ZAYAN POV
The phone beeps once.
Not a message. Not a call. A system alert.
My eyes narrow instantly. I'm in the study, elbows on the desk, drowning in contracts I stopped caring about an hour ago. The Tavarian crest is stamped on every file, and still—it's her that's got my mind messy.
Another beep.
My security feed lights up.
Snake door. West wing.
I grab the phone, tap the screen, and—there she is.
Caught mid-flinch. Eyes wide, mouth parted, like she just got caught stealing fire from the gods. My girl's got her hand on the handle, freezing the second it beeped, looking like she just realized the devil has cameras.
I lean back in my chair, grin pulling slow.
Fuck. She's insane.
And I like it way too much.
She shouldn't even be near that door. She knows it. I told her once. Calm voice, polite warning. Don't go near the west wing. That was me giving her a leash.
And she still went.
God, she never listens.
Never obeys.
Never makes it easy.
I zoom in. Her face is perfect chaos—guilt, fear, curiosity, all tangled up under those stubborn eyes. She looks like trouble in human form. My trouble.
I murmur, voice low, "You really got the guts, baby. Don't you?"
My fingers drum against the desk, slow, deliberate. I should be pissed. I should call Izar, make sure she never gets close again. I should lock the system tighter.
But instead—I'm smiling.
Because I know exactly what's running through that head of hers right now.
She's pacing, heart racing, probably cursing my entire bloodline for hiding something.
She thinks she's clever. She thinks she's gonna figure it out.
I swipe through the stills. The camera caught every second—the twist, the flinch, the run. She looks terrified and adorable, in a way that's not fucking cute. In a way that makes my chest tighten and my mind go dark.
The part of me that should protect her is losing to the part that wants to ruin her curiosity until she can't breathe without thinking of me.
I rest my elbow on the armrest, thumb brushing my lip.
She wants to open that door so bad? Fine. Let her want. Let her burn with it.
Because one day I will open it for her.
When I decide she's ready.
And when she finally steps in, she'll wish she never dared.
She has no idea what she's poking at.
What that room means.
What I've hidden from the world—and from her.
But fuck, watching her try? Watching her break rules just because I told her not to? That's my favorite sin.
The camera auto-switches to the living room feed. She's back on the couch now, pretending she's innocent, clutching a pillow like it's gonna erase the evidence.
I exhale a quiet laugh.
God, she's terrible at pretending. Her chest's moving too fast, her face is flushed. She's in panic mode, and it's beautiful.
I mutter under my breath, "You think I don't see you, huh? You think you can play spy in my house?"
My tone dips lower, almost a whisper, almost a threat.
"You'll learn, baby. I see everything. I always have."
The smile fades into something darker.
Because the truth is, it's not just about the door. It's about her wanting to break into things that belong to me. Wanting to uncover parts of me I've kept buried for years.
She doesn't understand—
The west wing isn't the only thing locked in this house.
So am I.
And the more she pushes, the closer she gets to unlocking something she won't survive.
I glance at the photo again—her face frozen in that split second between fear and defiance.
I save it. Yeah, I keep it.
Because it's mine. Because she's mine.
And because I like remembering the look of a girl who keeps daring the devil and smiling like she might win.
I lean back, smirk ghosting my lips.
"Go ahead, Arshila. Keep trying.
Touch what's forbidden. Push harder.
You'll find out, sooner or later—
I never warn twice."
The silence in this house isn't peaceful—it's fucking staged. Every inch of this place hums with secrets, like it's alive, breathing under the marble and glass. I get up from the chair, phone still in hand, and start walking.
The west wing feed is still up on the screen behind me, her frozen image burned into my head—hand on the snake handle, wide-eyed, too bold for her own good.
Curious little chaos.
My footsteps echo down the corridor. The lights dim automatically as I pass; the system knows me better than anyone. When I reach the living room, I stop.
And there she is.
Lying on the couch like sin dressed in innocence. One arm thrown over her head, hair spilled everywhere, pretending she's asleep. I know she's faking it. Her breathing's too sharp, chest moving a fraction too fast. But she's good—God, she's good at acting like she's not two seconds away from getting caught.
I stand there for a second, just watching. She looks small against the oversized couch, wrapped in silence that feels almost dangerous. Her lips are parted, her lashes casting shadows over her cheekbones. I can practically hear her heart from here—it's the one sound she can't fake.
I tilt my head.
What the hell am I doing?
I should wake her up. Or walk away. Or at least stop staring like I'm trying to memorize her fucking face. But I can't.
So I crouch down, elbows on my knees, and just… watch.
Close up, she's worse. The kind of beautiful that makes you mad because it's real. No effort, no posing, no awareness—just raw, stupid beauty that doesn't know what it's doing to you. She smells like vanilla and stubbornness.
My gaze drops to her hand—tiny, curled into the fabric of the pillow like she's holding onto her own lie. She really thinks she fooled me. That she can walk up to the most secured door in this house and then play dead two minutes later.
I whisper under my breath, voice low, "You've got no idea what you're starting, do you?"
And it's true. She doesn't.
I could reach out right now, brush the strand of hair stuck to her cheek. Could lean in close enough to see her flinch. But I don't. I just sit there, letting the want simmer.
Because the thing about obsession—it's not about touch. It's about restraint.
I want her to burn. Just like she makes me burn.
Then—
My phone buzzes again.
I stand, pulling it out of my pocket, eyes still on her until the screen lights my face. One glance—and I freeze.
A smile creeps in, slow and sharp.
The alert's from my system. Not house security this time. Financial sector. The web I set for Damien finally started tightening. First freeze just hit his account.
Well, well. Took long enough.
I swipe open the details, scan the data, and laugh under my breath. "You're going to hell, Damien," I murmur, tone flat but soaked in satisfaction.
It's not even about money—it's about control. About watching a man who thought he was untouchable realize the ground beneath him is mine.
I pocket the phone again, eyes back on her. She's still pretending. Still breathing like the lie's holding her together.
My smirk returns, softer this time. Darker.
I turn away, start walking toward the stairs, voice low and lazy as I say, "Sleep in your room, wife."
I don't look back—but I know she heard it.
I know she's probably staring at the ceiling right now, wondering if I know.
Spoiler: I do.
And as I walk up the stairs, the grin won't leave. Because between her trying to unlock my secrets and Damien's fall starting to unfold—
tonight's a good fucking night.
______________
ARSHILA POV
The second his footsteps fade, I let the breath out that I've been holding for what feels like a damn lifetime.
"Fuck," I whisper, voice barely there. "He knows I'm pretending."
Of course he does. Adam Zayan Tavarian probably knows the blood type of the ghost that lives in his walls. I should've known better than to think I could outplay him in his own house. My pulse is still sprinting, my palms damp as hell.
I sit up slowly, trying not to make a sound, every tiny movement loud in the silence he left behind. My neck's stiff from fake-sleeping, and my heart's doing this uneven, suicidal drum solo in my chest.
God, why the fuck does he make everything feel like a crime scene?
I glance toward the staircase. The lights from the hall spill soft gold over the marble, and I can still smell him in the air — that maddening mix of soap, cider, and something I can't name but can't stop wanting.
Okay. Move, dumbass.
I push off the couch, my bare feet cold on the floor, and start up the stairs like I'm walking into a lion's den. One step at a time, praying under my breath, "Please, God, if you exist, make him sleep. Or, I don't know, make him go brush his teeth for twenty minutes or something."
The universe stays quiet. Figures.
When I reach the top, the hallway's dark, and my stomach twists as I reach for the handle. I push the door open, holding my breath again.
Empty.
No Zayan in sight.
My knees nearly give out from the relief. "Thank fuck," I mumble, shutting the door behind me slow enough to not make a sound.
And then I see it.
Something on the bedside table catches the light—sleek, black, metal edges that gleam like it's mocking me.
A phone.
I blink. Tilt my head. Step closer.
No, not just a phone.
It looks… different. Heavy. Expensive as sin. Like it doesn't belong to a normal human.
"What the hell," I mutter under my breath. "Is this a fucking—"
My brain clicks. I've seen this before.
Virtue.
Holy hell. That's a Virtue business phone. The kind that only billionaires or government guys use. The kind that's worth more than my entire existence.
I stare at it, jaw slack. "How the fuck does a phone cost millions?" I whisper. "What, does it come with a spaceship? A built-in assassin? Maybe a damn self-destruct button?"
I should walk away. I really should. But curiosity? Yeah, she's the devil's favorite child, and I've always been her favorite toy.
So I do what any sane person wouldn't—I pull out my own phone, lean in, and take a photo. Quick flash, click, done. My pulse jumps at the sound.
And then—
Water stops.
From the bathroom.
Oh, fuck.
I freeze like a damn deer in headlights, every nerve in my body screaming move, move, MOVE. I grab my phone, shove it into my hoodie pocket, and bolt—quietly, carefully—toward my room. My hand's trembling as I twist the handle, open it just enough to slip through, and close it behind me without a sound.
My lungs finally start working again when the door clicks shut.
I sit on the bed, breathing like I just ran a marathon. My fingers fumble with my phone until I pull up the picture. The screen lights up, and there it is—the same sleek device, sitting smug as hell on his nightstand.
I zoom in, studying every inch. Yep. Definitely a Virtue. Definitely worth more than my soul.
I lean back, muttering to myself, "Of course he owns one. Because why be normal when you can flex on the entire fucking planet?"
I scroll through an article about it. "World's most secure phone. Can't be hacked. Encrypted calls. Diamond-plated version available."
I groan. "Yeah, because that's what every billionaire needs—more diamonds. Maybe it makes coffee too."
Then it hits me.
What the hell does he need a Virtue for?
He doesn't even like people. Barely talks to anyone. And this isn't some showpiece—this one looked… used.
My mind starts spinning, stupid scenarios popping in like unwanted guests.
Maybe it's a work phone. Maybe he's talking to shady business guys.
Or—worse.
Maybe he talks to her on it.
My jaw tightens. I throw my head back against the headboard. "Nah. Don't be fucking stupid, Arshila.
But the thought won't leave.
The idea of him texting someone, calling someone else in that low voice he uses when he's serious—it makes my stomach twist like barbed wire.
I bury my face in my hands and groan. "I'm losing it. I'm actually losing my damn mind."
But my eyes still flick to the door. To his room.
Because for all the secrets I think he's hiding, I know one thing for sure—whatever's in that phone? It's not just business.
And I'm not sure if I'm ready to find out what the hell he's really hiding behind that calm, quiet face that already owns too much of my head.
The room's quiet, but my brain isn't. It's chewing through thoughts like it hasn't eaten in years. That phone photo's still glowing on my screen, mocking me, whispering all the things I don't want to think about.
Zayan's voice keeps replaying in my head, that one line he said back at his grandfather's house—
"If you see me in a situation you can't handle… what will you do?"
And the way he said it…
not casual.
Not teasing.
Not the kind of question a normal person asks.
God, he wasn't joking.
The memory hits like a slap, and I feel that same chill crawl down my spine, cold and electric. I grip the blanket tighter around me, staring at nothing, breathing shallow.
What situation was he talking about? What the hell could be so bad that he had to warn me in that tone?
My eyes flick back to the phone on the screen. That Virtue device. The one that looks like it knows every secret in the world. Like it's seen shit no one should.
Maybe that's where his "situation" lives.
Maybe that's where he hides it.
And suddenly all the weird moments start connecting in the back of my mind like puzzle pieces I didn't even realize I was holding—
the way he's always one step ahead,
the way he knows things he shouldn't,
how he can make anyone shut up with just a look.
It's like he's not just controlling the room—he's controlling the fucking world around it.
My pulse jumps when I think about the way he looked at me earlier, standing in the dark like a calm storm. There's something about him that doesn't feel human. Not the supernatural bullshit kind—just the too real kind. The kind that's too much. Too aware. Too controlled.
He scares me, but not because he might hurt me.
He scares me because he could—and he chooses not to.
That kind of restraint? That's not normal. That's power wrapped in silence.
I throw the blanket off and get up, pacing the room like a lunatic. My hands are restless, my head buzzing. I can still hear the faint sound of the shower stopping earlier, the sound of him moving around in the next room.
He's probably lying there right now, calm as hell, like he didn't just leave me with a mind full of what-the-fuck.
I bite my lip, pacing faster. "What are you, Zayan?" I whisper, half to myself, half to the walls. "Because you sure as fuck aren't just another billionaire with issues."
The thought of him having that phone—encrypted, secret, untouchable—makes my skin prickle. What kind of man needs that level of control?
What kind of life needs that much security?
It's like everything about him screams don't look closer, which obviously makes me want to look even more.
I flop back down on the bed, staring at the ceiling. My thoughts won't stop spiraling.
He said it like a warning.
He meant it like one.
"If you see me in a situation you can't handle…"
My throat goes dry.
What situation?
What's he hiding behind that perfect, cold face and the silence that feels heavier than any lie?
I exhale slow, the air thick in my chest, and whisper into the dark—
"What are you hiding, Zayan?"