Something slips from the shelf and hits the floor.
A small, dark booklet lands near my feet, sliding just a little across the polished wood like it wants to be noticed.
I bend down slowly, already knowing I should not be touching things that belong to him, especially not things hidden in a cabinet that was supposed to stay closed.
I pick it up and turn it over in my hand.
Zayan's name.
An old passport.
For a second I just stare at it, thumb brushing over the worn cover. I should put it back. That is the normal thing to do.
That is the respectful thing to do. But curiosity is a bitch, and I have never been known for ignoring her.
Before I can stop myself, I open it.
And fucking hell.
The pages are thick with stamps. Layer over layer of ink, visas from places I only know from documentaries and maps and random late-night searches.
Europe, Asia, Africa, countries that most people never even think about visiting. Some stamps overlap, some are faded, some are so recent the ink still looks sharp.
It does not look like rich-boy vacation travel. It looks constant. It looks strategic.
I swallow and almost close it.
Of course he has traveled everywhere. He is rich. He is powerful. This is normal for someone like him.
Then something unholy slips into my head.
What if it is not just travel?
What if it is timing?
I do not know why I am doing it. I really do not. My heart starts beating harder like I am about to commit a crime. I pull my phone out of my pajama pocket and stare at it for a second.
This is insane.
Fuck it.
I start taking pictures. Every single page. Slow. Careful. Making sure the stamps are clear. My hands shake just enough to make me curse under my breath, but I keep going. One page. Next page. Every visa. Every entry date. Every exit stamp.
When I am done, I flip through it once more just to make sure it looks exactly the way it did before. Then I slide it back into the cabinet, push the door shut, and step away like nothing happened.
My pulse is racing so hard I can hear it in my ears.
I clutch the velvet pouch with the shell pendants in my other hand and shove my phone back into my pocket. I take one long breath and try to slow my heart before it gives me away.
Then I walk back to the dining hall.
The second I step in, my eyes meet his.
Of course they do.
Zayan is sitting across from my empty chair, calm as ever, hands resting near his plate, watching the doorway like he has been expecting me.
It is so pathetic how fast my stomach drops. I look away immediately, like I have nothing to hide, like I did not just photograph his entire past five minutes ago.
I sit down and force my voice to stay steady.
"I brought you idiots something."
Eshan leans forward first, curious and dramatic as always. I toss one shell pendant toward him. It lands near his plate, the small polished shell catching the light.
He picks it up between two fingers and squints at it. "What the hell is this?"
"My heart," I say flatly.
He makes a gagging sound so exaggerated I have to resist the urge to throw the bowl at his head.
I kick him under the table.
"You are kicking me," Zayan says calmly.
I freeze and blink at him. "That was not for you."
"Your aim is terrible," he replies without moving his gaze from mine.
Heat climbs up my neck. I clear my throat and grab the second pendant, sliding it toward Razmir.
He takes it carefully, turning it in his hand like he has never seen a real shell before. His fingers are large and scarred, and the delicate necklace looks strange resting against his palm.
He studies it for a moment longer than I expect, then nods once, as if evaluating quality.
The third one goes to Rafaen.
He does not look down at it first. He looks at me.
There is a smirk on his face, slow and knowing, and he does not break eye contact when he takes the pendant from my hand.
His fingers brush mine on purpose. Something shifts in his expression, something unreadable, and I pull my hand back faster than necessary.
The last pendant stays in my hand.
I look up.
Zayan is already watching me.
There is that faint curve at the corner of his mouth, not a full smile, just enough to say he knows something I do not.
"Well," I mutter, sliding it across the table toward him, "here."
Eshan snorts. "So this is what you carried all the way from Italy? A tiny shell? It is ugly."
My head snaps toward him. "Give it back then."
Razmir tilts his head. "Yes, it is quite… questionable."
Rafaen leans back in his chair, still smirking. "If I wear this, I might look ridiculous."
Eshan lifts his necklace and holds it against his chest. "If I put this on, I will look like I lost a bet."
"Fuck you," I snap before I can stop myself.
The words come out sharper than I intend. My chest tightens unexpectedly. I look down at my plate because I suddenly regret everything.
I did not have to bring them anything. I did not have to think about them when I bought it.
Eshan's teasing expression shifts first.
"This is the first gift I have ever received that did not come with a price tag attached," he says, voice softer now. "No brand. No transaction. Just… this."
I glance at him.
Razmir clears his throat. "It is handmade?"
"Yes," I mutter.
Rafaen finally looks down at his pendant properly and runs his thumb over the surface. "It does not look ugly," he says quietly. "It looks personal."
Eshan suddenly grins again, mischief returning. "As an Italian gesture, may I kiss her cheek?"
I turn my head toward Zayan instinctively.
He does not even blink.
"Try," he says evenly, "and Alzira will be in mourning tomorrow for the death of their heir."
I burst out laughing before I can stop myself. Eshan rolls his eyes dramatically and throws his hands in the air.
"You are all insane," he mutters.
Razmir signals toward the door with two fingers.
A few seconds later, one of his bodyguards steps into the dining hall, silent and alert.
Razmir removes his pendant slowly, then reaches toward Eshan and Rafaen without asking. They hand theirs over without protest. He places all three in the bodyguard's palm.
"Keep these secure," he says calmly. "Locked. No scratches."
The bodyguard nods once and leaves.
I stare at them.
"You said they were ugly."
Razmir picks up his fork again like nothing happened. "Ugly things are often the most valuable."
Eshan leans back in his chair, stretching lazily. "Do not misunderstand. I will still complain."
Rafaen's eyes flick toward me. "But we are not giving them back."
Across from me, Zayan lifts his pendant and fastens it around his neck without breaking eye contact.
He does not say anything.
He does not need to.
And even though they all acted like it was nothing, I know they will guard those stupid little shells like treasure.
The night stretches longer after dinner.
One by one, they leave the dining hall, called away by meetings, calls, security updates, things that sound normal when they say them but never feel normal when you look too closely.
The house grows quieter with every door that shuts. The marble floors seem colder. The air heavier.
Zayan stands from his chair and walks toward me.
I look up at him.
There is something unreadable in his eyes again, something steady and controlled, like he is measuring the room, measuring me.
He opens his mouth to speak, but before a single word comes out, footsteps echo from the hallway.
Izar appears at the entrance.
He does not look at me. He looks at Zayan.
"Sir."
That is all he says, but it is enough.
Zayan exhales slowly, the sound almost tired. His gaze returns to me, softer now but still sharp underneath.
"I will come back quickly," he says.
I nod like I do not care, like my pulse is not still slightly off rhythm from what I did in the closet.
He turns and walks into the darker part of the mansion with Izar beside him. Their figures disappear past the long corridor, swallowed by shadow and silence.
The second they vanish from sight, I move.
I walk fast, almost running, back to the bedroom. The main room is dim, lamps casting warm light against the walls. I do not stop there. I go straight to the smaller room inside it, my room within his room, the one space that feels like mine.
I close the door.
My hands are not steady.
I go to the drawer and pull out my small journal, the one I started in Italy. The pages are filled with notes, small observations, dates, strange comments I pretended were harmless. I sit on the couch and open it on my lap.
Then I take out my phone.
My gallery opens to the photos immediately. His passport pages fill the screen. Stamp after stamp. Country after country.
I start scrolling slowly.
He has visited almost every Asian country. Not once. Multiple times. Japan. Thailand. Singapore. South Korea. India. china.
Then Europe, almost all of it. France again and again. Italy so many times it almost looks like routine. Switzerland repeatedly.
Australia. South Africa. Sudan. Places most billionaires visit for meetings or business summits.
It should not shock me.
He is a Tavarian. He is heir to a trillion-dollar empire. He could buy a private island just to use it for a weekend.
But something feels wrong.
He owns private jets.
He has security teams that clear entire airports.
Then why are there commercial airport stamps in his passport?
Why are there standard entry and exit records like a normal traveler?
Why is he standing in lines like everyone else?
He has never done anything like everyone else.
Not from the beginning.
My heartbeat grows louder in my ears. My stomach tightens in a way I do not like.
I tell myself this is nothing. I tell myself I enjoy mysteries too much. I tell myself I am building stories in my head because I am bored.
Then something darker pushes forward.
I shake my head hard.
No.
That is stupid.
Zayan is my husband.
I inhale sharply and unlock my phone again.
My fingers move before I can stop them. I open the browser and type three words.
Vigilante murders list.
Several links appear. I click one. A compiled document of unsolved high-profile killings over the last five years. Organized. Detailed. Dates. Locations. Victim names. Patterns the media noticed but never confirmed.
My heart starts warning me to stop.
I ignore it.
I open my journal and flip to a blank page. I start writing the crime dates on the right side. City. Country. Month. Year. My handwriting is messy now.
Then I switch to the passport photos.
On the left side of the page, I write his travel dates. Entry. Exit. Country.
I go back and forth between the list and the photos.
My breathing grows shallow.
Date of murder in Bangkok.
His entry stamp in Thailand three days before.
Crime in Milan.
His passport shows Italy that same week.
A killing in Paris.
France stamp. Same month.
A case in Johannesburg.
South Africa entry two days before the incident.
My hands begin to shake harder. The pen slips slightly in my grip, but I keep writing. Line after line. Date after date.
Switzerland.
Sudan.
Singapore.
France again.
Italy again.
Every time there is a crime, there is a stamp.
Every time there is blood on a news headline, there is proof he was in that country.
My heartbeat is violent now, pounding in my ears so loudly it almost drowns out everything else. The room feels smaller. The air thinner.
I stare at the page.
Right side: crime dates and locations.
Left side: his passport entries.
They line up.
Not once.
Not twice.
Again and again.
My hand loses its grip.
The pen falls from my fingers and rolls across the journal.
On the paper in front of me, the crime dates and his passport dates match.