ZAYAN POV
"Aaah… do you want me to call your name?"
My voice drips slow, mocking.
I lean just enough for the shadows to hear me breathe.
"Mr. Alexander Reed?"
I take another step forward, and there he is.
The man himself.
Slouched in the middle of the room, wrists roped so tight the skin's rubbed raw, a chain at his ankles clinking when he stirs. His face is a canvas of pale skin, dried blood, and swelling. Eyes sunken, lips split. Six months of silence and here he still is, breathing because I let him.
"How you doing, bro?" I grin, tilting my head.
His head lifts just enough for those dull eyes to focus on me. "Fuck you."
I laugh. A low, humorless sound that bounces off the walls.
"Not yet. Okaaay?" I drag the word like it's a cigarette hit. "See, I've been hospitalized, bro. Four fucking months. God—" I tap my chest. "—God really blessed me with your death. He just… delayed it. Made it six months longer. And trust me… it fucking hurt."
I squat down, my eyes level with his.
"My first ever accident. My first. And you were the unlucky bastard in it. Do you know how it feels to wake up with metal pins in your body? To breathe and feel every rib grind like broken glass? Every day I was in that bed, I imagined your face on the ceiling. And you know what? It kept me going."
He spits blood to the side. "Go to hell."
I lean back and laugh. "Already booked my ticket."
He tries to push forward against the ropes. "Why the fuck are you keeping me here for months? You think I'll break? You think I'll beg? I won't. I'll never let you walk away from this."
"Oh?" I hum, walking around him slowly, my shoes scraping against concrete. "Okay then."
I drag a chair from the corner. The sound is loud, scraping through the silence like a blade across glass. I plant it right in front of him and sit, elbows on my knees.
His voice drops low, angry but uncertain. "Who the fuck are you, bastard?"
"Me?" I raise a brow like it's the most casual thing in the world. "I'm just the heir to the Tavarian empire."
He freezes. The air in the room changes.
And then the shivering starts.
"Please, sir… please spare me. I'll do anything. I'll give you anything. Anything you want—just name it."
I hum again, slow and deliberate, letting the sound cut into his panic. "Anything?"
"Yes! I'll give you anything."
I lean forward, close enough for him to see the way my eyes don't blink. "You're going to give me money, right? That's the first thing on your mind."
He nods too quickly. "Yes—yes, as much as you want—"
"But here's the problem, Alex…" I draw his name out like I'm savoring it. "I already have plenty. More than you can imagine. Enough to burn through your entire net worth and still tip my driver."
His throat bobs. His voice cracks. "Then… then what do you want?"
I smile, slow and sharp. "Good question."
He shakes his head, stammering, "I… I don't have anything else—"
I lean back in my chair, watching him drown in his own fear.
"Nothing, right?"
I let the silence hang between us, heavy enough to make him squirm against the ropes, until his breathing gets ragged. Then I let my smile widen—cold, deliberate, dangerous.
"I want your soul."
The words leave my mouth slow, deliberate. Not shouted. Not snarled. Just… stated. Like an inevitable truth.
Alexander's eyes widen, his breath hitching. "P-please… please, I'll give you anything else—money, properties, my shares—"
"I said your soul." I tilt my head, almost amused.
He stares at me like I've lost my mind, his voice pitching higher. "What the fuck did I even do to you?"
I laugh under my breath, no humor in it. "Huh? You really don't know? Mr. Star Entertainment CEO Alexander Reed—the golden boy of the press, the man dripping with charity and smiles?"
"I—"
I stand, slow, letting my chair scrape back across the concrete. My steps are casual, measured, as I cross the room to the far end. There's a metal shelf lined with tools, each one catching the faint light that leaks through the high windows. My fingers trail lazily along their cold edges until they stop on a screwdriver. I lift it. Weigh it in my palm. Turn back to him.
"You assaulted your own artists, Alex. Over years. And in public, you were all about 'protecting dreams', right? A hero. A saint. A man of the people."
He jerks in the chair, the chains rattling. "What the fuck—how the fuck do you know that?"
I start walking back toward him, the screwdriver spinning between my fingers like it's nothing. "How do I know?" My voice lowers, sharpening into steel. "Because they told me . Every. Single. One. The ones you thought no one would believe. The ones you paid off, threatened, destroyed. They told me everything, Alex. The details. The smell of your office. The words you said to them. The bruises you left."
His face twitches, rage and panic mixing in his eyes. "You—"
I step in close. Our knees almost touch. "Me."
"You can't do anything to me," he spits, his voice suddenly sharp with that old CEO arrogance. "You think this will hold up anywhere? You think anyone will take the word of some masked psycho over mine? I'll walk out of here and—"
CRACK.
The sound of the screwdriver punching through flesh and muscle cuts him off.
He screams, his voice ricocheting off the concrete walls as I drive the steel straight into his upper arm, right between the bicep and shoulder. The skin splits, blood spilling fast, hot. I push until the handle trembles against his skin.
"Walk out of here?" I lean in, my voice low, calm, while he thrashes. "The only way you're walking anywhere is if I let you. And right now, Alex, I'm not feeling generous."
He chokes on a groan, trying to twist away. I hold the screwdriver in place and lean my weight into it, watching the pain contort his face. "You like that feeling? That helplessness? That's how they felt, Alex. Every single one of them. And I'm still being gentle."
"F-fuck you!"
I twist the screwdriver. He howls.
I let him scream for a few seconds, savoring it, before I pull it out slow—so slow the sound of tearing flesh is almost louder than his voice. Blood drips down his arm, pooling under the chair.
"You're gonna confess," I tell him, crouching so my face is level with his. "Not to me. Not to the cops. To everyone."
He pants, sweat streaking through the grime on his face. "N-never—"
"Oh, you will." I stand, reaching for the small table in the corner where the camera and mic sit. I set them up right in front of him, clicking on a portable recorder. The red light blinks to life. "We're going live."
His eyes go wide. "You're insane—"
"Smile for the audience," I cut him off, my tone mock-cheerful as I angle the mic toward his mouth. "Let them hear you for what you really are."
I press the mic closer. "Name. And crimes. Or we start with your other arm."
His lips stay clamped shut, trembling.
I slam my hand into the open wound, fingers digging into the meat of his arm until he shrieks. "Say it!"
"I—" His voice cracks, pain tearing through every word. "I'm Alexander Reed… CEO of Star Entertainment… and I—I—" He sobs, breath hitching, "…I assaulted my artists… I covered it up… I—God, please stop—"
"Louder."
"I DID IT!" His voice breaks into a raw scream, echoing into the mic, into the stream, into every device it touches. "I DID IT!"
I pull my hand back, the blood slick on my gloves. The red light keeps blinking. His confession is already out there, irreversible, immortal.
I lean down, close enough for only him to hear. "That's your soul, Alex. And now it's mine."
His breathing is ragged now. Shallow. The kind that tells me his body's starting to give in. Blood has soaked the concrete beneath him, spreading in a slow, steady halo.
I crouch down, elbows resting casually on my knees, watching him twitch against the chains. "You know," I say, my voice almost conversational, "I have to kill you today. No choice."
He forces his head up, jaw trembling. "P… please—"
I shake my head, smiling faintly like I'm humoring a child. "I'm getting married next week. And she…" I pause, remembering her voice, that sharp certainty in it, "…she once told me, 'Alexander is kind right??.'" My smile widens, just a fraction. "That's what makes this so much easier, bro. I want to kill you so badly… and now, I get to."
His eyes glass over, confusion mixing with dread. I lean in, close enough for him to smell the steel on my gloves. "She's beautiful. She'll be my wife soon. And it's my responsibility to keep filth like you out of my reach… permanently."
I straighten, rolling my neck until it pops. Then I take my time. No rush. The knife from the shelf catches the dim light as I twirl it in my fingers. His head shakes in jerky, panicked movements, the chair rattling.
The first cut is quick—deep into the side of his neck, enough to open him but not finish him. He gasps, a wet, choking sound, blood spraying my shirt in a fine mist.
I don't flinch.
I drag the blade down across his chest, slow enough for the pain to register, watching his eyes widen before they start to glaze. His breath comes in broken wheezes, his body jerking weaker with each second.
I lean close to his ear, my voice low and calm. "See you in hell, Alexander."
The final thrust is clean, straight through the heart. His body jolts once, then slumps, chains clinking as the last breath leaks out of him.
I stand, rolling my shoulders, letting the adrenaline burn off slow. My gloves are slick, crimson dripping onto the concrete. I wipe them on a nearby rag—deliberate, methodical—until they're clean enough to pull off.
I turn to the two men waiting in the doorway. "Drop the body in his apartment. Make it look like he bled out alone."
They nod. No questions. No hesitation.
I step past them, the echo of my boots trailing down the corridor. The massive door shuts behind me, sealing the room in darkness once more.
By the time I reach the car, my mind is already elsewhere—on silk wedding fabrics, the scent of her hair, the look in her eyes when she realizes she's mine.
As the city blurs past the tinted windows, the warehouse fades from thought.
The only thing I carry home is the quiet certainty that the road to my marriage is now clear.
---
Arshila's POV
Ruby's Café smells like cinnamon and fresh espresso, and for a second, I wish my life was as warm and sweet as this place. But the second I step inside, I spot them—my girls—tucked in our usual corner booth.
Shaiza's already in the middle of some wild story, her hands flying through the air like she's conducting an orchestra. Ifrah's got that smug look she always gets when there's a new guy in her life. And Ruby—perfect hair, perfect eyeliner—is leaning on her elbow, listening while pretending she's not living for the drama.
"…and then," Shaiza says, "this man actually asked me if I 'believe in cooking for my husband.' Like… am I a 1950s housewife?!"
Ifrah snorts. "Bold of you to act shocked when you literally made pancakes for that finance guy last week."
"That was after sex," Shaiza fires back, rolling her eyes. "Completely different context. That was a victory meal."
Ruby laughs, shaking her head. "Y'all are feral."
I slide into the booth, my coat still half-on, my coffee waiting—bless Ruby for knowing my order. I wrap my hands around the cup just to have something to hold.
They're still mid-laugh when I say it.
"I'm getting married."
Everything stops.
The chatter, the clinking mugs, even the music from the speakers seems quieter. They all stare at me like I just dropped a grenade in the middle of the table.
Shaiza blinks first. "What?"
"You heard me," I say, lifting my cup like a toast. "I'm getting married."
Ifrah leans forward, narrowing her eyes. "Don't say it's that Aydin fucker."
I snort. "Nah. Not that fucker."
Ruby tilts her head. "Then…?"
I take a slow sip. "Zayan."
All three gasp like synchronized swimmers.
"You mean—" Shaiza's voice climbs an octave.
"Bitches," I cut in with a grin that feels like it's glued on, "I'm going to marry the fucking Tavarian heir."
Ifrah slams her palm on the table. "No. No. I refuse to believe this. You're messing with us."
"Next week," I say casually, like I'm announcing a brunch date.
"Hold the fuck up," Shaiza says, leaning in like she's interrogating me. "How the hell are you marrying him? You don't even—"
"I spent four months with him," I say, layering on the sweetness. "Of course we fell in love."
The lie slides off my tongue smooth as honey.
Ifrah's brows shoot up. "Don't tell me you got hooked in a fucking hospital bed."
I laugh—too loud, too bright. "It's not what you think, okay? He said he can't live without me. And I—" I shrug, all nonchalance. "I didn't have much choice. The wedding's private—not that private, but it's not public either. And you guys will be there, obviously."
Ifrah throws her hands up. "God, she's marrying my fucking boss.and her fucking crush".
Shaiza shakes her head, smiling like she's half-impressed, half-concerned. "Bitch, we're happy for you. This is… insane. Like, insane-insane."
Ruby's still staring at me, lips twitching like she's trying to piece together the puzzle. "You're seriously telling me you're marrying that man? The one with that face??
"Yup," I say, popping the 'p.'
They all start firing questions—dress, venue, prenup, honeymoon. I answer with a laugh here, a shrug there, careful not to let my hands shake.
On the surface, I'm the girl who just got the fairy tale ending.
Underneath, I'm the girl who knows this isn't a fairy tale at all.
Shaiza's the first to drop the bomb.
She leans back in her chair, sipping her iced coffee like she's about to bless the room with prophecy.
"Girl," she says, giving me a look that's half-accusation, half-pity, "you know you didn't have sex before, right?"
I blink at her. "What the hell—"
Ifrah cuts in, grinning like she's won a bet. "She didn't even kissed before ".
Ruby throws her a look. "Shut up, Ifrah. Let Shaiza finish roasting her."
Shaiza smirks at me, leaning forward like she's about to tell me the secrets of the universe.
"Listen to me, babe. First night—" she taps her manicured nail on the table—"you make it slow. Like, slow enough that he's dying by the time he even gets your top off. You let him undress you piece by piece. None of that let's turn off the lights and hide shit. Lights on. Let him see everything."
They're all staring at me like I'm taking notes. I smile back, cheeks burning, pretending to be flustered.
Inside, my stomach's hollow. He's not going to touch me.
Ifrah's got that mischievous gleam in her eye. "And don't just lie there like some dead mannequin. Move. Touch him. Grab his ass. Pull him into you."
Ruby laughs, shaking her head but clearly enjoying the filth.
Shaiza's on a roll now. "Yeah, and talk. Don't just moan like a porn extra—tell him what you want. Tell him where to touch, how hard. And if he's doing it right? Lose your fucking mind. Grab his hair, pull him closer, tell him not to stop."
I laugh, biting the inside of my cheek so the smile doesn't crack.
He wouldn't even want me to talk like that to him.
Ruby leans in, smirking. "Better yet, beg. Whisper in his ear that you can't take it anymore. Tell him you need him."
Shaiza interrupts with a dirty grin. "But don't give it to him right away. Make him work for it. Make him think you're gonna let him in, then pull back, just to drive him insane."
Ifrah's laughing now, stirring her drink. "God, you're evil."
Shaiza shrugs. "Nah, I'm generous. And babe—" she looks straight at me—"when you finally let him, make it count. Ride him like your life depends on it. Make him remember it every time he sees you."
Ruby almost chokes on her coffee. "Shaiza, you're corrupting her."
I give them my best fake-scandalized face. "You bitches are disgusting."
They laugh, exactly like I knew they would.
Inside, I'm screaming.
Because they're talking about heat, passion, want—
While I'm dying inside.
I'm smiling and nodding while my chest feels like it's caving in.
So I let them think I'm the shy bride blushing at dirty jokes.
Not the girl who's already bracing herself for a wedding night spent in cold, untouched sheets.
---
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow I'm supposed to walk down an aisle I never asked for, toward a man whose eyes I can't even read.
My room's too quiet. Even the AC hum sounds like it's mocking me.
I sit on the edge of my bed, elbows on my knees, staring at my hands. My nails are painted, my hair's already trimmed and ready for the stupid bridal updo. Everything is ready. Everything except me.
Because here's the truth—
He's never going to make me his wife from his heart.
I can feel it. . I could be wearing diamonds, silk, nothing at all, and I'm not sure it would make him look at me any differently.
And I'll never beg for it.
Not his love. Not his attention.
If it's not freely given, it's not worth holding.
That's the thing I've decided.
This marriage might be his name, his family, his empire—but I'll be fighting for me. Not for him. Not for some fairytale that was never written for me in the first place.
And God… I don't know what's going to happen to me once I step into the Tavarian world.
Those people? They're built from stone and steel. They move like every step is calculated, like every smile hides a blade. I'm nobody to them. Just a girl in a pretty dress who somehow got pushed into their perfect family portrait.
It's going to hurt. I know it. It already does.
This kind of hurt isn't sharp—it's slow, sinking, heavy. The kind that wraps itself around your ribs and squeezes until you forget what it felt like to breathe normally.
But I keep my chin up.
Because if I let this fear take over before the fight even starts, then I've already lost.
So tomorrow, I'll smile for the cameras. I'll play the part. And inside, I'll keep reminding myself—
I'm not here to win his heart.
I'm here to survive.
•••••••••••••••••••
AUTHOR NOTE
Hey everyone,
Brace yourselves — things just went darker, sharper, and way more twisted. This chapter dives deep into the game that's been quietly brewing beneath the surface. Expect no mercy, plenty of secrets, and the first real taste of what it means to survive the Tavarian world.
Your support means the world — drop a comment or vote if you feel the heat, and remember, this ride is just getting started. Thanks for being here with me.