ARSHILA'S POV
He's standing there.
Yard. Sunlight cutting around him like even the fucking universe knows he's a shadow.
Ebrahim.
My chest knots, and yesterday slams into me so hard I swear my knees almost give out. The wall at my back. His hand lifting toward my hair. His voice—low, soft, promising shit I'd rather die than endure. And me, trapped.
I should've screamed. I should've clawed his face off. I should've done something. But I froze, like some pathetic rabbit waiting for the hawk to swoop.
And now? He's staring at me like he's not finished. Like yesterday was just an opening move. Like I'm still his little cornered game.
My stomach churns. My throat burns. And the disgust—I swear it's a living, breathing thing clawing up my chest. I hate him. Hate the way he looks at me like I already belong to him. Hate the way my skin remembers the closeness of him. Hate the way my lungs tighten every time I hear his voice.
No. Not again. Not ever again.
I vowed yesterday—swore it to myself through gritted teeth, fists clenched in the dark—I won't bend. Not for him. Not for anyone.
So I raise my hand. Fingers steady, eyes locked on his. And I flip him off. Middle finger. Bold. Raw. A universal fuck-you delivered with all the venom boiling inside me.
His smirk spreads slow, dark, like he's savoring it. Like I just made his day by giving him proof I'm still rattled. Bastard.
My blood's boiling so hard I feel lightheaded. I don't wait for him to stare longer ,I stand up, shove the chair back harder than necessary, and march inside like I've got fire eating me alive. Door slams shut behind me, glass rattling.
My heart's hammering. My skin's crawling. And the worst part? He's not even touching me. He doesn't have to. He just looks, and I feel filthier than if he'd dragged me through the mud.
It's the first time I've seen him since yesterday. He wasn't there at breakfast this morning, thank God. I thought maybe I was free, maybe it was a one-time nightmare. I'd felt relief so sharp it almost hurt. But now? No. He's back. Watching. Smirking. Waiting.
And Zayan—he doesn't know. He doesn't know what happened in the garden, what Ebrahim said, how close it came to being worse. He doesn't know that every time I close my eyes, I hear "be a good girl" in that filthy drawl and I want to scrub my own ears clean.
If Ebrahim keeps this shit up—if he keeps finding me, cornering me, looking at me like prey—I don't know what the hell I'll do.
But one thing's clear.
I'm not bending.
Not for him. Not ever.
__________
ZAYAN POV
The garage smelled like leather, gasoline, and money. All of it—every single car lined up like soldiers, chrome and paint screaming the family name. My grandfather's collection wasn't just cars; it was a damn cathedral of wealth.
Each one parked with the weight of centuries behind it, silent, perfect. I let my fingers brush along the hood of the black Phantom parked closest. Smooth. Cold. Deadly. Like it knew exactly who the fuck it carried tonight.
Izar stood to my left, posture rigid, hands clasped behind his back. Silent. Always silent. The kind of silence that doesn't just fill the air—it slices it. He tilted his head slightly, eyes tracking me like I might make the wrong decision and ruin everything in the span of a second.
"So… you going alone?" His voice was low, calm, but there was that undercurrent of steel. One word, and it could snap a man in half.
"Yes." My voice didn't waver. "You stay here."
He didn't argue. Never does. He only gave a single, almost imperceptible nod. That's why he's mine. That quiet obedience isn't fear—it's control. Loyalty. Understanding. He knows me better than I know myself, and that scares the rest of the world more than any gun I could pull from my pocket.
"Where's the place?" His tone shifted, subtle, careful—asking where I was about to go, not for directions, but because he wanted the map of my intentions.
"its a Private beach." I didn't bother softening it. Nothing about this is soft. Damien doesn't get soft. No one in his orbit does. Not if they're worth a damn.
Izar's brow lifted, almost curious, almost cautious. "And… what's the plan? You're seeing him now?"
I let a slow, dangerous smirk spread across my face, a curl of amusement that carried teeth and fire. "His days are countable now. After the annual day celebration, I'm going to give him exactly what he deserves. Every damn lie, every filthy deal, every hand he's raised against women and children… I'm going to make him swallow it all, brick by brick."
Izar nodded, slow, deliberate, almost approving. "Five days to the annual day." His voice was a statement of fact, but not neutral. That's the timeline. Tight, tense, loaded.
"Yes." I let the word stretch, venomous and sharp. "Five days. And in those five days, I need to keep Damien in my hand. Controlled. Tied. Squirming. Knowing he's nothing without me. Then… after this… after we leave here… the real hunt begins. No mercy. No hesitation. No goddamn pause. Just the work I've been born to do."
Izar's hand brushed against the car as he stepped back, nodding again. No hesitation. Nothing left unsaid. He knew what I was doing. Hell, he's already living it in his head alongside me.
I let my gaze sweep the garage, the cars, the cold gleam of metal, the history of power around me. My grandfather's collection wasn't just cars—it was a statement. Every vehicle a monument to control.
A Phantom, a Bugatti, a fleet of Rolls and Ferraris. Each one a reminder that this bloodline doesn't fuck around. And tonight, they weren't just monuments. They were witnesses. Silent, patient, deadly witnesses to what I was about to do.
Izar broke the silence finally. "You sure about this?"
I turned my head just slightly, letting him see it in my eyes. Calm. Cold. Precise. "Sure? Izar… I've been waiting for this my whole life. This isn't some social call. This isn't a handshake. This is him, Damien, and the entire pathetic web he's spun, and I'm about to tear it the fuck apart. I'm going in there to understand him, and when the time comes, I'll gut him like a fucking fish. Simple. Clean. Beautiful."
Izar didn't blink. He never does. "And you'll walk out?"
I chuckled low, the sound dark and hollow, vibrating off the concrete. "I don't just walk out, Izar. I step out when I want them to see the blood on their hands without realizing it's mine on the walls. I step out when I've planted the idea that they were never safe. That I've been the shadow in their heads while they smiled at each other, thinking they were untouchable. He's untouchable in his head… and I'm about to break that illusion."
Izar's jaw tightened. That one microexpression. That's why I let him breathe the same air I do. He's the only man I trust to see the storm coming and not flinch.
"Then… I'll get the car ready. Alone?" he asked again, careful, like he's giving me space to fail.
"Yes. Alone." My words were sharp, brutal, certain. "You stay here. Don't move. Nothing happens tonight unless I say it happens. I want eyes on me, not shadows behind me. This is my hunt, Izar. Mine."
He stepped back, nodded, and that was it. Done. No argument, no hesitation. Just the faint click of his boots on concrete, echoing among the monuments around us.
I let a long breath out. My hands brushed over the hood of the Phantom again. Cold. Smooth. Perfect. My pulse started to ratchet, slow, deliberate, like a drum counting down to the hunt. Damien's private beach wasn't ready for what I'm bringing. Not even close.
Tonight, Damien meets me. And when he does… he's going to learn exactly why the Tavarian name isn't just a legacy. It's a curse.
The drive is quiet. No music, no distraction. Just the engine's growl and the steady rhythm of my pulse. The road cuts black through the night, every mile dragging me closer to Damien's beach.
People think a private beach means privacy. Luxury. Safety. What it really means is arrogance. A man who believes the world bends for him. A man who doesn't know I could buy this entire fucking coastline and kick him into the waves without blinking.
Headlights slice across sand. The house looms ahead—glass, steel, shadows. I kill the engine. Step out. The night air hits sharp, the salt biting against my skin. My shoes sink into the sand as I walk, slow, unhurried.
And there they are. Black suits lined up, stiff as statues. Armed, eyes sharp. Guard dogs with expensive tailoring. A smirk cuts across my face before I can stop it. Wolves in their heads, but all I see are leashes.
Closer. The firelight from the terrace flickers, catching crystal glasses, cigars, money-laced laughter. Marcus Veynar stands there, smile carved into his face like it's permanent. Daniel James Cross beside him, straight-backed, watching like he owns the air.
And then him. Damien Cross. Drink in hand. Relaxed. Grinning. Like he already knows the game and everyone else is just catching up. The bastard radiates confidence, the kind that's built from years of people letting him believe he's God.
Marcus sees me first. "Adam." His grin sharpens, arms spread slightly as if to showcase the company I've stepped into. "Here."
The word is a welcome and a test at the same time.
I move forward, measured steps, every muscle in my body coiled but calm. My gaze slides to Damien, but I don't lock eyes. Not yet. Let him feel like I'm circling. Let him believe I'm here because the current pulled me, not because I already own the tide.
When I reach them, Marcus gestures toward the man with the glass. "Adam, this is Damien Cross." His tone carries weight, like he's handing me a crown I don't deserve.
Damien lifts his drink slightly, smile easy, sharp. "So this is the ghost everyone's been whispering about."
I let the corner of my mouth twitch, nothing more. Small. Controlled. Not arrogance—amusement. "Whispers tend to exaggerate."
Marcus laughs, loud, pleased, filling the space Damien leaves open. Daniel doesn't laugh. He studies me like I'm a page in a book he doesn't trust. Damien just smirks, sipping his drink, eyes steady.
I keep my shoulders loose, my voice even, my presence intentionally smaller than his. He has to think he's the axis. The sun. The game master.
"Falconridge," Damien says, rolling the word like he's tasting it. "New name. Sharp name. But no one seems to know who the fuck you are."
"That's the point," I answer, steady. "Noise only helps the desperate. I'd rather stay quiet until someone worth my time is listening."
Marcus chuckles again, clapping a hand against Damien's shoulder. "See? Sharp tongue, sharper head. I told you, Damien. This one's not like the rest."
I keep my eyes on Damien, but I lower the edge in my tone. Controlled humility. "Not like the rest, but never like you."
His grin widens. That's the hook. Stroke the ego, feed the fire, let him believe I'm the one playing catch-up.
"Good answer," Damien says, leaning back slightly, sipping again. "Most men walk up to me trying to prove they're bigger. Louder. Smarter. You don't."
"Because I'm not," I reply quickly, clean. No hesitation. "Not here. Not against you. I came to listen, not compete."
The words settle. Marcus looks satisfied. Daniel's jaw ticks, maybe unimpressed, maybe cautious. But Damien? He leans into it. He likes being the mountain men climb, the god men kneel to.
I let silence do the rest, shoulders easy, eyes steady, giving him the space to decide if I'm worth his time.
Damien smirks again, slow, dangerous. "Then let's see if you're smart enough to survive listening."
I smirk back, just enough to make it seem like I'm eager to prove myself. But in my head, the thought is steel-cold, sharp enough to cut my tongue.
You'll never know, Damien. By the time you realize you're playing my game, it'll already be too late.
Damien's eyes cut through the group, then back to me. He swirls his drink like he's bored, but I can feel the test coming.
"You met Marcus first," he says, voice smooth, lazy. "Then Daniel. Right?"
It isn't a question—it's a fucking order to answer right.
I don't hesitate. "Yes. Marcus pulled me in first. Daniel later."
Silence for a beat. Everyone's waiting for the reaction, because it's never about the answer—it's about how I give it.
Daniel smirks, slow, deliberate, sharp as a blade. His eyes lock on mine, cutting through like he's peeling back layers I don't even show my own blood. "I like that," he says. "He answers the question I ask, right away. No dancing. No delay."
That's approval. From him, that means something.
Damien leans back in his chair, grin curling. He lets the weight of his brother's words hang in the air. "Daniel doesn't say that often," he says, sipping his drink again. "So maybe you're not just another mouth trying to feed off my table."
I don't smile. Not yet. I let my shoulders stay loose, easy. "I don't dance. Waste of time. You ask, I answer. You lead, I follow. Simple."
That earns me another look from Daniel. A testing one. His eyes narrow, then flick to Damien, as if silently saying, watch this one.
Damien chuckles, low, amused. "Careful. You sound too fucking perfect. Makes me wonder if you've rehearsed this whole act before walking onto my sand."
I tilt my head, just a fraction, letting a faint smirk curl at the corner of my mouth. "If I rehearsed, I'd sound smarter than this. I'd probably kiss your ring and call you king. I didn't."
Marcus laughs loud, clapping his hand once against his thigh. "See? I told you. He's not like the usual parasites."
Daniel doesn't laugh. He just keeps that sharp grin, the kind that makes it clear approval doesn't mean trust. It just means I passed the first fucking gate.
Damien studies me, eyes dark, calculating, but his grin stays. "So… you're smart, but not smarter than me. You're sharp, but not sharp enough to cut me. You're humble, but not desperate." He swirls his drink again, ice clinking. "That about right?"
I let the pause hang just a second too long, then nod. "Exactly right."
Because that's what he wants. His ego stroked, his power fed. He needs to believe he's the one writing my script.
Daniel shifts in his seat, smirk still lingering. "Good," he says quietly. "I hate when people come in here trying to prove they're bigger. It's pathetic. At least you know where the fuck you stand."
I lower my gaze just slightly, controlled, like I'm acknowledging it. Like I'm grateful. But inside, every word is steel.
Let them think I'm grateful. Let them think I'm smaller. The moment they stop watching, I'll cut their throats open and smile while the sand drinks it all.
Damien leans forward now, eyes sharp, grin wicked. "Then let's see how long you can stand, Adam. Men like you either rise fast… or they get buried faster."
I smirk back, small, steady, like I'm eager to prove him right. "Then let's hope I'm worth the shovel."
Marcus laughs again. Daniel just tilts his head, still smirking, still watching like a hawk. And Damien—he fucking loves it.
And that's all I need.
Damien lifts his glass like a toast, eyes flicking between us. "Drink?" he says, casual, like offering a glass makes him generous.
Marcus leans in, grinning. "He doesn't drink," Marcus says as if it's a quirk to be admired.
Damien blinks, genuinely surprised. "You don't drink?" He quirks an eyebrow. "What about smoking?"
"Neither," I say. Flat. No grandstanding. No sermon. Just fact.
Marcus snorts, amused. "Also married." He says it like it's another curiosity to catalog.
Damien's laugh is soft, curious. "Married? At your age?" He looks at me with what passes for wonder in his crowd. "How old are you, Adam?"
"Twenty-five." I let the number sit there. Simple, precise.
For a beat there's silence. Then Damien whistles low, impressed—not mockery, real interest. "You own a company at twenty-five…and you're married." He taps his glass to his lips. "Ambitious. Dangerous combo."
Marcus spreads his hands. "So—marriage a business move? Strategic alliance? Or—" his grin slices—"—did you buy the ring because it makes for good optics?"
Daniel's smile is colder this time, an edge beneath the amusement. He watches how I react like he's cataloguing my fault lines.
I'm tightening inside. Want to snap their heads together. Want to tell them every pathetic truth and watch their veins pop. But I don't. I let the calm be a blade sheathed at the waist.
"No." I say it clean. "She isn't a strategy. Not for me." My voice smooth, but there's iron under it.
Marcus laughs like he's won a joke. "Sure, sure. Love at twenty-five—adorable. You don't even have lines on your face yet."
I let a small smile curl—light, sarcastic. "Maybe that's because I don't waste time pretending to be someone I'm not." The lie is half a lie and half a weapon. If they think I'm naïve, they're comfortable. Comfort kills people like Damien.
Damien leans forward, suddenly sharp. "Then what is she to you? A wife of convenience or…something else?"
I look at her across the fire—brief, burning view—and my throat tightens for a second. That tiny hesitation is a confession I don't make out loud.
"She's…mine," I say, steady. "Not a deal. Not an asset. Four years. That's long enough to know. I didn't marry for chessboard advantage. I married because I wanted her when the rest of the world was trying to buy me."
Marcus snorts. "Romance. How quaint."
Daniel's eyes pick the pause, the edge. He's not mocking now; he's studying the depth. He wants to know if I'm bluffing. He wants to see if the man who lives on a throne of teeth can be cut with words.
Inside me, something cold uncoils. I want to tell them what I do. I want to tell them the list of men I've put down like rabid dogs. I want them to understand making something mine means making them all pay.
Instead I say, quieter, with a clarity that pins them like butterflies, "She's not a deal. She's ink under my skin. I'll burn the world to keep her quiet and alive. That's not a stunt, Marcus. That's a promise."
Damien's smile thins a fraction. He likes power. He likes men who make promises. He likes men who look like they can keep them.
Marcus studies me, then laughs, but there's an edge now—curiosity and a little fear. Daniel's smirk fades into something like respect that tastes like warning.
They underestimate me because they mistake my restraint for weakness. They think they see a boy who won't cut. They don't see the way I stash knives in smiling hands.
I sip nothing. I smoke nothing. I'm a cleaner predator. I am the thing that shows up sober when everyone else is drunk on their own narcotic of power.
"Good," Damien says finally, voice soft. "Then let's see how well you keep her safe—if you can." His tone is casual. Threat and test wrapped in polite paper.
I meet his eyes. Hold them. "I will," I say.
"Then let's get down to business," Damien says, voice smooth as oil. He sets the glass down like a judge dropping a gavel. "What does Falconridge actually own? How deep do you go, Adam?"
I blink once, slow. Play the part. Small pause, polite confusion. "Excuse me?"
Damien smiles, patient and hungry. "Money talks." He leans forward. "How many zeros are in your account? How much reach? Because I don't waste my time on smoke and mirrors. I want facts. Numbers."
Marcus chuckles like a man hearing good news. Daniel's eyes narrow, waiting for the tiny slip that proves I'm a fraud. They want fear. They want evidence of desperation.
I let the silence stretch long enough that it gets awkward. Then I answer, calm, measured.
"Falconridge is young. Aggressive. We control liquidity, not sentiment. We don't brag about assets." My voice is neutral. Boring. Exact. "We control leverage—positions in two hedge vehicles, an escrow of private lending, seeded shell flow through Zurich, and a cash line reserved for opportunistic moves. Net deployable capital? Half a billion, liquid. Access to credit and lines that push that to over a billion when we pull the levers."
Damien whistles low, impressed. Not surprised—just appraising. Marcus grins like a man who smells profit. Daniel pinches the bridge of his nose slightly, calculating.
"You keep your balance tidy," Damien says. "Not bad." He taps his fingers together. "So, you can write checks. You can move markets. You can buy influence."
"Yes." I let the word sit. It's small and heavy. "We can buy access. Buy time. Buy silence. We can buy motion."
Damien's smile turns sharp. "Good. We like motion." He leans back, proud. "For the record—my assets. D C Group is clean. Ten years of careful placement. Real estate, trusts, offshore ships. Liquid with a backbone. Figures? Five billion across nominal holdings. Proudly private."
The number lands like someone lighting a match in a dry room. People around him inhale. Marcus claps like a seal.
I think it for a heartbeat, ugly and bright: my fucking mansion cost five billion. The thought slices my mouth into a grin that doesn't show.
"Five billion," I repeat, casual. "That's a nice round number. Congrats."
Inside, the math runs fast. Five billion is noise. It's optics. It's something men throw in the air to make themselves heavier. It tells me two things: he's bragging because he fears, and he's connected enough to hide dirty money under patriots' names.
Damien watches the flicker of the thought like a hawk. "You sound like you don't believe me."
"I believe numbers when they bleed truth," I say. "Numbers that smell like paper and lawyers mean nothing if the lines are fragile. I'm interested in leverage—who pays for your silence? Who signs when a ledger needs a new witness? Who keeps your hands clean?"
Now the room sniffs. Damien's grin tightens. He doesn't like the question because the question moves the light away from him and onto his scaffolding.
Marcus leans in, eager. "So Adam—money. You want in. We want cashflow. Don't play coy."
I lean back. I play the buyer, but I hand them terms like a sneak knife.
"Fine." I say. "I provide capital. I provide structure. I provide channels—clean routing, legal veneer, introductions to investors who don't ask too many questions." I let the words land like bait. "In return, I want transparency on the partners you use. I want names. Full stack. Veynar's recs, the bankers in Lisbon, the port brokers in the docks. I want Damien's direct counterparty list. I want a seat at certain boards. And I want first refusal on any asset the Cross network moves out."
Silence snaps. That's a lot. Too much for a handshake. But that's the point.
Damien's laugh is low. "You want the keys."
"No." I'm calm. "I want the map. Give me the map and I'll show you how a ghost like Falconridge can make your holdings grow without asking questions—while sitting quiet in the shadows. Give me the map, and I make sure anyone who ever decides to look at your men's books finds exactly what they don't want to find."
Daniel's fingers drum, slow, like he's feeling the edges of this blade. Marcus tastes the offer like a man deciding whether to swallow poison for gold.
"You give names," Damien says slowly, testing. "We give you deals. We keep what we have. No leaks."
"And if I find leaks after I get the map?" I ask, sharp. "If I pull threads and the whole thing unravels?"
Damien's eyes go cold, but he smiles. "Then you die."
Short and stupid. Everyone laughs nervously to cover it. Marcus pretends the threat is only dramatic theater. Daniel's face doesn't change—his eyes register interest, not fear.
I feel the blood in my ears. The truth tastes like iron: walking into a room where a man says 'then you die' is exactly why you walk in.
"You think threats keep you safe?" I ask softly. "They don't. Not from men like me."
Damien's face tightens. He's testing if I'm stupid enough to call his bluff. He's also checking if I'm dangerous enough to chew through his scaffolding and spit it out.
"I'm offering you a partnership," I say, voice colder, measured as a blade. "You let me see the backstage. I fund selected plays. I place the bets. I get seats and names. We grow together for as long as it suits me. When it no longer suits me, I walk. Or I flip the switch."
That's the question disguised as a deal: will he hand me the throat of his network so I can measure it? Or will he keep his throat and lie?
Damien doesn't answer immediately. He enjoys the pause—let them feel the weight. Then he laughs, low and slow, like someone enjoying a gamble.
"Ambitious." He raises his glass again. "I like brains wrapped in steel. Fine—give me terms in writing. Show me how this works. If what you say about buying motion is true, we can move some things quietly. We'll see if your Falconridge can actually fly."
Marcus claps, delighted. Daniel says nothing but his smile is different—respectful, cautious.
I nod. "Tomorrow. Paper. A letter of intent. You bring your list. I bring finance." My voice is flat, businesslike. Inside, the plan is already running—how to take this map and use it to expose the tendons that hold Damien up. How to make every man who shields him squirm.
Damien stands, pats my shoulder like a man marking a new toy. "Good. We'll write the future together, Adam."
He doesn't know what future I'll write. He thinks it's ledger lines and dividends.
I stand up too. Smile low, close enough to bite. "Then write carefully. Because when I sign, I don't just invest. I rewrite."
I walk away with the night wrapped around me like a coat. The firelight plays on their faces—smug, hungry, blind. In my head the list already grows: Veynar, the Zurich banks, the Lisbon docks, the port clerks who take envelopes under their breath. Every name is a door. Every door is a promise of ruin.
Tonight I walked in as a buyer. Tomorrow, when the papers are printed and the signatures wet, I'll be the landlord of their silence. And when the time comes, I'll burn the house down with everyone inside.
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Sneak peek at the Exclusive content
"You're playing with fire."
"Then let's see if I burn."
"You can't handle me."
"I know I can."
"You'll get burned."
"I want to burn izar"
Silence. Nothing but the city hum and her breathing.
"Dania.".
"Hm?"
"Strip."
In a world where power and secrets burn hotter than desire izar's control is about to snap .
He doesn't play fair. He doesn't care about rules. Tonight, desire and danger collide.
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