Arshila's POV
My thumb hovers over the screen, the words burning into my brain as my chest tightens, pulse hammering at my neck.
"Stalking me, wife??"
I fucking flinch. How the hell does he know? My eyes dart to him like he has some kind of radar for when I'm staring—how does he know I'm watching him?
He hasn't even looked up, hasn't glanced my way, just casually sitting there, looking like he just stepped out of a goddamn fashion magazine while holding a baby like it's the most natural thing in the world.
Does he have some magic power? Or is there a fucking security camera somewhere? The bastard is not normal. Not one bit. He's like a goddamn mind reader.
I narrow my eyes at him, searching for any hint that he's noticed me at all, but he's still just looking down at the baby. Not a single flicker. Not even a twitch.
But then—his eyes lift.
And they land on me.
Like he's known I was there the whole time. Like he was waiting for me to look.
bastard.
And then it hits me like a freight train. The intensity in his gaze is so much sharper than I expected. There's no smirk, no cocky grin—just pure, unfiltered, dark intent. His eyes are locked on mine, and I swear I can feel the weight of them pressing down on me like gravity is shifting.
I can't look away. I can't breathe. My heart is slamming in my chest, every nerve screaming at me to move—but I can't.
It's like I'm frozen in time, suspended in some damn magnetic field between us.
Shit, how does he do this?
Just when I think I might spontaneously combust, a knock on the door shatters the tension like glass breaking. My whole body jerks, every muscle tight with surprise. What the hell?
My phone buzz
Another message from him.
"Come here to eat."
I'm not sure if I want to scream, laugh, or just throw my phone out the window. He's controlling this whole fucking moment with one single text, like he's the puppet master and I'm just—
He doesn't even need to say anything else. It's his gaze that gets me. Like he's daring me to ignore him. Like he knows I'm going to cave, that I'm not going to have a choice in the matter.
I look back at him, and fuck—he's still staring at me. No smile. Just that intense look, the kind that makes you feel naked, exposed. The kind that makes you want to squirm but also beg for more.
I sigh. Fuck it.
I get up and make my way to the door, forcing my legs to move even though every step is dragging me deeper into the tension I can't escape. I open it, and the staff member is standing there, all polite, all composed.
"Madam, please come to the yard for breakfast."
I nod without saying a word, trying to regain some of my damn composure as I follow her out.
And, of course, as soon as I step outside, every fucking pair of eyes is on me. The whole damn yard goes silent, and I feel like I'm walking into a goddamn runway show.
The Tavarians—his family—are all sitting around, eating their breakfast like it's an everyday thing. All dressed in branded shit. You'd think they were about to sign multi-billion-dollar deals over pancakes.
I spot his mother first—Maireen—and give her a smile, polite, warm, just like her.
buzz
Another message from Zayan.
"Come here."
I glance up at him, where he's still sitting on that goddamn bench near the pond, staring at me. And once again, it's like the universe just stops. The only thing I can focus on is him, and the fact that—fuck me sideways—he's not even pretending not to notice me walking toward him.
He's not smiling, not saying anything, just… looking at me. And the way he looks? It's like he's daring me to do something. Like he's waiting for me to break.
I keep walking, my body moving on its own now, pulled by that invisible string between us. Each step is a battle to keep my head straight, but all I can think about is him. And when I finally reach him, standing there, face to face, neither of us speaks right away. The tension's too thick to cut through.
I look up at him, my eyes narrowing. "What?"
He leans back slightly, his fingers curling around the baby's tiny hand. That damn smile tugs at the corner of his lips, but it's not as smug as usual. It's different—softer. Almost like he's… pleased?
"Did you get a good picture?" he asks, his voice low, but there's a definite hint of humor underneath. He knows exactly what I was doing. The bastard.
I stare at him for a moment, and then I just scoff, pretending it doesn't matter., but my pulse is still racing.
His smirk grows, the bastard. But fuck—he's sexy. Too sexy. I look away, trying to get some control back, but it's like a tidal wave.
I glance down at the baby, trying to distract myself from everything going on between us. "Give him to me," I say, trying to sound casual, like it's no big deal.
Zayan arches a brow, still looking at me like he knows exactly what I'm doing. "Do you know how to hold a baby?"
I scoff again, and maybe it's my pride or just the fact that I need to win—but I snap, "I'm a normal human being, not a Tavarian."
I reach for the baby, my fingers brushing against Zayan's arm as I pull the little one into my arms. And holy shit. I feel the heat of his skin on mine, the burn of his touch, and it sends a jolt straight to my core.
He doesn't let go immediately, and for a second, I think he's holding me there with just his touch. The weight of the baby in my arms feels like nothing compared to the weight of his eyes on me. His gaze is on mine, and fuck, I can't act like nothing happened.
But I do. I keep my face neutral, like my heart's not pounding, like I'm not standing here in the middle of the fucking yard trying to pretend I'm not on fire.
Zayan just watches, his smirk never fully fading. "You're doing fine," he says, his voice low, a hint of something dangerous in it. Something raw.
And just like that, I'm back on the edge. Right where he wants me.
We start moving toward the massive breakfast table in the yard, the morning sun glinting off every ridiculous luxury the Tavarians have spent a lifetime collecting. My heels click against the polished stone path, and I can't help but notice every pair of eyes following us like we're a damn parade.
My chest is still on fire from the heat of Zayan beside me, even though his arm isn't touching mine—he's just there, and that's enough to set my brain spinning.
The front door of the mansion swings open with this subtle grandeur, and then they appear: Kamal Rashid Tavarian and his wife, Amirah Zafreen Qureshi. The historical weight of her family is palpable; I swear, she's the type of woman whose ancestors probably conquered kingdoms before breakfast.
The instant they step into the yard, the entire Tavarian clan—spread out, lounging, sipping, eating—snaps to attention like marionettes on invisible strings. Every single one of them stands, posture perfect, but it doesn't feel forced. It's natural. Terrifyingly natural.
Kamal moves to the head of the table and sits with this effortless authority. I've seen power before, but seeing him claim a seat like it's the center of the universe? Fucking next level. The rest of the family settles back down, everyone sliding into seats with precise grace. My brain is going, this is insane, this is literally insane.
Then Zayan's uncle's wife steps forward, smiling like she's playing in the world's most elite version of a sitcom. She takes her baby back from me, and the way she thanks me is warm, polite, but also sharp—like she knows I've just been caught spying on Zayan. My cheeks heat up, but I keep my face neutral.
Zayan and I end up at the far end of the table. He sits beside me, and my body is still simmering from the heat of him holding the baby earlier. I'm trying to act normal, but my brain refuses. Every flick of his wrist, every casual lean, every slight tilt of his head makes my pulse stutter.
Kamal starts talking. His voice carries across the yard, smooth, strong, and magnetic. He lays out the framework for this year's celebration—how the Tavarians are planning their annual day. His secretary is next to him, iPad in hand, showing layouts, VIP lists, schedule details.
I'm staring at him like holy shit, this is insane. Every word Kamal says has weight, as if a single syllable could affect the stock market. And I can feel it—everyone around the table, even the ones who don't speak much, hangs on his every word.
The conversations start to branch. His cousins and aunts talk about decorations, security, guest lists. Even the way the secretary explains the schedule is precise to the second. Breakfast isn't just breakfast—it's a goddamn strategy session for an empire. My jaw drops. What the hell did I get myself into?
Shadin, sitting across from us, catches my eye and gives me a small grin. Thank God for one familiar face, my brain whispers. I can almost hear my inner monologue screaming, stop staring like a fucking creep, Arshila.
Kamal's deep voice cuts across again, finishing his outline, and then he glances toward Zayan. My eyes follow, and there he is, totally calm, eating breakfast like he's not the epicenter of chaos and power and sexiness all at once. I swear Kamal smirks at Zayan, shakes his head slowly, and I can practically hear him thinking, my boy, still a menace.
Everyone starts eating. Plates of the most absurdly perfect food I've ever seen, pastries that look like jewels, coffee in cups that could be auctioned as art pieces. Kamal leans back, scanning the table, and then turns to me.
"This is your first celebration with us, right?" His voice is kind, gentle, and commanding all at once. My throat tightens, but I nod.
"I hope you enjoy it," he adds with a small smile. I give a polite smile back, my hands clenching slightly on my napkin. Enjoy? Enjoy surviving the week with this level of elite insanity, you mean.
Amirah, Kamal's wife, leans slightly forward, her eyes warm as she addresses me. "Do you have any difficulty staying here for the week? Is everything fine?"
"Yes, everything's fine," I answer honestly, though internally I'm still flailing. Fine. Yeah, totally fine. Not overwhelmed, not about to choke on luxury-induced anxiety, totally fine.
Her smile widens, genuine and soft. "Good," she says. And I want to melt into the chair, because goddamn, she's just… her. Strong, regal, yet approachable. I've never seen kindness carried with such precision and elegance.
The rest of the breakfast conversation drifts into planning details, discussions about VIP arrivals, seating arrangements, security protocols—fuck, they even discuss emergency protocols for high-profile guests over coffee. My head is spinning. I take another bite of some perfectly flaky pastry just to ground myself, but my brain keeps drifting.
And then I look over at Zayan, sitting beside me, calm, untouchable, like he belongs here. And my pulse? Still hammering. I can feel it in my fingertips. Every casual gesture of his is a reminder that he owns this chaos. That even in the midst of empire-level conversations and VIP planning, he's untouchable.
I glance at Shadin again, who is quietly observing, probably calculating some social maneuver or maybe just letting me know, don't die from staring at Zayan, idiot. I chuckle softly under my breath.
Breakfast continues. Power, wealth, history, and empire—every second is steeped in it. I'm both terrified and fascinated, trying to act normal while my mind is screaming, how the fuck does a human operate at this level without breaking?
And yet, amidst it all, there's a strange warmth here too. His parents, Rania, and even the grandparents—they treat me like I belong. Not as some outsider, not as a curiosity. Like I'm part of the machinery, even if I'm barely holding onto my composure.
I keep sneaking glances at Zayan, who is completely unbothered, munching on his breakfast like he doesn't realize the chaos radiating from him—or maybe he does, and he just doesn't care. The intensity is exhausting.
And I know it. I know I'm in over my head. But fuck, it's mesmerizing. I'm trapped in this orbit, and I don't want to escape.
Even with all the power, the wealth, the intimidation, and the absolute insanity of Tavarian breakfast politics… it's still fucking thrilling.
I chew slowly, trying to act like I'm savoring the absurdly perfect croissant in front of me, but my eyes betray me. They wander, as if drawn by some magnetic force, and land directly on Ebrahim.
Fuck.
Instant, crawling horror shoots up my spine. That bastard. That monster. One glance at him and my skin shivers like ice water is running through my veins. He's sitting there, leaning slightly forward, smirk twisting his sharp features, and for a split second I feel like he can see through me. I can almost feel his gaze brushing over every nerve ending, testing the fragile armor I've built around myself.
I snap my eyes away, heart pounding. Don't look. Don't look. Don't fucking look. My stomach twists in knots, and I force my gaze elsewhere. I try to focus on the pastry, the conversation, anything.
And then… my eyes, like traitors, flick to the far end of the yard.
Izar.
The moment I see him, it's like someone opened a valve inside my chest. Relief washes through me, slow and steady, melting the tension just enough to breathe. His stance is casual, relaxed, but his eyes lock on mine, scanning, assessing, aware. There's a subtle tilt of his head, a small motion almost too slight for anyone else to notice, and I feel the message: Breathe. Relax. Don't worry.
My lips curl into a tiny, guilty smile, the first genuine one all morning. I'm shaking off the last of the chills that bastard Ebrahim gave me, and it's like Izar is a shield between me and the monsters I don't want to face.
He nods once, subtle, almost imperceptible, and I inhale, letting it settle in. My shoulders loosen. My hands stop clutching the cutlery like life depends on it.
For the first time in forever, I start to eat without fear. Croissant gone, I move on to eggs, bacon, even dipping into the fruit tray. Each bite feels a little lighter, freer, as though I've claimed a tiny piece of normalcy in the middle of this insane, terrifying, ridiculously powerful world.
And through it all, Izar is still watching—calm, steady, a silent guardian. My pulse slows just enough for me to feel like a human again. And with that, I finally let myself enjoy this goddamn breakfast.
------
It's nearly afternoon, and the ridiculous calm of the day is hitting me. Zayan's nowhere in sight. Last I saw, he was leaning against the doorframe, about to say something—probably some smug, irritating thing—but then his phone buzzed, and just like that, he was gone. "I'll be back," he said, and vanished into the hallway like a shadow that belongs to a goddamn museum of power. Since then, I've been left alone in this insane, over-the-top room that smells faintly of roses and leather and—fuck—it's making me twitchy.
I stare at the walls, the golden light spilling in through the windows, and then I think, Why the hell not make a tour of this fucking place? Yeah. Sounds great. The kind of great where I get lost and maybe discover a secret wing full of chandeliers and possibly a miniature army of servants waiting to bow at my entrance.
I step out, heels clicking faintly on the marble, and immediately the scenery hits me. Holy shit. Greenery everywhere. Roses climbing like they're auditioning for a goddamn fairytale, every plant perfectly manicured like it has its own stylist. The sun's hitting the leaves just right, making the whole place sparkle.
And I haven't even gotten lost yet—well, not completely—but fuck, it's all so beautiful it hurts. I don't even know where I'm going, and somehow, that's perfect. The pathways twist like they're leading me somewhere epic, like some secret part of the house that only the Tavarians know about.
And then I reach it.
A bridge. Over a flowing river. A fucking river. Not a plastic little pond, not a fountain pretending to be a stream—an actual flowing ribbon of water cutting through the estate like it owns the place. My jaw drops. Who builds a house with a river? Who even has the kind of money to do that without blinking? Kamal Rashid fucking Tavarian, apparently.
I step onto the stone bridge, which has roses growing up the sides, petals brushing my fingertips as I walk across, and it feels like some cheesy movie scene, except I'm the only actor and the world isn't supposed to exist without me noticing. My shoes click against the stone, echoing in the soft space between the rushing water and the whispering leaves.
I reach the other side and spot a bench tucked under a small tree. Perfectly positioned. I sit. Feet dangling just above the soft grass, chest rising and falling with the rhythm of the river, and I just… breathe. Holy shit. This is peaceful. Like the kind of peace that sneaks into your bones and tells you to shut the hell up for once and just exist.
I run my hands over the smooth wooden slats, watch the water glint in the sunlight, and think: How the actual fuck did someone build this? It's not just money. It's taste, insanity, obsession with perfection, and a dash of madness, all rolled into one massive, incomprehensible estate.
Zayan's place? Luxurious, glass everyfuckingwhere, steel, precision—it's angelic in its chaos. But this? This is Kamal's territory, and it's a whole different level. I haven't even been to every wing yet. There are places I haven't touched, corridors I haven't wandered. And fuck, I will.
I close my eyes for a second, letting the sun warm my face, the breeze carry the faint scent of roses, and then—footsteps.
Instantly, my body stiffens. Not Zayan's. I know his stride, his casual arrogance in motion. These are different footsteps. Louder, more deliberate, like someone who owns the ground they walk on—or thinks they do.
I turn slowly.
Fuck.
Ebrahim.
. Shit.
I freeze, heart stuttering like it's trying to escape my chest. I sit there on the bench, pretending the world—and him—doesn't exist. My legs are pressed together, hands gripping the wood like it's going to save me. Maybe if I ignore him, he'll go away. Maybe.
"Princess!" His voice slices through the air, rich and mocking, carrying that disgusting, confident swagger that makes my skin crawl.
I don't flinch. I don't even look up. Pretend he's a hallucination from this insane estate.
"Should I call you Stray Princess?" he murmurs, stepping into the sunlight, leaning against the pillar behind me. The shadows play across his sharp features, and my stomach twists. Stray. Fucking stray. He called me that the first time too.
"What's his problem?" I mutter under my breath, glaring at the ground. I want to throw something. Kick something. Kill him. Preferably all three.
"You gonna avoid me… how long?" His voice drips with amusement.
"Leave. I don't have any business with you," I snap, without even looking at him. Eyes glued to the wooden slats, imagining I could melt into the bench.
He chuckles. Low. Deep. That sound sends heat straight down to my toes. "But I do."
Fuck.
I shove myself off the bench, forcing my legs to move, hoping distance will save me. But he's quick. Faster than he has any right to be. The sound of his steps behind me—measured, deliberate—is like thunder in the quiet of the garden.
"You think you can run?" His words are soft, but there's menace layered underneath. "Where's the fun in that?"
I glance over my shoulder. He's smirking. Smirking. My blood freezes. Filthy words hang in the air between us, half-whispered, half-threat, and every one of them curls into my gut like fire.
I pick up my pace, weaving through the manicured greenery, desperate for an exit, a hiding place, anything. My pulse slams in my ears, my hands shake, and my stomach knots so tight I think I might puke. If he touches me—if he even dares—no one will know. No one. God, Zayan, where the fuck are you? I silently pray, eyes scanning the horizon for some hint of him.
And then I hit the wall. Literally. Dead end. Concrete and impossibility. My chest hitches as I realize there's nowhere else to go.
He stops, just a few feet away, slow, predatory, shadows casting him like he belongs to the dark. "Why'd you stop?" His voice is smooth, dangerous.
I press my back against the cold wall, hands trembling. "I… I'm not stopping."
"Are you scared?" His grin curls just a little, enough to make me shiver.
"Scared of you? Pfftt." My voice is stronger than I feel.
He tilts his head, that smirk spreading into something sharper. "This attitude… You think your fucking husband's gonna help you here?"
I swallow hard. My throat's dry, my stomach twisted, and I feel smaller than I have in my entire life.
"No. Baby, he's got his own business," Ebrahim continues, laughing—a real, low, dangerous laugh that vibrates in my chest. "So now… behave like a good girl, okay?"
Seething, disgust boiling in me, I grit my teeth, every muscle in my body screaming.
He steps closer. My stomach drops. I can smell him—the faint smoke clinging to his jacket, that musky danger, and it makes my head spin. I want to throw up, to run, to scream, to scream Zayan help me!
"Be a good girl, okay?" His voice drops, soft, velvety, and I can't help but flinch at the threat it carries. "Then you don't have to suffer here for one week."
"Move," I say, voice trembling but defiant.
"I said… be a good girl." He lifts a hand, slow, deliberate, toward my hair. My body freezes. I'm trapped. Hands shaking against the wall, heart pounding so hard I feel like it might burst.
I close my eyes, praying. God. Zayan. Please. Just… come. Don't let this happen. Please.
And then—
"EBRAHIM."
A growl that makes him flinch.
I open my eyes.
Izar.
📍
Exclusive chapter sneak peak
"Fight," he says, calm as a priest at the altar. "If you want to live. Like always. Whoever wins, lives."
The words drop like hammers. My breath stops. Beside me, Sahar's head jerks up, blood and tears streaking his face. His lips part, but nothing comes out. Just silence, just shaking.
I turn to him, and our eyes lock. And in that instant we both know. We won't. We can't. I'd rather fucking die than put my hands on him. His eyes are swollen, shining, and he's crying without sound, lips trembling like he's already dead.
_______________
Scenes like this, raw and untamed, aren't on the public feed. They live where the full story twists, where the side stories, hidden beats, and spicy chapters collide—revealing everything the rest of the world doesn't even know exists.
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It's about to drop, and it's hotter, darker, and messier than anything you've seen. But only those who've been following the whole story, the secret threads and the backstory you won't find anywhere else, will get it in full.
Want to be the one already inside? The path is waiting in my bio. Catch it before everyone else even realizes what's coming.