A man who knows the difference between his wife and his mother is fucking rare.
And I got Adam Zayan Tavarian — the man who looked me dead in the eye and said he'd pick me over his mother, but never once disrespected her.
Like, let's be real — that's not just rare, that's straight-up holy.
He's the kind of man who'll hold his mom's hand with one hand and pull me closer with the other, balancing both like it's instinct. And I hate that it's so fucking hot.
But since that day, everything's been… heavy.
That stupid, silent kind of heavy that just sits in your chest and doesn't move.
Because that man didn't just say one bombshell — he dropped two.
First, he said he'd pick me over his mother.
Then he said he doesn't have a girlfriend.
And I swear the second one hit harder.
I don't even know why. Like, logically, I should've rolled my eyes, said good for you, and gone on with my day. But no. My dumb brain decided to go full drama mode and now I'm avoiding him like he's the damn plague.
East wing? Mine.
Library? Mine.
Inside garden? Also mine.
Basically, anywhere he isn't — that's where I am.
It's pathetic. I know. I sound like a teenager hiding from a crush, except it's worse because technically, he's my husband.
And I don't even know if he's home right now.
Like, this house is massive, but somehow his presence fills every fucking corner of it. It's like the air knows when he's around — heavier, thicker, almost humming with him.
So yeah, avoiding him isn't easy when the walls themselves feel like they miss him.
I sit cross-legged on the library couch, pretending to read but rereading the same damn sentence for the past twenty minutes. The page stares back at me like girl, you're not fooling anyone.
I slam the book shut. "Fuck."
The word echoes a little too loud, and for a second I freeze, eyes darting to the door like he might walk in.
He doesn't.
Thank God.
But then my stupid brain decides to replay it again — that look on his face when he said, 'I don't have a girlfriend.'
The tone. That low, calm voice that sounds like a promise and a threat at the same time.
And then, 'You're the first woman in my life, Arshila.'
Yeah. That one. That's the one that punched me in the gut and didn't even apologize.
Like, what the fuck am I supposed to do with that?
Frame it? Cry? Run? Laugh? All of the above?
I groan and throw my head back against the couch. "Why the fuck do you talk like that, Zayan?"
He's got this infuriating habit of saying shit that sounds like it came out of a goddamn prophecy book — but it's so him, raw and quiet and straight to the fucking point.
No sugarcoating. No second-guessing. Just truth — clean and sharp enough to make you bleed a little.
And the worst part?
I liked it.
I liked hearing him say he doesn't have a girlfriend.
I liked knowing it.
I liked how possessive it sounded, even though he didn't say my name with that tone.
It's embarrassing as fuck, but yeah — I was jealous.
Like a full-blown, silent, self-loathing, eye-rolling jealous little idiot.
Because every time he mentioned he loved someone, my brain made up this imaginary girlfriend.
Pretty, soft, probably wears perfume that smells like patience and has an aesthetic Pinterest board.
Someone who isn't me — because I'm chaos, caffeine, and bad decisions in human form.
And now, after hearing he doesn't have one, my brain doesn't know what to do.
Like, what now? Apologize to the imaginary girl I made up in my head?
I tug at my hoodie sleeve and sink lower into the couch. The silence here is good — it's the only place that doesn't smell like him.
Because when he's around, it's all warm, heavy, and expensive.
And I'm too aware of every fucking thing he does — the way he breathes, walks, talks.
It's annoying.
It's hot.
It's both, and I hate it.
I glance out the window, the garden stretching wide and green, sunlight spilling like gold everywhere. The east wing is quiet — always is. That's why I come here.
No footsteps. No deep voice echoing down the hall.
Just peace.
Still, I can't help thinking — where the hell is he?
He usually shows up when I least expect it, like the universe itself is plotting against me.
Maybe he's with those Sovereign idiots again. Maybe in a meeting. Maybe downstairs, cooking, because apparently the man can do that too. Because of course he can. Of course he's good at everything.
I pick up the book again, but I'm not reading. I'm thinking.
About how he looked when he said it.
About that slight tilt of his head — the one he does when he's dead serious or about to ruin me with words.
About how the air between us felt that second.
Fuck.
It's bad.
I'm bad.
Because the more I avoid him, the more my brain keeps dragging him back in.
He said I don't have a girlfriend.
Yeah, great. Cool. Fantastic for you, Tavarian.
But he didn't say he loves me.
Didn't say he likes me.
Didn't even blink twice when he said it. Just dropped that sentence like it was another business deal.
That's the point, isn't it?
To him, I'm not some girl he fell for.
I'm the girl he had to marry — because of that fucking compensation crap, the accident, the guilt.
A deal wrapped in a wedding ring.
A name switch and a lifetime contract he never asked for.
And yeah, I laugh — low and stupid — because it's funny in that pathetic kind of way.
I always used to think, God, how lucky his girlfriend must be.
The one who gets to bounce on that, get to wake up next to that.
That face. That voice. That body. That calm, dangerous quiet that could ruin you just by existing too close.
But now it's not happening, right? Because he doesn't have one.
Except the second that thought hits, it just—
stops.
Freezes.
Because okay, fine, he doesn't have a girlfriend.
But that doesn't mean he's a damn saint.
He's Zayan.
Adam fucking Zayan Tavarian.
With that body sculpted by some pissed-off Greek god, that face carved out of sin and temptation, that voice that sounds like velvet and bad decisions had a baby.
There's no way in hell he's gone twenty -five years of that without someone.
Without touching. Without being touched. Without—
ugh.
No.
Nope.
He studied abroad.
He lived alone since he was sixteen.
He's rich, powerful, and stupidly hot.
There's just no way he's clean.
Like, be fucking for real, Arshila.
And yeah, he's only twenty-five.
Twenty-five.
Young enough to still have the kind of stamina that could probably kill me and not even break a sweat.
Yeah, he could still do that.
Hell, I bet he did.
And now my brain's doing that thing again.
You know, spiraling.
Visuals.
Him.
Someone else.
The thought of his hands, his mouth, the low voice saying someone else's name.
My stomach twists like I just swallowed acid.
"Shit," I mutter under my breath, dragging my hands down my face. "Stop it, Arshila. Don't think like that. Don't you dare think like that."
I sit there, completely still, trying to breathe normal again, but my chest feels heavy, too hot.
And it's stupid, because it's not like I own him.
Right?
Right.
Except my throat's tight and my brain's still replaying that one damn sentence like it's on loop.
I don't have a girlfriend.
Then say something else, damn it.
Say but I want you.
Say you're mine.
Say something.
But he won't.
Because that's not him.
He just throws the truth like a knife, clean and sharp, leaves it sticking in you, and walks away like nothing happened.
And here I am, bleeding over the silence.
I flop back on the couch, groaning, legs hanging off the armrest, staring at the ceiling like it's gonna drop some answers.
Why does he talk like that?
Why does he sound like that?
Why does my dumb heart react like it's being electrocuted every time he looks at me like I'm the problem and the solution at the same time?
I stare at the chandelier.
That's how far I've fallen. I'm staring at a fucking chandelier trying to get over a man.
And then my brain, my traitor brain, goes there again — imagining him in those perfectly tailored shirts, sleeves rolled up, veins visible, voice low, saying something in that half-whisper that sounds like sin wrapped in silk.
God.
He could literally talk about laundry detergent and it'd still sound erotic.
I groan louder, throw a pillow over my face. "You are not doing this, Arshila. You are not turning this into a fantasy. Stop it. Right now."
Silence.
My pulse still fast.
My skin still too warm.
Yeah. I'm fucked.
And that's when the phone rings.
Loud, shrill, cutting through the air like it knows exactly how dramatic my life is right now.
I grab it from the table, glance at the screen.
"Fucking prince"
____________________________
ZAYANS POV
---
Damien's "secret place" is the kind of spot men like him think makes them look untouchable.
Big enough to flex, dark enough to hide the rot.
Steel doors, black glass windows, too many locks for a man who claims he's clean.
It smells like money that's been through too many hands — and that faint metallic tang of new paint and arrogance.
He's sitting across from me now.
Expensive shirt, top buttons undone like that makes him dangerous.
There's a cigar tray on the table, untouched.
He offers it once, like it's a test. I don't bite. Just stare at him long enough to make him drop it.
He clears his throat, fingers drumming on the armrest. "So, adam.You've been quiet. That silence supposed to mean something?"
I lean back in the chair, legs spread, lazy posture — the kind of calm that makes people think I'm not paying attention. "Quiet just means I'm listening."
He smirks, sharp but trying too hard. "Listening's a waste when you already know the answer, Adam."
Yeah, he says my name like he's trying it out.
Like he's testing how it sounds against his teeth.
If he knew the real one, he'd choke on it.
I drag my eyes over the papers spread across the glass table — fake blueprints, dummy numbers, the whole damn circus. It's been three meetings already, and the bastard still hasn't blinked. Still thinks he's leading this game.
Cute.
It'll be fun when he finally waves that white flag.
When he realizes Falconridge isn't some eager little fish. It's the hook.
He leans forward now, resting his elbows on his knees, voice dropping low like he's about to say something sacred. "You wanna know who's really behind all this? The funder."
There it is.
Finally.
I keep my face bored, tilt my head slightly — that tiny move that gets under people's skin without them knowing why. "You tellin' me you're not the big man here?"
He snorts, half a laugh. "I'm big enough. But even I don't bite without knowing who's feeding me. The money comes from Switzerland. Guy named Lucas Freidmann. Multi-millionaire. Old bastard, but smart."
Lucas Freidmann.
Yeah.
I already know.
Already have his accounts mapped, his offshore trail crawling across three continents, his entire little empire balanced on one password he doesn't even know I cracked a week ago.
But I play dumb.
That's the fun part.
"Switzerland, huh?" I say, acting like it's the first time I've heard it. "Sounds legit."
He grins, satisfied — the grin of a man who thinks he's still holding the leash.
Then he reaches for his phone. "I'll show you something."
He scrolls fast, thumb flicking through contacts, stops, hits call.
The line rings. Once. Twice.
Keeps ringing.
I watch him — not the phone, him. The twitch in his jaw. The way his knee starts bouncing after the fifth ring.
Then voicemail.
No pickup.
He stares at the screen like it betrayed him.
That grin's gone now.
I tilt my head. "Problem?"
He exhales through his nose, long and sharp. "That damn Daniel. He's not answering my calls. Been missing for two days now."
"What? Daniel is missing?"