ARSHILA — POV
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"Zayan?" I say.
He hums around his glass like he's not sitting across from a loaded weapon disguised as a breakfast table.
"Do you have a cat?"
The reaction is immediate.
He chokes.
Not a polite cough. A real one. Water splashes back into the cup. His hand grips the table like it betrayed him.
"What?" he rasps.
I blink. Once. Twice.
Okay. That was… satisfying.
"That's not a funny question," I add quickly. "I heard a meow last night."
He straightens slowly, wiping his mouth, eyes sharp now. Not playful. Not teasing. He's looking at me like I just kicked open a door I wasn't supposed to notice.
"You heard a what?"
"A meow," I repeat. "Like. A cat. A small demon with fur."
He stares.
Long.
Unblinking.
The air tightens. My shoulders tense without asking permission. My brain is doing that thing where it starts narrating its own panic.
Okay. Cool. Maybe I imagined it. Maybe my trauma brain invented a ghost cat. That's normal. Totally normal.
"Do you think I have a cat?" he asks finally.
His voice is calm. Too calm. Like he's choosing every word with tweezers.
"I didn't say that," I shoot back. "I said what I heard."
"Where did you hear it?"
There it is.
The shift.
My stomach dips.
"The west wing," I say.
Something flickers across his face. Gone in a second. But it's there. Jaw tight. Eyes colder.
"Why did you go there?"
"I didn't go there," I say, defensive already. "I was walking. In your massive rich-people maze of a house."
"That's not an answer."
I roll my eyes. "God, you sound like a cop."
"I told you not to go there."
My head snaps up. "You did not. You just… brood and expect people to read your mind."
He leans forward slightly. Not aggressive. Worse. Controlled.
"If you go there," he says quietly, eyes locked on mine, "you won't come out the same way you went in."
I snort despite the chill crawling up my spine. "Oh? What now? Haunted house vibes? Should I bring snacks next time?"
His mouth doesn't move.
Not even a twitch.
"Maybe," he says. "You heard your cat."
I scoff. "My cat is missing, not haunting me."
He tilts his head. Just a little.
"What was his name?"Boo Boo.??"
"Yeah"
It slips out automatically.
Then my brain catches up.
I freeze.
Slow. Cold.
"…Wait."
My eyes narrow. "How do you know that?"
He stills.
Fuck.
Not fully. Just enough. His fingers tighten around the cup. His breath shifts like he recalculated mid-step.
"Seriously?" he says. "You don't remember?"
"Remember what?" I snap.
He leans back, casual again. Fake-casual. "You told me. At the hospital. You wouldn't shut up."
Memory hits like a delayed punch. White lights. Painkillers. Him sitting there. Quiet. Watching.
"Oh," I mutter. "Right. That."
Then, because my mouth hates me, I add, "Sorry, bro."
His eyebrow lifts. "Bro?"
"Don't hurt me," I say quickly. "I'm emotionally fragile."
A ghost of a smirk. Barely there.
"I said maybe," he adds.
"Wow. Comforting," I mutter. My chest tightens anyway. "I really miss him."
Silence.
Not awkward. Heavy.
"Still," I say, looking straight at him now, "where the fuck is my Boo Boo?"
I don't break eye contact.
"And who the hell was my stalker?"
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ZAYAN — POV
She's staring at me like she's trying to peel my skin off with her eyes.
Sweetheart, if you only knew.
Your stalker is sitting right here. Across the table. Drinking coffee. Watching you spiral in real time.
The irony is filthy.
I keep my face neutral. Calm. Boring. Inside, my brain is doing laps. Fuck. I almost got caught. The cat. The sound. For half a second I really thought she saw him. Thought she followed it. Thought I'd fucked up something I never fuck up.
Thank fuck she didn't.
She shifts in her chair, restless, fingers tapping the table. "I really miss my Boo Boo," she says again, quieter this time.
It hits harder than it should.
Your Boo Boo is in the west wing, baby. Safe. Fed. Annoying as ever. You'll see him soon. Just not yet. Not until I decide you're ready.
I tilt my head slightly, studying her like I'm just thinking. "Maybe he's somewhere here," I say casually. "Looking for you."
Her laugh is sharp. Defensive. "I'm fucking sure that psycho killed him."
The word lands wrong.
Killed.
My jaw tightens before I can stop it.
How can I kill what's yours? How can I hurt something you love when the whole point is keeping everything that belongs to you breathing?
I say nothing. Let the silence stretch. Let her fill it like she always does.
"I want to see that psycho," she continues, eyes bright now, reckless. "I want to ask him why he did that. And most of all—" she pauses, then smirks like she's embarrassed by her own thoughts, "—why he stopped."
That gets me.
My focus snaps fully to her. Every lazy thought evaporates.
"Why?" I ask, voice low. Careful. "You miss him?"
She shrugs, then winces like she hates herself for it. "It was thrilling. Terrifying, yeah. I was scared as hell. But still."
Fuck.
Don't say that.
Don't ever say that.
Because I didn't stop. I just changed positions. Changed access. Changed rules. I'm still there. Still watching. Just closer now. Legally. Permanently. As your husband.
I keep my expression smooth. I lean back, pretending I'm unaffected while my thoughts are anything but. The idea of her missing that danger twists something dark and possessive in my chest.
You don't miss him. You miss being wanted like that. Being hunted. Being the center of someone's obsession.
Congratulations, baby. You married the problem.
"I don't think you want that," I say finally.
She raises a brow. "Why? Afraid?"
I almost smile.
If you only knew how afraid I am of you finding out how deep this goes.
I watch her closely. The way she bites her lip. The way her leg bounces. The way she leans forward when she's worked up. Every habit is burned into me. Collected. Catalogued. Loved in a way I'll never admit out loud.
"Some things," I say calmly, "are better left unfinished."
She studies me like she doesn't buy it. Like she senses something off but can't grab it yet.
Good.
Let it.
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The house goes quiet after breakfast in that fake, expensive way.
Her footsteps fade first. Then the voices. Then nothing.
I don't rush it.
I never rush anything that matters.
The west wing waits the way it always does. Cool. Dim. Polite enough to pretend it doesn't know my sins. The glass corridor hums under my shoes, storm light bleeding through the ceiling panels, gray and restless. Thunder rolls again outside, distant now, like it's lost interest.
Good.
So have I.
The last door sits at the end, untouched by staff, untouched by her.
Fingerprint lock. Soft click. No drama.
Inside smells like clean linen and fur and the faintest trace of her shampoo I stole for the room. Don't ask. I don't justify my habits anymore.
He's sitting by the window.
Tail wrapped around his paws. Back straight. White menace glowing in the dull light like he owns the place. The sky flashes and he doesn't flinch. Of course he doesn't. He's always been fearless.
Then he senses me.
His head turns slow.
Eyes lock.
A single, traitorous—
"Meow."
I scoff and shut the door behind me. "Unbelievable."
He blinks. Lazy. Judging.
"You sense her coming from three rooms away but you sell me out like this?" I walk closer, hands in my pockets, irritation crawling up my spine. "I give you diamonds around your neck. Real ones. I feed you shit people take pictures of before eating. You've had more nannies than royalty."
He stretches. Fully unbothered.
"And still," I mutter, stopping near the couch, "you sense your mommy."
Another meow. Sharper this time.
I run a hand through my hair and laugh under my breath. Not happy. Just tired. "Fuck. I almost got caught because of you."
Lightning flashes. His pupils widen.
Mine don't.
"If I did," I go on, voice dropping, "how the hell would I explain all this shit to her?"
Silence answers me. Heavy. Judging. Furry.
I drop onto the couch and stare at him like he's a mirror I didn't ask for. He hops down, slow, deliberate, hops onto the armrest. Close enough to make a point.
"We're the same," I say quietly. "You know that, right?"
His tail flicks.
"We're both obsessed with her." I exhale through my nose. "Difference is—you get to be loved out loud."
He tilts his head. Side-eyes me like he understands more than he should.
"I know you like your mommy," I continue, rougher now. "But I love your mommy."
The words sit there. Ugly. Honest. Mine.
He looks away toward the window, like he doesn't want to hear it.
Smart cat.
I huff a humorless breath. "I should've given her a female cat."
His ears flatten instantly.
"Yeah," I say, watching him puff up. "Then I wouldn't have had to kidnap you."
He lets out an aggressive meow, low and offended.
I chuckle despite myself. It slips out before I can stop it. "Relax. You're alive. Spoiled. Worshipped."
I lean back, eyes dragging over the ceiling, jaw tight. "And yes," I add, quieter, "I was fucking jealous of you."
That gets his attention.
"You got access I didn't," I say, words burning now that they're loose. "You touched her whenever you wanted. Curled against her. Slept between her legs like you belonged there."
My throat tightens. I swallow it down.
"She kissed you every day," I continue. "Said your name like it was a prayer. Smiled for you when she wouldn't for anyone else."
I laugh once. Sharp. "So yeah. I was jealous. Happy now?"
He watches me. Unblinking.
I reach out and drag my fingers through his fur. Slow. Careful. An apology I don't know how to say out loud. He doesn't pull away.
"I'm sorry," I murmur. "I hurt you both."
The storm outside cracks again, closer this time. The glass hums.
"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 for a few seconds. No movement. No excuses. Just the truth settling into my bones where it's going to live.
Then I add, barely audible—
"When you get your mommy back,
I will lose my wife forever."