Arshila's pov
This mansion never fucking ends.
Every hallway looks like it was designed to confuse me on purpose—like a maze made of expensive marble and silence. Four months. Four damn months since the marriage, and I still haven't seen this place entirely. Either Zayan's got a fetish for secret corridors, or this house breeds new rooms overnight.
Right now, I'm on the east side—or west—honestly, I've lost track. All I know is it's the green part. Plants everywhere. Huge glass ceilings, sunlight spilling in like it owns the place, vines climbing columns like they're paid to do it. It's beautiful in that unreal, too-perfect way. The air smells fresh here, a little damp, a little wild.
But my head? Still stuck on yesterday.
That damn phone. That damn man.
Zayan Tavarian and his million-dollar secrets.
I keep walking between the rows of plants, my sneakers squeaking against the floor. My mind's a mess—spinning between logic, curiosity, and straight-up insanity.
How the fuck am I supposed to find out what he's hiding? If he's this careful, there's no way I'll stumble on it by accident. He probably has cameras in his toothbrush.
But what if he knows I'm looking?
The thought stops me cold. My breath catches. My pulse skips.
Then I shake my head, muttering to myself, "Let him know. Fuck it. Let him. I need answers."
If he wants to play dangerous, fine. I can play too.
I grab a leaf from the nearest plant and tear it in half, like that somehow helps me think. "I should track shit," I mumble under my breath. "Yeah, like actual notes—my own investigation board or something. Dates, things he says, where he goes, who he calls…"
I snort at myself. "Congratulations, Arshila, you're officially the dumb wife with a detective arc."
But still—
It makes sense.
I need a journal. Or a fucking diary. Something I can lock and hide.
Except… I don't have one. And it's not like I can just walk into a stationery shop like a normal human. I haven't gone out alone since the wedding. Zayan's either driving, sending a driver, or having someone follow me like I'm the country's nuclear code.
I groan. "Fuck, what should I do?"
My brain starts listing names. Izar? Hell no. That guy's like a polite, robotic clone of Zayan. Probably reports everything straight to him before I even hang up the call.
I keep climbing the stairs at the side of the mansion, the ones wrapped around the indoor garden, sunlight slashing across the steps. Every step creaks under my foot, echoing like a secret. The plants grow thicker as I go up, like they're trying to reach me before I reach the top.
It's stupidly pretty here—like a movie set. For a second, I forget I'm supposed to be anxious. Then my brain kicks back in.
Eshan.
I could call Eshan. He's nice. Chill. The only one among those three who doesn't look like he'd sell souls for fun. But also… he's close to Zayan. Too close. One wrong word, and it's game over for me.
I stop at the turn of the staircase, muttering, "Nope. Not him. Not the fucking prince either. Rafaen's got that weird royal enigma energy—like he reads minds and judges your bloodline at the same time."
So basically, I have no one. Fantastic.
When I finally reach the top, I step onto a balcony that overlooks half the estate. And holy shit.
The view hits like a punch. The whole property stretches out—gardens, fountains, private roads, a damn helipad. The sun reflects off the water far out near the edge, where the property line meets the horizon. I lean on the railing, shaking my head.
"How much do you even own, Tavarian?" I mutter. "This place alone could buy countries."
And it's not even exaggeration. The mansion isn't just big—it's excessive. The kind of place where silence feels rich, and the air itself costs something.
My fingers tighten on the rail.
I need to track everything. Every corner of this house, every move he makes. Because one thing's clear—if I don't figure him out first, I'll end up lost in his world completely.
I exhale, whispering, "Survive him, Arshila. That's the point. Survive him before he ruins you."
And then, as if on cue—
Engines.
Loud ones.
The sound rumbles from the front yard, cutting through the still air. I lean over the balcony, squinting at the drive below.
Three cars slide into the circular driveway like they own it—sleek, expensive, shameless. A Porsche. A Ferrari. A BMW.
I blink. Then groan. "Oh, fucking hell. The three idiots are here."
Eshan, Razmir, Rafaen—the Sovereigns. Zayan's unholy trio of chaos.
My stomach drops, but not from fear. From the realization that things are about to get louder, crazier, and probably ten times more complicated.
Shaiza used to talk about him like he was a fucking religion. The prince. Rafaen Nazrani. Every goddamn day. His name came out of her mouth like a prayer, like she was personally fueling the royal ego economy.
"Did you see the prince's new interview?"
"No, Shaiza, I have a life."
"His accent's so clean, it sounds illegal."
"Shaiza, so is my patience right now."
But she never cared. She'd break up with a guy just because he didn't look like the prince. Like, girl, what kind of delusional fairy-tale audition are you running?
And me? I never even saw the dude. Not once. I read the papers, I watch the damn news, but somehow his face just—never registered. I probably scrolled past it thinking it was some cologne ad or luxury watch promo.
But now?
Now that I know him?
Now that I see him every week—three days minimum, sometimes four if fate decides to mess with me personally—his face is everywhere. In my head. My line of sight. My fucking periphery.
Every time those engines roll in, that red Ferrari leading like some royal parade, I know it's him. And somehow, I always end up near a window. Or a balcony. Or anywhere the universe decides I should accidentally witness the Sovereigns showing up like sin in human form.
I swear, fate's got jokes.
The prince—Rafaen Izaan Nazrani.
Yeah, that one. The one girls lose sleep over, the one Shaiza cried over during her third breakup. The one she said "set the standard of men too high."
And here I am, seeing him all the fucking time because apparently, my husband's best friends are a royal lineup straight out of hell's GQ issue.
The thought makes me snort. I lean against the balcony rail, squinting down at the scene below.
Eshan's laughing about something, all clean and smug, Razmir's arguing with the driver like he owns the company, and the prince—of course—looks like he walked out of a propaganda poster for divine genetics.
I can't even blame Shaiza at this point. He's too put-together. Too untouchable. Like he knows the world bends for him, and he's bored of it already. It's that kind of arrogance that's magnetic. Infuriatingly magnetic.
"Fucking hell, Shaiza," I mutter, shaking my head. "If you saw him up close, you'd combust. Instantly."
But still—it's weird, right? How I never noticed his face before all this? How now, every damn thing connects back to him, to Zayan, to this entire fucked-up universe I'm married into?
Like fate took one look at my life and said, 'Let's turn her existence into a high-budget fever dream.'
I sigh, pushing off the railing. My reflection catches in the glass wall beside me—hair messy, eyes sharp, mouth curved in that half-smirk I didn't even notice forming. "You're smiling again," I whisper to myself. "You're getting too used to this."
I shake it off, grabbing my phone from my pocket. "Alright," I mutter, "before the three royal dumbasses start yelling my name from the front like a bunch of overgrown frat boys, I better get to the main house."
Because they will.
They always do.
They'll barge in, loud, charming, chaos incarnate—and Zayan will be there, calm in the middle of it all, like the storm starts and ends with him.
And me?
I'll pretend I'm just another bystander.
Not the girl slowly realizing she's surrounded by danger wearing tailored suits and sin-smirks.
"Fate's a twisted little bitch," I murmur, stepping away from the balcony. "And apparently, she's got a type."
________________
ZAYAN POV
The sound of engines hits before I even see them—three distinct roars that could wake the dead and piss off every bird in the radius.
I'm standing in the foyer, arms crossed, mask of patience on, waiting for the circus to unload.
Eshan steps out first, sunglasses on indoors type of smug. Razmir follows, already talking like someone asked for his opinion. And last—Rafaen Nazrani, the royal pain in the ass himself—moving like the floor owes him gratitude.
They walk in like they own the place, because of course they do. My mansion's their second home, my peace their playground.
"You guys need girlfriends," I say flatly as they stroll through the doors. "Normal people don't show up at another man's house every other day."
Eshan grins. "Nah, we fucking love you, man."
"Yeah," Razmir adds, already throwing his jacket over the nearest chair. "You're too entertaining to replace."
Rafaen doesn't say shit, just gives me that low, lazy smile that says you missed us and you know it.
I roll my eyes. "Tragic."
Before I can walk off, they drag me inside like I don't own the house. We end up in the living room, sunlight spilling through the tall windows, tension and expensive silence mixing with their loud energy.
Razmir collapses on the couch like it's his throne. "So, where's she?"
I raise a brow. "You came to see her? Not me?"
Eshan laughs, sprawled out next to him. "Of course, man. we see you every day. Your wife's the new entertainment."
I don't reply. Just glance at Rafaen—who's already scanning the place like he's tracking her scent. His gaze flicks between the hallway and the stairs, sharp and focused, like he's not even pretending it's casual.
Of course he's looking for her. The prince always gets curious about the things he can't have.
He's about to reach for his phone, probably to call her and act like he's joking, when she walks in from the side corridor—head tilted, hair slightly messy, shirt untucked like she ran through plants again.
And fuck, just like that, the air shifts.
Eshan's grin widens. "There she is! Where were you, bitch?"
Her brows shoot up. "Bitch? Did you just call me bitch?"
The way she says it—sharp, slow, dangerous—it makes Eshan freeze mid-laugh. Then she smirks, folds her arms, and steps closer. "You've got a death wish or just no vocabulary?"
Razmir chuckles under his breath. "This is gonna be good."
I lean back against the couch arm, watching, arms crossed, keeping my face blank but inside? I'm fucking grinning. She's fire in a world that keeps trying to stay pretty.
"Relax, Arsh," Eshan says, hands up in surrender. "You know it's a friendly insult."
"Then I should try one too." She taps her chin. "How about 'annoying piece of—'"
"Okay!" I cut in before she finishes, mostly because I don't want her to actually murder my best friend in my living room.
The tension breaks into half-laughter, half-chaos as she drops onto the single couch, legs crossed, like she owns the damn room now.
Razmir looks at her, smirk curving slow. "You always this aggressive, or does marriage come with extra fire?"
She shoots back instantly. "You always this boring, or does misogyny come with your bloodline?"
Eshan whistles low. Rafaen smirks, settling back, clearly entertained.
Razmir doesn't flinch. "I'm not a misogynist, sweetheart. I just understand women better than they understand themselves."
"Oh yeah?" she leans forward, elbows on her knees. "Did one tell you that or is it written in your imaginary handbook of delusion?"
The grin that pulls on Razmir's face is pure provocation. "Met one yesterday," he says casually, "talked too much, thought she was special. Spoiler—she wasn't."
Rafaen snorts. "You really have a way with words, man."
Arshila's eyes narrow. "You mean you fucked her?"
Razmir shrugs, unbothered. "Yeah. I do that sometimes."
Her lips part for a second, disbelief flickering before it morphs into that dangerous little smile that always means someone's about to regret their life choices. "You're the best example of garbage I've seen in human form."
Eshan bursts out laughing. Rafaen bites back a grin.
Razmir just smirks deeper, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, matching her tone. "Garbage still gets recycled, sweetheart. You sure you don't wanna try fixing me?"
She tilts her head. "I'd rather recycle actual trash. At least it doesn't talk."
And that right there—silences the entire room for a beat.
Eshan's mouth drops open. Rafaen covers his laugh with his hand.
Razmir just chuckles, low and dangerous. "Touché."
I can't help it—I grin, slow, dragging my tongue across the back of my teeth, trying not to show how fucking entertained I am. God, she's chaos. Brilliant, reckless chaos.
Razmir doesn't know he's dealing with a bomb disguised as a wife. And I'm sitting here, watching her burn him alive in his own debate, feeling that twisted thrill in my chest.
God, he just woke the fire side of her. And I'm fucking thrilled to see her burn.
She sits back, eyes still locked on him, like she's daring him to try again. He doesn't. Not this round.
Eshan finally breathes out. "Okay, wow, remind me never to piss her off."
Rafaen chuckles quietly. "You wouldn't survive it."
She smiles, all teeth. "None of you would."
And me? I don't say a word. I just watch. Calm on the outside, fucking addicted on the inside.
Because seeing her like this—alive, sharp, unapologetic—it's better than any silence I've ever built around myself.
She doesn't even realize it, but right now, she owns the whole room.
And I don't mind it one bit.
The room's still humming from her last line. That sharp, clean hit that shut Razmir up and made the air heavier. She's leaning back in the chair like she just won a fucking war, chin tilted, eyes still locked on him. The fire hasn't burned out yet—it's still crackling behind her eyes.
Razmir recovers slow, smirk tugging back at the corner of his mouth. "You act like you're fucking something," he says lazily, "but you don't even know basic maths."
Her head snaps toward him so fast, the air shifts. "Oh yeah?" she bites out. "And you don't even know the difference between a metaphor and a simile."
Eshan chokes on his drink. Rafaen laughs under his breath. I drag a hand across my jaw, trying not to smile but fuck—it's impossible.
Razmir just stares at her for a second, the smirk fading, like he's realizing he's not winning this one.
She leans forward, voice lower now, sharper. "Just because you know something doesn't mean I'm not better at something else. Got it?"
He blinks once, then that slow smirk crawls back onto his face. "God, you're my type. Can I marry you?"
My jaw tightens.
My eyes cut to him before I can even think. That lazy grin drops the second our eyes meet. He looks away instantly, pretending to be fascinated by the floor.
Fucker.
She laughs—a short, dark sound that slices through the silence. "Get on your knees, then maybe I'll consider. If I feel like it."
Eshan whistles. "Damn, girl. You've got teeth."
Rafaen's still leaning back in the corner of the couch, watching her like she's a painting that just came to life. There's this faint dimple pulling at his cheek, and the second I catch it, irritation coils low in my stomach.
Don't do that. Don't fucking smile at her like that.
She notices, of course she does, and her mouth curves—not shy, not flattered, just dangerous. Like she knows the effect she's having on all of them and doesn't mind letting it burn a little longer.
The conversation slides on, fast, messy—Eshan cracking dumb jokes, Razmir trying too hard to sound clever again, Rafaen adding quiet one-liners that make her laugh under her breath. And me? I'm just there, watching the chaos swirl around her.
She fits in too easily. That's the problem. She's supposed to be the outsider, the storm they weren't expecting—but she's already dictating the weather. The way she talks, moves, laughs—it's magnetic. Infuriatingly magnetic.
I can feel that familiar pull again—the one that drags my focus straight to her no matter what else is happening. The way she tilts her head when she's about to roast someone, the spark that lives in her eyes like she's made of heat and rebellion.
Razmir says something else, another half-provocation, and she fires back without even blinking. They're both grinning now, verbal knives in hand, throwing them like it's foreplay.
And somewhere in the middle of all that noise, I realize my hand's gripping the armrest too tight.
"Enough," I say, quiet but sharp.
The word slices through everything.
The laughter stops. The banter freezes. Even the air feels different.
Her head turns toward me slowly, eyes widening just a fraction. For the first time in the last ten minutes, she doesn't have a comeback.
"Enough," I repeat, this time softer. "You talk too much."
It's not even what I meant to say. It just slips out, low and unfiltered.
She blinks at me, stunned for half a second, and then her mouth opens—probably to argue—but I'm already standing.
The space between us feels smaller than it is. The air's thick, heavy, wired. My pulse is steady, but my thoughts aren't.
I move toward the open kitchen, ignoring the way her gaze follows me, the way I can still feel her voice on my skin.
Fuck.
If I look at her one more time, maybe I'll kiss that fucking mouth right in front of everyone.
And I can't do that. Not here. Not yet.
So I keep walking, jaw tight, hands shoved into my pockets, pretending I'm just bored. But inside—
I'm wired like a live current.
Because watching her like that, fighting them, owning the room—
It's the most dangerous kind of beautiful I've ever seen.
__________________
ARSHILA'S POV
The second he says enough, my whole body freezes.
Not because he yelled—he didn't.
It's the way he said it.
Quiet. Sharp.
Like that one word carried the weight to shut down the entire damn world.
Everyone goes still. Razmir's mid-smirk, Eshan's half-laughing, Rafaen's just staring—and I'm sitting there with my tongue caught between my teeth like a fucking idiot.
My brain's like: What the actual fuck just happened?
I blink at him, but he's not looking at me. Not anymore. He's already on his feet, calm as hell, like he didn't just slice the air in half with one word.
Zayan moves slow, deliberate, toward the open kitchen near that far corner. The space is huge and dim and stupidly expensive-looking, but right now, all I can see is him.
And then—
he grabs the hem of his t-shirt, pulls it over his head, and throws it on the chair like it personally offended him.
My mouth actually opens.
What. The. Fuck.
Every muscle in my body goes on alert because—holy fucking hell—his back.
That back should be illegal.
Sharp shoulders, deep lines, that stupid little dip of his spine disappearing into a waistband that sits just low enough to make me want to commit crimes.
That waist? Too narrow.
That skin? Too smooth.
That entire existence? Too much.
What the hell is happening right now?
He just keeps walking, slow, casual, like he didn't just take off his shirt in a room full of people. I blink, look at the others—and yeah, great, they're all eye-fucking him too.
Razmir's half-grinning again, Rafaen's got that calm, unreadable face but his eyes definitely moved lower, and Eshan—fucking Eshan—looks way too amused.
"What the hell is he doing?" I hiss, turning to them.
Eshan looks at me like I just asked why fire burns. "You don't know?"
"What?" I snap.
He raises a brow, totally serious. "Your husband always goes shirtless when he cooks."
I just stare. For a good five seconds. My brain refuses to process that sentence. "He what?"
Eshan shrugs like it's the most normal shit ever. "Yeah. It's like—his thing. Dude can't touch a pan without stripping first."
Rafaen chuckles quietly, his voice smooth as ever. "To be fair, he's a damn good cook. So maybe it's a ritual."
A ritual? A ritual?
I'm sitting here losing brain cells while my husband's out there living his topless chef fantasy.
My jaw literally drops. "He can cook?"
Razmir leans back, all smirk again. "He doesn't just cook. He fucking owns the kitchen."
I blink, dumbfounded. "Adam fucking Zayan Tavarian… knows how to cook?"
Eshan's grin widens. "Knows how to? Babe, he's obsessed. He cooks when he's pissed, when he's happy, when he's bored. Basically, if he's not breaking someone's ego, he's chopping onions."
I'm sitting there, staring at the kitchen where he's moving like he belongs there, shoulders flexing, hands working with that same cold control he has everywhere else.
It's unreal.
He looks like sin in motion, like the air bends for him even when he's doing something as stupidly normal as reaching for a pan.
He flips something on the counter, voice low as he mutters under his breath, focused as hell.
And all I can think is—
What the fuck kind of man cooks shirtless in his billion-dollar mansion like it's foreplay?
I swear my brain's short-circuiting.
He's standing there, completely unfazed, like this is just another Tuesday night. And I'm sitting here questioning every single decision I've made since marrying him.
Because apparently, my husband—the cold, unreadable, too-perfect-to-be-real Adam Zayan Tavarian—
cooks shirtless when he feels things.
And fuck me, I don't know if that's terrifying or the hottest thing I've ever seen.
I stare at them. Then back at him.
Zayan's there, barefoot on marble, shirtless, muscles moving under that smooth skin as he tosses something in the pan, calm as ever.
"What the fuck…" I whisper, almost laughing because my brain doesn't know what else to do.
Adam fucking Zayan Tavarian knows how to cook??