ZAYAN — POV
"I'll give you your mommy back," I say finally.
The words don't feel like relief.
They feel like a sentence.
I sit there and let it press into me.
No movement. No clever exits.
Just the weight of it settling where it plans to stay.
"When you get your mommy back," I add, voice barely there, "I will lose my wife forever."
The cat doesn't move.
Doesn't blink.
Judges me in silence like I deserve worse.
I lean back into the couch, spine sinking, head dropping against the headrest. The leather creaks. The ceiling stares back at me, white and stupid and innocent. I laugh under my breath because of course it is.
"She deserves the truth," I mutter to nobody. "Every ugly, fucked-up piece of it."
My chest tightens. Not panic. Not regret. Something uglier. Something honest.
"And the rest?" I exhale. "That's on her."
I picture her face when she finds out. The way her mouth goes sharp when she's hurt. The way her eyes go dead quiet before she explodes. God, she's going to hate me so beautifully.
"I'm a terrible person for her," I say softly. "Poison wrapped in money and control."
My jaw flexes.
"But she's the one keeping me breathing."
That part lands harder than everything else.
I close my eyes for a second. Just one. And of course my brain betrays me immediately. Her legs hooked around my waist. Her mouth on my throat. Her voice saying my name like it's a warning and a promise at the same time.
Fuck.
I open my eyes again, annoyed at myself, annoyed at how deep this goes. She lives in my head rent-free and rearranges the furniture while she's at it.
My phone vibrates.
Once.
Sharp.
I don't move at first. I already know.
Then I pick it up.
where the fuck are you husband??
I stare at the screen.
And then I laugh.
Low. Warm. Dangerous.
"Husband," I repeat quietly. "Yeah… okay."
My thumbs move before my conscience can interfere.
somewhere in the house. find me if you can.
I send it.
Immediately regret nothing.
I can already see it—her rolling her eyes, swearing under her breath, stomping through hallways like she's on a mission. She's stubborn like it's a survival skill. No patience. No fear. No sense of self-preservation when she's annoyed.
Which is exactly why I married her.
I push myself up from the couch and look down at the furball menace still perched like he owns the room.
"I'm going," I tell him. "Before she comes to drag me out by my collar."
He flicks his tail.
"She doesn't have brakes," I add. "Or mercy. Or any concept of leaving things alone."
Another meow. Judgy. Personal.
I smirk. "Yeah. Pray for me."
I head for the door, hand on the handle, storm still rumbling outside like it knows something's coming. Before I leave, I glance back once.
At the room.
At the secret.
At the cost.
"Behave," I say.
Then I step out.
And walk straight toward the woman who's going to ruin me.
____________&_____________&_&__________
ARSHILA — POV
I stare at my phone like it personally offended me.
I'm somewhere in the house. Find me if you can.
I scoff. Out loud. Alone. "How the fuck am I supposed to find you in this rich-people maze?"
The house stares back at me. Quiet. Massive. Smug.
I shove my phone into my pocket. "Fine," I mutter. "Challenge accepted."
I start walking.
Hallway after hallway. Doors on doors. Some open. Some closed. Some rooms look like magazines threw up in them. Others look like nobody's breathed in them for years. No Zayan. No smug face. No stupid smirk.
The deeper I go, the quieter it gets.
Not peaceful quiet.
The kind that makes your skin itch.
Goosebumps crawl up my arms. My spine does that stupid shiver thing like it's trying to warn me but won't explain why. I slow down without meaning to. My footsteps sound too loud now. Like the house is listening.
Okay. Nope.
I'm not doing haunted billionaire mansion today.
I turn around.
And then—
A hand snaps around my wrist.
Strong. Sudden. Unfair.
I yelp as I'm yanked sideways, my back slamming into a wall I didn't even see coming. The air punches out of my lungs. My scream barely makes it out before another hand clamps over my mouth.
Warm. Firm. Familiar.
I freeze.
Heart going absolutely feral.
His breath hits my cheek. Close. Way too close.
"Are you scared, little wife?" he murmurs.
I exhale hard through my nose, fury flooding in now that the shock fades. I shove at his chest. "Fuck off, Zayan. It's not funny."
He doesn't move back.
Of course he doesn't.
Instead, he steps in. Crowds me. Pins me there without actually touching anything except my wrist and my mouth. The wall is cold against my spine. I can't see a damn thing. It's afternoon outside but this room is pitch-black like it swallowed the sun.
"What," I snap, voice betraying me by sounding breathless, "do you have a secret dungeon now?"
His hand slips from my mouth. Slowly. Deliberately.
"I said find me," he replies. Calm. Amused. Dangerous. "You found me."
I swallow.
My pulse is everywhere. Throat. Wrists. Knees. Stupid places.
He leans closer. I feel it before I see it. His breath brushes my lips. Warm. Steady. Like he's not affected at all while my body is acting like it's on fire for no fucking reason.
I press harder into the wall just to put distance somewhere. Anywhere.
"Back up," I mutter.
He doesn't.
Instead, he tilts his head slightly, voice low enough to crawl. "You always do this."
"Do what?" I snap.
"Act brave," he says. "While your body tells on you."
My stomach flips. Traitor.
"Shut up," I whisper. "You literally kidnapped me."
"I saved you from getting lost," he counters. "You were going the wrong way."
"I was going the sane way."
A pause.
Then his mouth curves. I can hear the smirk. Hate that I can hear it.
"You came looking," he says. "Don't pretend you didn't want to find me."
I open my mouth to argue and immediately regret it because his breath slides right between us, close enough that my brain short-circuits.
God. I hate him.
God. I hate that I don't hate this.
And then I smell him.
Fuck.
That should not be a thing. That should not be a sentence that ruins my brain like this. But it does. It hits me slow and deep. Something sharp and clean, like cider, mixed with something darker. Expensive. Warm. Skin-close. The kind of scent that doesn't just sit in the air, it crawls under it.
My body reacts before my dignity can file a complaint.
Heat. Low. Immediate.
Traitorous as hell.
I swallow and try to pull back, but the wall is still there, cold and unhelpful, and he's still too close. Too solid. Too unfairly calm.
"Zayan," I say.
It's supposed to be firm.
It comes out like a plea.
My stomach drops the second I hear it.
"Back off," I add quickly, but my voice betrays me again. Softer. Shaky. Like my body is voting against me in real time.
He doesn't move.
Instead, his breath shifts. A pause. Then—
"Beg."
The word lands heavy.
"What?" I snap, mostly because my brain just blue-screened.
"You heard me," he says, low and maddeningly steady. "Beg, Arshila."
My pulse slams. Hard. Loud. Everywhere.
"I'm not—" I start, then stop because my mouth is dry and my thoughts are messy and his scent is absolutely wrecking me. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"
He hums, amused. "Plenty."
Before I can say anything else, his hand slides to my waist.
Firm. Certain.
He yanks me forward.
I gasp, the sound punching out of me as my body collides with his chest. Solid. Warm. Way too real. Every nerve lights up like it's been waiting for this exact moment to betray me.
"What are you doing?" I blurt, hands flying up instinctively, landing on his shirt just to steady myself.
He doesn't hesitate. "Touching you."
My brain short-circuits again. "Who the hell gave you permission?"
"You did," he says calmly. "About two seconds ago."
"That's not how consent works," I snap, but my fingers curl tighter in his shirt anyway because apparently my hands have joined the rebellion.
"i hate physical touch,"
He chuckles. Right near my ear.
"Liar."he murmurs.
"I do hate it," I shoot back.
He shifts closer. Now our chests are almost touching. Not quite. Worse. The space is charged. Tense. My breathing is embarrassingly loud.
"And yet," he says, "you're gripping me like I'm the only thing keeping you upright."
I glance down, see my fist twisted in his shirt, and groan. "Fuck off."
"You're fast, wife," he adds, amused.
"I said fuck off."
He doesn't.
Instead, he lowers his head slightly. Close enough that I feel the warmth of his breath on my lips. I can't see his face. The dark is doing unspeakable things to my imagination.
"Arshila?" he says.
I hum without thinking.
Immediately regret it.
My tongue darts out, wetting my lips, a nervous habit I forget exists until the second it betrays me. The room goes very still.
Even though he can't see it, I know he feels it.
His breath stutters. Just once.
"Wanna play?"