look back at the screen. "Forget it," I mumble, pushing another bite of food into my mouth.
A beat passes before his voice cuts in—low, curious, but still edged like broken glass:
"Why do you think he's nice?"
The question catches me off guard. I swallow too quickly, nearly choke, then glance at him. He's not looking at me. Still at the TV. But his voice… his voice is different. Almost like he's testing me.
I shift in bed, shrugging. "I don't know anything personal about him. I only know what the media says, okay? He does charity stuff, and from what I've read, his artists aren't treated like slaves like in other entertainment companies. Seems like… a decent guy."
My voice trails off, and for some reason, saying it out loud feels strange—like I just poked something dangerous without meaning to.
Zayan finally moves—slow blink, jaw flexing, a single muscle twitching in his neck. Then he hums, almost too quiet to catch.
And just like that, silence drops again, thick and suffocating.
What is his deal?
Why does it feel like every word with him is a minefield I don't see until it explodes?
And why, God help me, does that make me want to keep talking to him even more?
It's night again.
Rain still taps the glass like it's got nothing better to do, and here I am, wide awake, staring across the room at the man who could very well end my life.
Adam. Fucking. Zayan. Tavarian.
The country's most powerful heir. The man everyone fears. The guy who could snap his fingers and make me disappear like I never existed.
And there he is… lying in that bed like a fucking fallen angel—dark hair a little messy against the pillow, lashes brushing his cheekbones, chest rising slow and steady. If I didn't know better, I'd think he was harmless.
But I do know better.
And yet…
Damn… so I'm actually going to die in the arms of someone hotter than hell itself.
Maybe that's not even the worst way to go.
In fact… might just be the best thing that's ever happened to me.
I sink deeper into the sheets, remembering what the doctor told me earlier—that therapy sessions start tomorrow. Physio. Pain. Screaming muscles. Basically, hell. And I can already hear myself cursing at the poor therapist.
Life really is fucking unpredictable, isn't it?
I mean… this.
This luxurious Tavarian hospital room, high above the city. Silk sheets, gold-trimmed walls, the smell of money and power in the air… and me. Me. Stuck here with the actual billionaire heir of the Tavarian empire.
The same heir who'll probably kill me once we're discharged—because I know too much.
Oh, and my friends? Yeah, they know too. So that means what—mass murder? All of us gone?
God.
Why the hell am I lying here thinking about dying when I could think about… literally anything else?
Like… butterflies. Puppies. Rainbows.
But no. My brain says, "Hey, let's focus on how he's going to murder you."
And worse—worse—instead of fear, I keep circling back to… why the fuck is that motherfucker this pretty?
Like… seriously.
God clearly has favorites, and He didn't even try to hide it with this one. The bone structure, the lips, the body that even a hospital gown can't hide… it's not fair.
I bite my lip, eyes shamelessly dragging down his arm to where the blanket dips over his stomach.
And whoever's out there, currently bouncing on that body?
Congratulations.
No, really. From the bottom of my filthy, corrupted little soul—
congra-fucking-lations.
Because if God handed me that kind of beauty and power in my bed, I'd be singing hymns.
The thought makes my cheeks burn, makes my thighs press together under the blanket.
"Oh my God," I whisper to myself, squeezing my eyes shut.
I need an exorcism.
Like, a full holy water baptism.
Because this isn't normal.
This is a whole new level of fucked up.
I mean—it's correct, right?
Someone has definitely bounced on that fucking body.
Even though I haven't seen a single inch of his bare skin, I just know. My instincts scream it. He's built different. God-tier. The kind of body that'd make you forget your own name the second he even leans over you.
Throat-drying. Leg-shaking. Soul-snatching.
God…
Why the hell am I like this? Why is my brain this filthy and fucked?
I've never even dated anyone. Not one single, normal, vanilla date.
Yet somehow, I know every filthy thought possible—graphic, unholy, straight-up sinful.
How is that even fucking possible?
My eyes won't stop betraying me.
They keep sliding over to him—Zayan, Tavarian heir, my death sentence—lying there like some cruel artwork.
Broad shoulders under hospital sheets. That chain resting against his collarbone like it's mocking me. Jawline sharp enough to cut glass. His hands—those veined hands—resting on his stomach like they've got no idea they could ruin lives.
My thighs clench tighter under the blanket.
And right as my brain's constructing a whole mental reel of pure filth—
His eyes snap open.
Dark. Sharp. Predatory.
Straight. At. Me.
My heart drops to my stomach, and the monitor beside me starts beeping faster—not loud, just enough to announce that I'm a panicking idiot caught red-handed.
"What are you planning?" His voice is low, rough from sleep, but still carries that dangerous calm that makes my pulse stutter even more.
My brain, being the traitor it is, instantly supplies: My bed theory with you, fucker.
But my mouth?
Clamped shut.
I swallow hard, my throat suddenly desert-dry, and force something normal out.
"N-Nothing," I lie, my voice a whisper. "Just thinking… if this accident never happened… where would you be right now?"
He blinks slowly, turning his head on the pillow, and I swear it feels like gravity itself shifts in the room.
"I don't know," he says, voice still heavy from sleep but steady. "Maybe… home. Playing games."
I frown. That… does not sound like a Tavarian heir thing.
"You… play games?" I ask, cautious, like I'm stepping into forbidden territory. "You don't have, I don't know… responsibilities? Being the heir and all?"
Something flickers across his face—like a shadow, quick and sharp—but his tone stays calm, confident.
"I can do anything I want," he says finally. "That's what it means to be Tavarian."
He lets it hang in the air, slow and deliberate, eyes holding mine until my stomach flips.
"I don't answer to anyone," he adds, voice dropping a notch lower. "Not my family. Not the board. Not the world. If I want to sit in my mansion all day, disappear for months, play games, burn down companies, or build empires overnight… I can."
His gaze sharpens, locking me in place like a hunter pinning prey.
"No one," he says, softer now but far deadlier, "gets to tell me how to live."
My breath catches because, fuck…
That wasn't just an answer.
That was a warning.
I let out this weird, awkward laugh that sounds like it escaped from someone else's throat.
"Oh… okay," I manage, voice all thin and wobbly, like a damn twig ready to snap.
And then—before he can see my face doing things it shouldn't—I whip my head to the other side, staring hard at the pristine white hospital wall like it's suddenly the most fascinating thing on the planet.
Inside though?
I'm screaming.
Like, full-on silent meltdown, the kind where your soul is just running laps, tripping over itself, sobbing into the carpet while your body's trying to play it cool.
Because holy fucking hell.
That answer.
That voice.
That look in his eyes when he said no one gets to tell me how to live.
God bless me. Seriously. Bless my weak, filthy, traitorous heart because it's not surviving this man.
Why the fuck does he have to be like this?
Hot and scary in the same breath.
A Tavarian heir with the kind of dominance that could flatten entire nations with a look—yet somehow, my brain's like: yes, destroy me, daddy.
And then the real insanity hits me.
I actually start praying—like, legit bargaining with God in my head.
Dear God… if You're listening—and I know You are, because You're probably laughing at me right now—could You do me a small, tiny favor?
Just… make a second copy of that man. Like a carbon fucking clone. Hand the copy over to the Tavarians so they're happy, and then—give me the original. The real one. The one who says dangerous shit like "no one tells me how to live" while looking like a fucking sin in human form. That way, everyone wins. I get to climb him like a tree without the whole 'terrifying billionaire heir' problem attached.
Because, God help me, I want him.
I want him in ways that aren't even legal in some countries.
But I don't want him as the Tavarian heir.
I want the man underneath all that power and danger—the one who casually talks about burning companies down like it's flipping a light switch.
The man who looks like he was hand-crafted by angels and then thrown into hell just to make him more perfect.
I press my lips together, trying not to make any noise, my chest tight and my brain fried.
And all I can think is:
Arshila, girl… you're so fucked. Absolutely, irreparably fucked.
---
The morning starts with a wheelchair and dread. Not the usual kind of dread—no, this one feels personal. Like the universe woke up and said let's ruin Arshila today.
They roll me into a different room—bright, glass walls, clean enough to eat off the floor but too… perfect. There's this faint scent of antiseptic and something expensive, like even the air had to sign a contract to be here.
Two doctors are waiting.
One's a woman with a black blazer over her scrubs, hair in a knot so tight it's probably holding up her IQ. The other's a guy in a white coat, sleeves rolled up, tablet in hand, the kind of man who probably runs marathons before breakfast.
"Miss Mirza," the woman greets, clinical but not cold. "Today we start your rehabilitation sessions. Phase one—muscle response and joint mobility."
Phase one? How many fucking phases are there?
They hoist me from the wheelchair to a therapy table that's padded like it costs more than my entire college tuition. My body screams at every shift. I'm sweating and we haven't even started.
The guy glances at my chart. "Vitals are steady. Pain management should hold during session, but we'll monitor continuously."
"Oh great," I mutter. "So, you'll watch me die in high definition."
Neither of them laughs.
The woman crouches near my leg. "We'll begin with passive range-of-motion exercises. I'll move your joints—you won't have to do anything yet. Your job is to breathe through the pain and tell me if it spikes past what you can tolerate."
Spikes? Lady, I live spiked.
She starts with my ankle, rotating it slowly.
And holy shit.
It's like someone's grinding glass under my skin. My throat locks up, but the male doctor's already reading my vitals. "Heart rate climbing—135. She's holding tension."
"Breathe," the woman says sharply. "In through the nose, out the mouth. Now."
I try. It's like inhaling fire.
They move up to my knee, bending it carefully. My body jerks involuntarily.
"Neuromuscular response is good," the guy says, noting it down. "Atrophy moderate. Range at forty percent."
"Ten out of ten pain," I grit out.
"Noted," she replies, not stopping.
Minutes blur into hours of torture. Shoulder rotations that feel like my arm's being twisted off, stretches that pull muscles I forgot existed. Every time they adjust a joint, my brain lights up with white-hot agony.
"Miss Mirza," the woman says finally, "you're stronger than you think. This is just day one. You'll hate me, but you'll walk again."
Yeah, walk again—straight into an early fucking grave.
By the time they're done, I'm drenched, shaking, my body completely useless. They transfer me back into the wheelchair like a broken doll.
As they wheel me down the pristine hallway, every jolt feels like knives. My arms hang limp, my legs dead weight.
The door to my suite opens. Soft light, the quiet hum of machines… and him.
Zayan.
Flat on his bed, motionless except for the steady rise of his chest. Too perfect. Too calm. Like he didn't just ruin my life and save it in the same breath.
And all I can think is—
Great. Now I have to survive therapy and the Tavarian heir breathing five feet away. God really has it out for me.
---
Nights hit different now.
Therapy has been tearing me apart every morning, every damn muscle screaming like it's trying to crawl out of my skin. But today… it's not as bad. Just a little better. I can sit up without help now, and it feels like a goddamn superpower. Like I just won the Olympics of pain tolerance.
And yet… when I roll back into this room after each session, dead-tired and ready to pass out, he doesn't say a single word. Zayan Tavarian—this walking paradox of beauty and menace—just stays silent. Not a glance, not a smirk, not a jab at my existence.
Part of me hates it. Another part is grateful. I'm too drained to deal with his dangerous, soul-punching stares.
---
Now, hours later, the city lights slash through the glass wall, cutting shadows across his face.
Zayan is finally asleep.
And damn, does he look… unfair. Like God hand-crafted sin and decided to drop it right here in the bed next to mine just to test my willpower. His lashes cast long shadows, jaw sharp enough to split atoms, lips that look like they were designed specifically to ruin women's sanity.
If I had a soul left to sell, I'd give it up just to know what it feels like to touch that face once.
But tonight isn't about him. Tonight is about me not smelling like a dying hospital rat anymore.
I've been waiting. Hours. Making sure he's fully under, because the last thing I need is those lethal eyes catching me half-naked. Nurses offered to help, but hell no. They've seen me naked before, sure—but that was when I was unconscious. Awake me? No fucking way.
I grit my teeth, pushing myself upright. Pain shoots down my ribs, white-hot, but I keep going. My breath hitches, sweat beads on my forehead, but finally… I'm sitting. Alone. On my own.
And it feels fucking incredible.
He doesn't move. Doesn't even twitch. His chest rises in slow, steady waves. The man sleeps like even the devil knows better than to disturb him.
Good.
Because if he opens his eyes now… Jesus. Just thinking about him seeing me without this shirt is enough to set my brain on fire.
I reach for the fresh shirt waiting at my side. My fingers hover over the buttons of the one I'm wearing.
My heart pounds.
Not because I'm scared—okay, maybe a little—but because… fuck. There's something hot about this. Sitting here in the dark, the city's glow spilling over both of us, him sleeping five feet away while I… undress.
I take one slow, shaky breath.
Then another.
And finally… I start to undo the first button.
---
ZAYAN'S POV
I don't talk to her all day. Not because I don't want to—God knows I'm dying to—but because she's wrecked. Therapy tore her apart today. I watched her come back, pale and trembling, like the world chewed her up and spat her out. She's barely keeping her eyes open, barely holding herself together. And the only thing I can do—the only way I know how to not make it worse—is to shut my own damn mouth.
But it's killing me.
I'm lying here, still as stone, pretending to sleep while my mind claws at the walls. I didn't hear her voice once today. No cursing, no sharp comebacks, no half-smiles that make me forget how to breathe. Just silence.
And silence when it comes to her? Feels like fucking death.
I'm waiting. Hoping. Begging the universe for her to mutter something, anything, just so I know she's still that storm I can't live without. But nothing comes.
Until—
Movement.
My head tilts before my brain can stop it.
She's sitting up.
Slow, deliberate, like every bone in her body hates her for it. And fuck, I know that pain too well. It makes my chest tighten just watching her move through it. My fingers dig into the blanket because if I don't hold myself down, I'll get up and do something stupid—like scoop her up and swear the world won't touch her again.
She turns toward the glass wall. City lights seep through, a silver glow bathing everything soft. And I swear, my heart stutters.
Her hair's loose.
Long, dark brown waves spilling down her back like liquid night. The lights catch on each strand, glinting faintly, like they're alive. It's messy, tangled from the day, but it's the most fucking perfect thing I've ever seen. It's unreal. Like she was carved for the sole purpose of driving me insane.
I can see her silhouette. Quiet. Still. But everything about her feels loud—chaos in a body that doesn't even know how much it owns me.
Then her hand reaches out.
Grabs something from the table. A shirt.
And that's when it happens.
She touches the buttons of her hospital shirt.
Every alarm in my brain slams red.
No. Stop. Don't. Zayan, turn your head. Close your eyes. NOW. Don't fucking do this. She doesn't know you're awake. Don't—
But my body?
My body's not listening.
It's locked, frozen, a traitor through and through. My chest is heaving, my jaw clenched, my fists digging crescents into my palms. But nothing moves.
Move. Turn over. Shut your eyes. Let her have privacy. Don't take this from her. Don't you dare—
I can't.
God help me, I can't.
I've seen her angry, loud, fearless. I've seen her broken, bleeding, fragile. But I've never—never—seen her skin. Not like this. Not bare.
And I'm drowning in it before I even realize I'm gone.
The first button comes undone. Then another. The sound is soft, barely there, but it's hitting me like a fucking hammer. My pulse spikes with each click, sweat prickling my neck.
Stop. Please stop. This isn't you. This isn't how you want to see her. You're not a fucking animal—
The shirt slides off her shoulders.
And my lungs… forget how to work.
She's there.
Her bare back.
And holy hell, I swear the earth tilts under me.
Her skin is soft, glowing faintly in that storm-lit haze. The gentle curve of her spine dips down, perfect, leading into the narrow pull of her waist. The subtle flex of her shoulder blades when she moves—it's lethal. Every inch of her is quiet destruction.
She sweeps her hair to one side.
And that's when I see it.
The mole.
Not a tiny speck you squint to notice. No. It's bold, dark, carved high on her left shoulder blade like a mark the universe branded on her. My eyes lock on it instantly, my chest crushing with something sharp and raw.
This is mine.
Not in the way a man claims a thing. No. It's deeper. Primal. A truth carved into bone. Seeing that mark feels like someone opened a locked door in me and left it swinging wide.
And I know—fuck, I know—I shouldn't see this.
It's private. Intimate. Something sacred I don't deserve.
But I can't turn away.
I'm trying. God, I'm fighting myself harder than I've ever fought anything in my life.
Don't look. Don't ruin this. Don't make it something it's not. Don't let her catch you staring like a goddamn predator.
But my heart? My body? They're deaf. They're wild.
They want to memorize her. Burn every shadow, every line of that beautiful fucking back into me forever. The mole. The delicate strap of her bra cutting across her shoulder blades. The dip of her waist. The way her skin catches light like it's kissed by it.
I'm lost.
My chest is pounding so hard the bed trembles. My breath is ragged, shallow, like I'm about to collapse. My ribs ache from holding it all in, from clenching every muscle to stop myself from doing what I really want to do—reach out and trace her skin until she's gasping my name.
I force myself—finally, brutally—to move.
It feels like tearing my own fucking flesh, but I turn away. My ribs scream, my stitches pull, my body riots against me. But I do it. I wrench myself onto my side like a man dragging his soul through glass.
And then the monitor beside me betrays every secret I've tried to choke down.
It explodes.
Beeping fast. Loud. A brutal, steady scream that tells the entire room exactly what my pulse is doing. What she is doing to me.
My eyes squeeze shut, my hands curl into fists under the blanket, and every thought in my skull pounds one jagged, brutal word:
Fuck.
---
_______
Damn… this chapter? Yeah, it's different.
He didn't look away first this time.
Didn't even try.
And God… Tavarian's out here losing his own game—heartbeat screaming, eyes stuck like he's the one caught.
You already know this one's messy, filthy, and dangerous in all the right ways.
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