ARSHILA'S POV —
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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.
I freeze. Completely.
Zayan just leans back, calm as fuck, like he didn't just drop a bomb in the middle of my ego.
And then she beams. "Hey, baby!!!"
I blink. "Oh—uh, hi… mom"
My voice comes out too high, too nervous, like I just got caught doing something illegal.
She smiles brighter. "You fine, huh??"
I force this awkward grin that probably looks like pain. "Y-yeah. Totally fine."
"Of course I'm fine!" she says, laughing, all warmth and glow. Then she turns her eyes on him. "You brat, what did you do to her?? Why didn't you pick my call??"
He exhales through his nose, lazy. "I was busy, Mom."
"Busy?" she shoots back. "You were busy ignoring your mother. Typical."
I want the ground to open up and swallow me. The humiliation's crawling up my neck, hot and prickly. I just watched this man's phone light up with Girlfriend and now his mom's on the screen yelling at him while I stand there like an idiot who jumped to conclusions.
She waves, smiling at me again. "Bye, sweetheart. Take care, okay?"
"Uh—bye," I mumble, waving back.
Then she looks at him. "And you, call me back, mister."
The call cuts.
Silence.
I just stand there, blinking at the black screen, my brain short-circuiting between what the fuck just happened and kill me now.
Then he looks up at me. That damn smirk hiding at the corner of his mouth.
"Isn't she too pretty to be my girlfriend?" he asks, tone way too casual.
I gape at him. "You—what—" I sound dumb. I am dumb. "You saved your mother as girlfriend? What the hell, Zayan?"
He doesn't even blink. "Yes. I did."
I stare. "Why?"
He leans forward, elbows on his knees, voice low. "Because she's the first woman in my life. The one who raised me."
I scoff, arms crossing automatically. "So?"
He lifts his head, eyes meeting mine, voice softer now but still cutting through the room like smoke. "So she deserves a name that no one else ever will."
And that one sentence—
hits harder than I'll ever admit.
"You're weird," I mutter, half under my breath, still staring at the phone like it personally ruined my day.
He chuckles low, like I just said the most predictable thing in the world. "That's the point."
I roll my eyes, drop onto the couch, and sink back, arms crossed. "You're unbelievable, Tavarian."
"Yeah," he says quietly, standing up, running a hand through his hair, "that's what my mother used to say too."
I glance up at him. He's facing the window, not looking at me, but there's something in his posture—this stillness that doesn't feel like control for once. It feels… honest.
"She made me the man you see today," he says suddenly.
My eyes narrow a little. "Meaning?"
He turns then. The light from the window hits half his face, and for a second, he looks less like the guy who plays god in every room he walks into and more like someone real. Someone I don't know yet.
"When my grandfather started molding me into what he wanted," he starts, voice even, "my mother was the one who made sure I didn't lose what I already was."
I blink. "Your grandfather—"
"He made me a tool," Zayan cuts in, not angry, not bitter—just matter-of-fact. "He taught me power. Strategy. The kind of cold logic you need when you're born Tavarian."
His jaw flexes. He looks out the window again.
"But my mom," he goes on, quieter now, "she taught me how to be human."
That pulls something in my chest I don't want to name.
He walks to the edge of the bed, sits, elbows on his knees. "She taught me how to cook when I was four."
I blink. "Four?"
He nods once. "Yeah. After everyone left. The staff, the guards, everyone. She'd send them away. Lock the doors. Just me and her in that oversized kitchen. We'd stand on stools because I couldn't reach the counter."
His lips twitch like the memory is both stupid and sacred.
"She made it a secret," he continues. "Because if my grandfather found out, he'd have her fired from her own house."
That makes me straighten a little. "He'd—"
"Yeah." He smirks faintly, no humor in it. "In his world, Tavarian men don't cook. We command. We eat. We take. But she—she never gave a fuck about his rules. She said, 'If you can't fill your own stomach with your own hands, you're still depending on someone. And if you're depending on someone, you're not powerful or untouchable.'"
My throat tightens before I can stop it.
He leans back, fingers tracing the edge of that chain on his neck like it's a nervous habit. "She taught me laundry. Cleaning. Every single chore. Said I should know what it means to take care of my own mess before I expect anyone to do it for me."
There's a pause. The kind that stretches but doesn't break.
"Every time I messed up," he says softly, "she didn't yell. She'd just say, 'Try again, baby. You're allowed to fail, but you're not allowed to quit.'"
I'm sitting there, silent, barely breathing, eyes fixed on him like he's unraveling something I didn't think existed under all that control.
"She used to sneak into my room at night," he adds after a second. "When my grandfather was still awake downstairs, handling his empire. She'd bring me food she made herself. Real food. Warm. Messy. The kind that didn't taste like money. It tasted like her."
I can't look away.
He laughs once, quiet and rough. "She said kindness doesn't make you weak. It makes you someone people want to follow without being told to."
Then his gaze lifts to mine, slow, dark, but softer than I've ever seen it. "She told me to always help people, even when they don't deserve it. To take care of what's mine. To protect it like it's the only thing that matters."
The words hang there.
And I can feel them sink in.
He isn't bragging. He isn't performing.
He's just—telling me. Like it's not a secret, but it's sacred.
I swallow. My voice comes out low, hesitant. "You really learned to cook at four?"
He smiles then—small, quiet, real. "I burned half the kitchen the first time. She laughed so hard she almost cried. Said I had Tavarian blood and Tavarian timing—always going up in flames when things got good."
I laugh softly before I realize I did.
And he hears it. His eyes flick up, catching mine, and something heavy moves between us.
The silence after that feels different. Not awkward. Not charged. Just—human.
He watches me for a second longer, then says, "She's the only person who could ever make me listen without saying a word."
I nod, slowly. "She sounds… kind of perfect."
He looks away, exhales through his nose. "She's not. But she's mine."
And somehow, that's even better.
I sit there, staring at him, realizing maybe for the first time that all the sharp, cold control he walks around with didn't just come from his bloodline. It came from trying to balance two worlds—one that taught him to rule, and one that taught him to feel.
And maybe that's why he's so fucking hard to read.
Because part of him still belongs to that quiet kitchen at four years old, with a mother who taught him to hold a knife and a heart at the same time.
"So you're a mama's boy," I say, tone flat but my heart's drumming so loud I can almost hear it.
He doesn't even hesitate. "Of course I am."
It's the way he says it — not defensive, not shy — just unapologetic. Like it's the most obvious thing in the damn world.
I huff a laugh, shake my head a little. "You're not even gonna deny it, huh?"
"Why would I?" He tilts his head slightly, that slow Tavarian way he does when he's about to say something that crawls under your skin. "She's my mother. The only person I've never had to doubt."
His words hit harder than I want them to. My throat feels dry. I try to keep it light. "So what, she's like your whole moral compass or something?"
He smirks faintly. "Something like that. She's the only one who ever saw me before the world decided who I was supposed to be."
I look at him for a second too long. The chain around his neck catches the light again — that stupid locket that always sits right against his collarbone. He's tracing it absently with his thumb, eyes on me now, calm but too intense.
The room feels smaller. The air thicker.
And I don't know what the hell gets into me, but the question slips out before I can stop it.
"If you had to choose between me and your mom," I say quietly, voice lower than I mean it to be, "who would you choose?"
The second it's out, I want to pull it back.
But it's too late.
The words just hang there, between us — ugly, desperate, real.
He stills.
His jaw tightens for half a second. Then his eyes lift to mine — steady, unreadable, locked in. He doesn't flinch. Doesn't blink. Doesn't even pretend to think about it.
He just holds my gaze, and says,
"My mom."
Of course. What else did you expect, Arshila?
I should've known.
He said it without blinking, without hesitation.
My mom.
And for a second, it burns — not because I wanted him to say me, but because he said it so easily. Like it was carved into him, permanent.
But then he exhales, slow, almost like he can hear what's going on inside my head.
And when he finally speaks again, his tone changes — lower, heavier, the kind that makes you forget how to breathe right.
"She taught me how to love," he says, voice steady but quiet enough to feel like a confession. "And how to take care of what's mine."
My eyes flick to his. He's not looking at me, not yet. His gaze is on the floor, jaw set, fingers tapping against his knee like he's holding back something sharper.
"She taught me the difference between a wife and a mother," he continues, still calm, but his voice drags like heat through smoke. "Said a mother makes you, but a wife remakes you. A mother gives you life. A wife gives you reason."
The air in my chest stalls.
He finally looks at me. Just looks — no smirk, no mask, no Tavarian arrogance. Just him. Bare, grounded, terrifyingly honest.
"And if I have to choose between you and her…" he pauses for half a second, enough for my stomach to twist. "…I'd choose you."
I freeze.
He's still watching me, expression unreadable, like he's waiting to see if I'll flinch or fight back. But I can't. I can't even fucking breathe.
The words echo, slow and dangerous. I'd choose you.
It's not romantic. It's not sweet. It's too raw for that. It sounds like a line cut out of a vow he wasn't supposed to say out loud.
My throat tightens, the question slips out before I can stop it.
"Why?"
It comes out as a whisper — barely air, but enough to pull his attention like gravity.
He leans forward, elbows on his knees again, eyes still locked on mine.
"That's how it works," he says simply. "If I chose her instead of you, she'd be disappointed in me. She'd think she failed somewhere."
My brows pull together. "Failed?"
He nods once, slow. "Yeah. My mom didn't raise me to worship her. She raised me to stand beside someone, not behind her. To build a life with my wife, not cling to the one who gave me mine."
His voice gets lower, rougher. "She's my mother, Arshila. But you're my wife. There's a fucking difference."
The room feels too quiet after that — like everything just stopped listening, waiting for what comes next.
He drags a hand through his hair, leans back again, and lets out a short breath, almost a laugh, but darker. "And besides…" His eyes cut to mine, that dangerous gleam back in them. "Why the hell would I choose my father's wife instead of mine?"
I blink, caught off guard. "What?"
He tilts his head, that small twitch at the corner of his mouth that always feels like he's one thought away from chaos. "She's his wife, not mine. That's how she wants it. That's how she taught me to see it. You protect your mother, but you belong to your wife."
My pulse kicks hard enough that I swear he can hear it.
He's calm again, maddeningly calm, like he didn't just say something that could break a person open. "She always said, 'One day, someone will come along and love you with the same fire you were born with. Don't burn her. Match her.'"
I can't say a damn thing. I just sit there, hands clenched in my lap, his words looping in my head like a song I didn't ask to memorize.
He leans forward again, elbows on his knees, voice lower now. "She taught me to be loyal to the woman who stands beside me, not the ones who stood before her."
Something in my chest flickers — small, scared, alive.
He watches me for a second, like he can see it, like he's studying every twitch, every breath.
Then he smirks — soft, dangerous. "So yeah. I'm a mama's boy. But even she'd slap the shit out of me if I chose her over you."She'd say I didn't stand on those kitchen stools all those years just to forget who I'm supposed to feed now."
I don't move.
Can't.
Because the thing about Zayan Tavarian?
He doesn't talk to fill silence.
He talks to rearrange the space inside you until it stops belonging to you.
And right now, he just did.