ARSHILA'S POV
She doesn't even see me.
Not once. Not a glance. Not a flicker of recognition that another woman is standing here, dripping in the corner like some homeless idiot who just crawled in from the storm. She walks past like the air belongs to her, like her perfume is supposed to choke the rest of us to silence.
God, she's stunning.
Her dress hugs every curve in a way that makes me want to punch the designer in the face for creating something that dangerous. Her hair doesn't even frizz from the rain—how is that humanly possible? My hair meets a little humidity and suddenly I'm a lion from The Lion King. But her? She glides like the storm never touched her.
She walks straight to the east wing. Of course. Of fucking course. That's where Zayan's office and study are.
I watch her heels disappear into the corridor like I'm watching my death sentence stroll casually to the judge's chamber.
I flop onto the couch, still hearing that click-click in my skull. My brain should be shutting up, but no, it's decided to throw a damn TED talk.
Is she his girlfriend?
I mean—look at her. If she is, then congratulations, Zayan Tavarian, you just bagged yourself a goddess with legs longer than my entire lifespan. She probably eats diamonds for breakfast and sneezes designer perfume.
And me? I'm sitting here like an extra in my own marriage.
I don't even feel insecure though—because what's the point? It's not like I ever thought I could compete with… that. She looks like she belongs in his world. Expensive. Polished. Perfect. Not like me, who can barely keep my eyeliner straight and whose idea of "fine dining" is two-minute noodles with extra chili flakes.
But still…fuck me. She must be lucky.
Lucky to have him.
Because Zayan? He's—he's…well, he's Zayan. The bastard is infuriating, arrogant, makes me want to throw things at his stupidly perfect face every other second—but he's also him. The one who walks into a room and makes everyone shut up without saying a word. The one whose chain sits against his collarbone in a way that makes me want to strangle him and climb him at the same time.
If she's with him, does she get to touch that chain whenever she wants? Does she get to kiss that vein that pops on his neck when he's pissed? Does she get to sit in his lap while he reads those boring documents in that office?
Ugh. Fuck my life. My imagination needs a leash.
Maybe she isn't even his girlfriend. Or maybe she's his fiancée and I'm the clueless wife who didn't get the memo—because, knowing him, he'd probably keep a secret that big just to watch me explode.
I lean back, dragging my hands over my face, laughing at myself like a maniac. Great. Fantastic. Here I am, storm raging outside, goddess roaming in the east wing, and me—married to a man I can't stand but can't stop thinking about naked either.
What the actual fuck is my life.
I sit there. I don't know how long. Minutes? Hours? Maybe whole centuries, maybe I've fossilized into this couch. Time is slippery when your brain is busy replaying the image of a goddess gliding past like the universe personally decided to humble you.
And then—click. Click.
The sound of heels again.
My whole body goes taut, like I've been plugged into a socket. She's coming back. The goddess. The woman who walked straight out of a glossy magazine spread and into my miserable little existence.
I snap my eyes shut, slumping into the couch like a bored housecat. A fake nap. Yes, perfect. Let her think I'm too above it all to notice her golden hair, her thousand-dollar legs, her soul-sucking aura of perfection.
The clicks stop.
Shit. She's close. Right here.
My chest is burning with the effort of pretending. One, two, three seconds—and then the sound fades again, drifting away down the corridor.
Gone.
I crack an eye open. Empty hallway. No perfume trail, no shimmering afterimage. Just silence.
"Goddamn it," I whisper. "Does she vanish into smoke? A goddess, yeah, but a ghost goddess. Will she ever come back? Please? Just once more so I can—"
And then the thought hits me like a truck: She's hot. I mean hot. Like scorched-earth, apocalyptic hot.
My lips twitch. "Am I…am I lesbian now?"
I bury my face in my hands. I've completely lost it. I'm sitting here, drooling over some model-type stranger, when my whole world is already upside down thanks to the six-foot-tall Tavarian heir who keeps looking at me like I'm either a puzzle or an inconvenience.
And then it happens—
"What are you looking at?"
The voice cleaves through me, low, smooth, and cold enough to freeze blood.
My head jerks up so fast I nearly give myself whiplash. And of course. It's him.
Zayan.
He's standing right there, like he'd been watching the entire time. No announcement, no sound of footsteps, just a man carved out of shadow and power suddenly in front of me.
I blurt the first thing that slams out of my chest:
"Who is she?"
His expression doesn't even flicker. It's that infuriating stillness he wears, like he already knows the ending of the story and he's just waiting for me to trip over it.
"Is that your girlfriend? The one you mentioned?" My laugh is sharp, brittle, covering nerves with bravado. "If she is—congratulations, bro. You've got great taste."
His brows pull together, just slightly. "She?"
"Yes!" I'm waving my hands now like a lunatic. "The one with the heels and the designer clothes. The goddess who just walked out of here like the marble floor was Paris Fashion Week."
His head tilts, slow, predatory. He glances toward the hall she disappeared down, then back at me, and a shadow of amusement curls at the edge of his mouth.
"Ah," he murmurs. "Her."
"Yes, her," I snap, exasperated.
"That's Catherine." He lets the name drop like a pebble in water. "My personal secretary."
I gape. "She? Your secretary? Are you serious?"
"Yes." His stare is flat, absolute, like it's the most obvious thing in the world.
"Bro." I fling my arm toward the hallway, words spilling out in disbelief. "Look at her. She's not secretary pretty. She's supermodel pretty. She's—" I cut myself off, realizing how breathless I sound.
That's when his eyes narrow, his attention locking onto me so tightly it's like the air itself sharpens.
And then, his voice drops—low, velvety, curling under my skin like smoke.
"Is she?"
It's not a real question. It's a trap. A knife dressed as curiosity.
Heat slams through me, crawling up my throat. I bite my tongue before something embarrassing comes out, and manage only a mumble:
"I thought she is your girlfriend."
That's when it happens—his laugh.
God, his laugh. Not kind, not light. Something deeper, darker, rich enough to scrape over my bones. The sound rolls out of him like it's alive, and my stupid heart trips over itself.
"You think a lot," he says finally, like it's both an insult and a compliment.
Then he turns, striding toward the open area, broad shoulders slicing through the tension like he didn't just set me on fire.
I glare at his back, and because I'm an idiot, I mimic him under my breath in the ugliest voice I can muster:
"You think a lot."
I slump deeper into the couch, muttering like a petulant child. "Shut up, husband."
The word slips out, quiet, private, mine. Not for him.
He stop in front of the massive-ass plant in the hallway—like, seriously, who even waters this thing? It's basically a tree trying to cosplay as decoration. Zayan halts right there, one hand sliding into his pocket, and tilts his head at me like I just confessed to murder.
"Why do you think like that?" His voice drops low, calm, but I can hear the blade under it. "That she's my girlfriend?"
My throat goes dry. Fuck. Why did I even open my big mouth? I cross my arms, trying to act casual, but my pulse is hammering.
"I mean…" I shrug, looking anywhere but him. "She looks like your type."
His brow arches. That slow, dangerous tilt of his head—the one that makes me want to kick him in the shin and kiss him at the same time.
"My type?" He steps closer, his chain catching the soft light, brushing against his collarbone in a way that makes my stomach flip. "How do you know what I like?"
Fucking hell. I swallow, hard. My mouth moves before my brain can save me.
"I don't mean like that," I rush, waving my hand like an idiot. "I mean—she's pretty. Elegant. She's got that rich bitch look going on. So I just assumed."
His lips twitch, the ghost of a smirk.
"Are you jealous?"
And my brain short circuits.
"Jealous? Me?" My laugh comes out high-pitched and borderline psychotic. "Why the fuck would I be jealous? It's not my business to poke my nose into your… whatever the fuck that is."
He hums. Not a normal hum—more like he just dissected my soul and found amusement in it. My palms are sweaty. God, I hate him.
"So…" I add, desperate to fill the silence. "You guys must be like the CEO-secretary trope, huh?"
That makes him stop. His eyes narrow slightly, amused.
"CEO, secretary?"
I nod too fast. "Yeah, you know. The classic. Boss man, elegant secretary. Rich, sharp, a little forbidden. She looks the part. Yeah, I know, you don't even go to the office , but… I mean, come on."
His smirk deepens.
"You imagine a lot."
Oh fuck. My face heats instantly. Did he just call me out for daydreaming?
"I don't imagine shit," I snap back, looking away. "I was just saying. Don't flatter yourself."
He doesn't argue. He just starts walking again, that infuriating calm stride, until he reaches the foyer. But then—then he fucking stops. My chest tightens. He doesn't even look at me when he says it, voice casual like he's dropping some useless trivia:
"She's engaged."
I freeze. Blink. "Is she?"
He turns slightly, enough to catch my reaction, and that goddamn smirk is waiting for me.
"You look happy."
Shit. My lips are curled up, my eyes wide like I just heard Santa is real. I quickly school my expression, but it's too late.
"Of course I'm happy," I blurt, trying to sound righteous. "Every woman should be happy for another woman."
His smirk curves higher, slow and knowing, like he's got me cornered in checkmate. He gives a little nod.
"Of course you should."
Then he walks away, the chain glinting as he disappears into the hallway. Like a bastard. Like he didn't just rip my chest open and expose my pathetic little heart.
I stand there, staring at that giant-ass plant like it's going to save me from my own brain.
My stomach does a fucking cartwheel.
My brain is screaming.
Oh fuck. Oh fucking fuck. She's engaged? Engaged? Holy shit. And here I am acting like a deranged jealous wife. God, Arshila, you are so fucking pathetic. Why the hell did you smile like an idiot? Why did you look like you were ready to throw confetti and dance on the goddamn table? Now he knows. He fucking knows. Yeah, you're jealous, bitch. You're so fucking jealous you nearly broke into applause when you heard she wasn't his. Holy hell.
I slam my palm against my forehead, trailing after him with my blood still boiling.
Get a grip, woman. He's not yours. He's not fucking yours. But goddammit, why does it feel like he is?
And here I am—standing in front of a plant, looking like I just got caught watching porn.
Pathetic.
__________
ZAYAN'S POV
The glass doors slide open and I step into the covered outdoor lounge, but I don't go farther. I stay right there at the edge, where the rain comes down in violent sheets, hammering the marble, spraying mist that kisses my skin. Afternoon, but the sky looks like it swallowed the sun whole—thunder growling, air sharp with the smell of wet earth and ozone.
And I just stand there. Letting the storm wash against me, smirk still tugging at my mouth like it belongs there.
Because fuck—she was beautiful back there. Not the glossy, controlled kind of beautiful. No. Her. Wild, frustrated, words tripping over themselves, cheeks betraying her with heat. Beautiful when she's cornered, when her pride cracks just enough to show me what's underneath.
Was she jealous? Or just testing me?
Doesn't matter. She can deny it all she wants, but I saw it in her eyes. The flash of relief when I told her Catherine was engaged. The way her lips twitched into a smile she didn't mean to show. That wasn't nothing. That was mine.
God, this woman. She doesn't even fucking know.
I'm addicted to her. Every twitch of her eyebrow, every curse word that drips off her tongue like venom, every stupid fight she picks just to mask the fact that she cares. And me? I keep pushing her away, pretending distance is control. But the truth? I'd crawl through fire just to get burned by her again.
Catherine. GOD. She really thinks—that?
Catherine has been my secretary for two years. Professional. That's the only reason she's in my orbit. The only reason. Do I even know what color her eyes are? No. Do I care? No. Because when Arshila walks into the room, every other woman turns into cardboard. Cutouts. Background noise. Catherine included.
And then she looked at me, all fire and bite, and asked if Catherine is my girlfriend.
Girlfriend?
Bullshit. Absolute fucking bullshit.
You're my wife. My goddamn wife. Why the fuck would I need a girlfriend? Are you dumb, woman? Or are you blind? Blind to how my gaze hunts you like instinct. Blind to the fact that no matter how much I push, I circle back to you every single time. Blind to the way my whole fucking world begins and ends with you.
And then the memory slices through me—uninvited. The hospital.
Her lying there, pale but stubborn, refusing to look weak even when she could barely lift her head. And me—stupid, reckless me—spilling words I swore I'd keep locked away.
I love someone.
Her face when I said it. She believed it. She thought I meant someone else. And she still does.
Shit.
She doesn't know. She doesn't know it's her. That it's always been her. That she's the only one who makes my chest ache and my blood fucking boil at the same time. That she's the reason no other woman exists to me.
I should've told her then. I should've grabbed her hand in that hospital bed, looked her straight in the eye, and said the truth: It's you, Arshila. It's always been you.
But I didn't.
Because I'm a coward. Because once she knows, there's no going back. She'll own me. Completely. And god help me, I'll let her.
The rain spits against my shirt, clinging like her touch would, cold but somehow burning. My fists curl in my pockets as I let the storm drench me, smirk sharpening into something darker.
She thinks I can walk away. That I can shrug, tease, and leave her standing there. But she doesn't see the chains already dragging behind me, wrapped around her name.
I'm not untouchable. I'm already caught. Already hers.
And one day soon, she'll fucking realize it.
The storm splits open above me like a vein finally tearing. I stand there, head tilted back, and when I snap my fingers the glass roof above me disappears into nothing. Just like that, the rain owns me.
Cold water lashes down on my face, my shirt, soaking through until it clings to my skin. My hair sticks, heavy, the fabric plastered against me, but I don't move. I want this.
I used to hate the rain. Always thought it was inconvenient, a nuisance, weak people finding poetry in water falling from the sky.
But four years ago everything changed. She happened. And now rain isn't rain anymore. It's her. Every drop feels like her hands on me. The storm is her breath, her rage, her chaos.
And me? I fucking want it. I want her to consume me until I can't breathe. I want her to ruin me.
I hear the footsteps before I see him. I don't turn, don't have to. It's always him.
Izar.
He comes to stand beside me, not asking, not hesitating. The storm drenches him too, his shirt dark and heavy, sticking to the carved lines of his body. He doesn't flinch. He never does.
For a long beat, the only sound is the sky tearing itself apart above us, and then his voice cuts through, steady, amused.
"So you're letting it rain."
I smirk, water dripping down my jaw, down my neck. I don't answer. I don't need to.
Izar tilts his head, eyes narrowing, rain sliding down his lashes. "You look like a lovesick fool."
A laugh rumbles in my chest, deep, broken, rich. I don't even bother wiping the water from my face as I glance at him.
"Thank you."
He huffs, a low sound that could be annoyance or could be amusement—hard to tell with him. The storm thrashes harder, soaking us until every inch of fabric is heavy with it. Lightning cuts across the sky, illuminating his expression, and for a second we look like statues carved in water and light, untouchable, unshaken.
Four years ago, I got both of them the same day—her and him. One ripped me apart, the other held me together. One is the storm, the other my shadow in it.
And right now? Right now, I let it drown me. Because if she is the rain, then I'll never carry an umbrella again.
__________________
ARSHILA'S POV
The couch swallows me whole. It's tucked in this corner beside a jungle of indoor plants—fucking plants everywhere, big leafy bastards drooping like they own the air.
For a second, I wonder if Zayan secretly likes oxygen more than people. Figures. The guy probably trusts a fern more than he trusts a human.
I tilt my head back, staring at the ceiling, my thoughts doing gymnastics. If she is not his girlfriend, then who??
Adam fucking Zayan Tavarian—actually… dating someone. Because he doesn't seem like the "hold hands and watch sunsets" type. He seems more like the "I'll ruin your life but you'll thank me" type. And god help me, I'm starting to think that's worse.
I'm mid–mental rant when movement catches my eye.
Holy. Shit.
Zayan and Izar walk in. Both drenched. Like, shirts plastered to their skin, messy hair dripping water, and for one blinding moment I can't breathe. They look like they've just walked out of a goddamn Calvin Klein commercial that no one asked for but everyone needs.
The white fabric sticks to Zayan's chest, clinging to muscle in a way that should be illegal. His hair—usually immaculate—is a wet, chaotic mess that somehow makes him hotter. Izar's no less dangerous, jaw sharp, water still sliding down his throat.
My brain: What the fuck were they doing?
My other brain: Don't tell me they… nah.
Nah. Izar swore he's not gay. And Zayan? Please. That man wouldn't share a drink, let alone a bed. Still… why the fuck do they look like they just wrestled in a pool, and why does every neuron in my skull feel fried from staring?
And fuck, fuck, fuck—Zayan sees me.
His eyes slice through the room, pinning me where I sit, and my dumbass instantly pretends I'm suddenly fascinated by the plant next to me. Yeah, sure, the fucking ficus has never looked better.
But I can feel it—his stare burning through me, heavy, amused, probably catching the fact that I was two seconds away from drooling. He doesn't stop, though. Of course not. He just starts walking up the staircase, slow and deliberate, each step echoing like it's fucking scripted.
His wet shirt clings with every move, veins visible on his forearm as he grips the railing, and I'm sitting here thinking, God, someone kill me now before I say something stupid like "drip harder, daddy."
Meanwhile, Izar takes the opposite route, heading down the hallway that leads to the outhouse. And while he's walking—because apparently my soul hasn't suffered enough—he casually starts unbuttoning his shirt. Not all the way, but enough that my chest seizes. I don't see skin (thank god, or maybe not thank god), but the way his fingers move? Intentional. Fucking teasing. Like he knows someone's watching.
Then he turns.
Our eyes lock for half a second, and I nearly choke on my own air. I snap my gaze back to the nearest plant like, "Nope. Didn't see shit. That wall? That's all I've ever loved. Plants forever, bitches."
When I finally dare to glance back, he's gone. Just vanished through the doorway like he didn't just casually undo three buttons of my sanity.
I slump against the couch, dragging a hand down my face.
"What the fuck was that?" I mutter under my breath. "What in the wet-shirt, messy-hair, slow-mo-walk porn-level bullshit was that?"
Because no way in hell was that normal. And no way in hell am I sleeping tonight without replaying that scene at least twenty times.
_____________
It's pee. Again.
Of course it's pee.
My bladder is a sadistic bitch that wakes me up in the middle of the night, every goddamn night, like some alarm clock from hell. And this is exactly why drinking three liters of water every day should be illegal. Who even came up with that rule? Whoever it is, I hope they stub their toe forever.
I lie there for a second, glaring at the ceiling like maybe I can convince my kidneys to chill. Nope. The pressure is real. Torture. I groan, shove off the covers, and drag myself out of bed.
And here comes the worst part. To get to the bathroom, I have to go through his room. Yeah. His. The universe is laughing at me.
I crack my door open, slow and quiet. The faint glow of the lamp spills into my vision, soft golden light across the room. It makes everything look unreal, like some magazine photoshoot—shadows stretched, furniture sculpted, the kind of vibe that screams do not fucking disturb.
I don't even let my eyes wander to his bed. Nope. Not tonight. Not after what I saw earlier—him, standing in the foyer drenched from the storm, shirt plastered to his chest, hair dripping like sin, water sliding down his jaw. I shake my head hard. Nope. Not doing this. Not thinking about that.
Straight line. Bathroom.
Relief.
Sweet, holy goddamn relief.
When I step out again, I'm lighter, less tortured, ready to just sneak back into my own bed and forget this whole midnight mission. But then—yeah, of course—I glance. Just a glance. At his bed.
He's there. Lying on his back, sheets loose at his waist, the lamp catching the sharp line of his cheekbone. His hair's messy, his lashes stupidly long, and the rise and fall of his chest is—
Fuck. I freeze.
Something feels off.
His breaths aren't even. His skin, even from here, looks flushed. My stomach twists. My feet move before my brain catches up. One step, then another, quiet as sin. Until I'm standing at his side, looking down at him, my heart a fucking drumline in my chest.
My hand hovers, hesitating. Then I touch his forehead.
Holy shit.
He's burning.
"Zayan," I whisper, shaking him lightly.
Nothing. No movement, no response. My throat tightens. "Zayan," I say again, firmer this time.
And then—
His eyes snap open.
Dark.
Sharp.
Alive.
Before I can even gasp, his hand shoots up, lightning fast. His fingers wrap around my wrist like iron.
And in one brutal, unrelenting pull—
I fall.
Straight into the mattress.
Right into him.