Zayan's POV —
---
Lunch's loud.
Too loud.
Eshan's running his mouth as usual, Razmir's laughing like he's the goddamn soundtrack to chaos, and Arshila's right in the middle of it—laughing, throwing comebacks, eyes bright, shoulders relaxed.
Like she actually belongs in this room full of men who bite before they bark.
I'm not even pretending to join in.
I just sit there, eating, slow, quiet, watching.
She doesn't see me looking, but I don't miss a fucking thing.
The way she keeps touching her hair when she laughs, or how she leans forward a little when she talks.
Her voice—it's got this spark. Cuts through the noise, makes everything else sound like background static.
And then she turns toward Rafaen.
Of course.
The golden one.
The calm, clean, princely bastard with his soft-spoken voice and those dimples that only show when he lets his mask slip for half a second.
Nazrani perfection, my ass.
He's sitting across from her, posture easy, that quiet confidence that pisses me off more than Razmir's smirk ever could. Because Rafaen doesn't need to try. People just orbit him. And I hate how fucking aware I am of that.
She's talking, waving her fork a little, grinning.
"You know, my friend Shaiza is so obsessed with you, dude."
I don't react, but my grip on the fork tightens.
Rafaen turns his head slightly, eyes on her, that lazy interest flickering for a moment.
"She is?"
Arshila nods, still smiling. "Yeah. She literally dumped her boyfriend after seeing one picture of you. Said you were, and I quote, 'Nazrani-level gorgeous.' Whatever the hell that means."
Eshan nearly spits his drink. Razmir starts laughing.
The sound grates.
Rafaen just smiles. That dimple shows up—left cheek, faint, unfair—and it's ridiculous how something that small could piss me off this much.
"She dumped him for me?" he asks, tone quiet.
She laughs. "Apparently. Poor guy didn't even stand a chance."
"Harsh," Eshan mutters.
"Deserved," Razmir says, grinning.
But Rafaen…
He's not laughing.
He looks at her again, something unreadable slipping behind his calm. That Nazrani stillness, the kind that makes you feel like he's ten steps ahead of everyone else.
Then—soft, steady—he asks,
"Would you?"
Everything stills.
My fork freezes halfway to my mouth.
Arshila blinks, caught off guard. "What?"
Rafaen doesn't blink. Doesn't even twitch. "Would you dump Zayan for me?"
And that's it.
The air just stops moving.
I look up, slowly.
She's staring at him, wide-eyed, lips parting like she's trying to find words.
I'm not even breathing. My pulse spikes so hard I can feel it behind my ribs.
Her fingers curl around her glass. That nervous laugh slips out—the one she does when she's cornered but pretending she's not.
"Ha—haha, what? We're not… in love or anything, so there's no point in dumping, right? That'd be weird, haha."
She shuts up quick after that. Looks down at her plate. Starts eating like the world didn't just tilt sideways.
And Rafaen—
He nods, once. Calm.
Then he looks at me.
Our eyes lock.
There's something in his.
Something sharp.
A challenge.
He knows what he just did.
He meant it.
The corner of his mouth twitches—half a smirk, half a warning.
Then he goes back to his food like he didn't just drop a grenade in the middle of the table.
Eshan's pretending to focus on his plate. Razmir looks like he's watching a live boxing match and trying not to cheer.
I keep my face blank, but inside I can feel it—this low, burning irritation building under my skin.
Not jealousy.
Not exactly.
It's possession.
Because I know Rafaen. He doesn't waste words. He doesn't ask unless he means it.
And the way he looked at her—
That wasn't curiosity. That was intent.
I look at her again.
She's quiet now, staring down at her plate, pretending everything's fine. But her shoulders are tense. Her fork's barely moving.
I know that silence.
She's overthinking, replaying, trying not to look up at me.
Good.
Because if she does—
I'm not sure what she'll see in my eyes.
The muscle in my jaw ticks.
I take another bite just to keep from saying something stupid, but the food tastes like nothing.
Across from me, Rafaen lifts his glass, takes a sip, still holding my gaze like it's a fucking game.
There's that same calm, that unbothered control that he uses like a weapon.
But there's a glint underneath.
A spark of something he's not saying.
He's thinking about something.
Something that includes her.
And I can feel it.
He's planning something.
And whatever it is—
I already fucking hate it.
___________________________
ARSHILA'S POV —
---
The air feels thick.
Like no one's breathing right after Rafaen's question detonated across the table.
I can't look at anyone.
Not at him.
Not at him.
My plate's the safest thing in the world right now. The lines on it, the pattern, the damn reflection of the light. Anything but eyes.
Because I know if I look up, I'll see that question hanging between us like smoke.
Would you dump Zayan for me?
Fuck.
I stab my food like it personally offended me. My chest's tight, my face hot. The silence in my head is louder than anything they're saying.
Would I dump him?
No.
No fucking way.
Not even if he never looks at me again.
Not even if I know he doesn't want me the way I want him.
Not even if every part of this marriage burns me down to ash.
Because the thing is—
I love him.
And I don't even know why.
He's cruel in that quiet way that doesn't need words. He doesn't have to yell to hurt me. He just exists and it's enough to undo me.
But I still—God, I still can't stop feeling it.
He doesn't love me.
Fine.
But he's still mine.
At least in name.
And I'd never cheat. Never run. Never touch anyone else, no matter how gentle or perfect or princely they seem.
I'd die before betraying him.
I'm trying to swallow around the lump in my throat when it happens.
His phone rings.
Loud. Sharp.
A clean stab through the silence.
All heads turn. Even mine.
It's right there—on the table, next to his plate.
Screen glowing.
And the name hits me like a slap.
Girlfriend ❤️
Everything inside me stops.
Like my heart just… glitched.
I stare at the screen until it goes blurry. Until my stomach drops and something ugly crawls up my chest.
No one says anything at first.
Zayan's face doesn't move. Not one fucking muscle.
He just reaches out, slow, deliberate, like he's been caught doing something he already decided not to explain.
He flips the phone over.
Silences it.
Calm. Cold. Like it's nothing.
Like I saw nothing.
My pulse is a goddamn thunderstorm. I can feel my nails digging into my palm under the table.
Eshan's the one who breaks the tension.
"Who's that?"
Zayan looks up immediately.
And straight at me.
Eyes locked.
Stillness heavy.
"Mom," he says.
Just that.
Simple. Flat.
Like it's the truth.
But he's looking right at me while saying it.
And I know.
I fucking know.
He's lying.
I saw that name. I saw that heart.
And yet he can sit there, eyes steady, voice calm, and say Mom like it doesn't burn his tongue.
My jaw tightens. My throat feels dry.
Mom?
Really?
You lying bastard.
You're good. Too good.
Even your lies are pretty, like your face.
Neat. Controlled. Polished.
You could tell the world the sky's red and they'd fucking believe you.
I look back down at my plate before the hurt shows.
I stab a piece of food I don't even recognize. My vision's a blur. I can hear Razmir saying something stupid to cut the tension, Eshan laughing nervously, Rafaen's low hum of thought.
But Zayan—
He's still watching me.
I can feel it.
That quiet, unreadable gaze burning holes in my skin.
Like he's daring me to call him out.
To say what I saw.
But I don't.
Because what would I even say?
"Oh, by the way, your girlfriend called while I was busy pretending I wasn't in love with you"?
Pathetic.
So I just chew. Swallow. Pretend it doesn't taste like betrayal.
My chest's tight, my pulse still beating too fast. Every sound feels distant. My head's filled with the echo of that stupid fucking contact name.
Girlfriend ❤️
It loops. Over and over.
And he's sitting right there, calm as ever, eyes lazy, face perfect. Like nothing just cracked open inside me.
I thought he was hard to read before.
But now?
Now I get it.
He's not unreadable.
He's just empty where the truth should be.
And it hits me, right there between the heartbeat and the silence—
maybe that's the real reason he's so beautiful.
Because liars always are.
---
The conversation dies somewhere between numbers and signatures and the sound of Eshan's pen clicking like a ticking bomb. The Sovereigns are deep in their business mode — all power, all calculation — but I can't even pretend to care.
My brain's still stuck at that stupid Red heart on his phone screen.
Girlfriend ❤️
It's like the words branded themselves into my skull. Every time I blink, I see it again. I see his calm face lying straight to mine, eyes steady, voice soft — Mom.
I push my chair back before I can think twice. The sound cuts through their discussion, but I don't look up. I just stand, smooth my shirt, and walk out.
"Where are you going?" someone asks — maybe Razmir, maybe Eshan, I don't give a fuck.
"Somewhere quiet," I mutter, not turning back.
The mansion swallows me whole, every step echoing too loud. When I reach his room, that familiar chill crawls up my spine.
My room's inside his. Hidden. Trapped behind another door like some dark little secret he built to keep me contained but unseen. From the outside, it looks like we share the same space, but inside — it's just me and my silence.
I stare at that door. I hate it. Hate how it feels like a metaphor I never agreed to.
I'm about to reach for the handle when I hear footsteps behind me.
Low. Measured. Too familiar.
I don't turn. I already know who it is.
"Why did you leave?" Zayan's voice, low, unhurried.
I take a breath, don't face him. "Because I wanted to."
"Why?"
I whip around, eyes narrowing. "Is that a problem now?"
He studies me for a second. "No."
Of course not. Just no. Always calm. Always that control that makes me want to throw something.
A faint breeze sneaks in from the half-open window. My hair flies into my face, sticking to my lip gloss. Perfect. Just what I need — wind trying to embarrass me in front of him.
I mutter a curse and cross the room to shut it, slamming the latch hard enough to make a point.
And right then —
his phone rings.
Again.
The sound slices through the quiet like a knife.
I freeze, still facing the window. My stomach knots before I even turn.
When I do, he's already looking at me — expression unreadable, phone in hand, screen lighting his face in that infuriating calm glow.
"Must be your girlfriend again," I say, voice sharper than I meant it to be.
His lips twitch. "Bingo."
Asshole.
I roll my eyes, turn away, muttering under my breath, "Jerk."
He sits down on the edge of the bed, one leg stretched, casual like nothing in this world can touch him. That stupid chain glints against his collarbone. My fingers itch.
"She must be beautiful," I say, settling on the couch by the window, not looking at him.
"She is," he says instantly, eyes still on his phone. No hesitation. No second thought.
Something burns low in my chest. It's small at first — jealousy, maybe. The kind that tastes like metal. But it spreads fast, filling every inch of me with that ugly, tight ache I swore I'd never feel.
I knew about her before this marriage. Everyone did. The ghost in his life he never talked about. The one he chose before I was even in the picture. The one I was never supposed to compete with.
So I can't be jealous.
I don't have the right.
Still… I am.
He looks up suddenly, phone still in hand. "Wanna see her?"
I laugh — too sharp. "Why would I?"
"I don't know." He shrugs, eyes back on the screen. "Maybe then you can stop guessing. Clear your doubts."
"Oh please," I scoff, but my voice comes out thinner than I want it to.
He looks up again, lazy, smug. "Come. I'll show her to you."
"I don't want to see," I snap.
"Just come, baby."
That one word hits harder than the rest of the conversation combined.
Baby.
My breath catches. My pulse stumbles.
He knows exactly what he's doing — how that word ruins me, how it turns everything soft and messy and dangerous.
I should walk away. I should ignore him.
But I don't.
I just stand there, staring, trying not to let him see the way it messes me up.
Then I mutter, "Yeah. Whatever. I should see her anyway."
My voice is cold, but inside, I'm shaking.
Because maybe this is what I wanted all along — to finally see her. The girl he wanted before me. The one he probably still does. The one he calls when I'm sitting right across from him, pretending it doesn't matter.
Maybe if I see her, I'll understand what I'm missing.
Why he never looks at me the way I look at him.
And maybe then I can stop pretending it doesn't fucking hurt.
I drag my feet toward him, slow, like I'm walking into something I already know will hurt. He's sitting there, head slightly tilted, thumb hovering over the screen. Calm. Collected. Cruel without even trying.
The bed dips when I stop near it. I cross my arms, biting the inside of my cheek to stop from saying something stupid.
"So you're actually gonna show your girlfriend to your wife?" I say, voice low, sharp. "That's new."
He doesn't even flinch. Just taps the screen once.
Video call.
I blink. "You're kidding me."
The ring tone fills the room, loud, echoing off the walls like some twisted countdown. My pulse syncs to it. My throat's dry.
He doesn't look at me — he's watching the screen. Waiting. Smirking like this is a game he's been dying to play.
"Waah," I mutter under my breath, shaking my head. He's actually doing it. Showing his girlfriend to his wife through a damn video call. Impressive, Tavarian.
The phone buzzes again, then clicks.
Connected.
And before I can roll my eyes or spit another line at him, the face on the screen appears.
The air leaves my lungs.
My words die in my throat.
Because the "girlfriend" staring back at me
is
His
mother.