ARSHILA POV
The smell of paper and ink feels safer than the mansion.
Bookstores do not lie. Pages do not hide blood behind silk curtains. Words stay where you put them.
I walk between the shelves like I am on a mission, not browsing but hunting. I need more journals because one is not enough anymore. One cannot hold this kind of madness.
I grab two leather-bound diaries, then three more because the covers look serious and dramatic, like they are ready to hold secrets that could destroy families.
I add highlighters in five different colors even though I will probably only use one.
I take black pens, blue pens, fine tips, thick tips, and a pack of sticky notes shaped like little arrows because apparently I am turning into a conspiracy theorist with style.
Then I reach the romance section.
I pause.
If I am going insane, I might as well read about fictional men who ruin lives in a different way.
I slide a few dark romance novels into my basket, the kind with dangerous men on the cover and dramatic titles that promise obsession and chaos.
Research, I tell myself. Pure research.
Outside the glass walls of the bookstore, my Porsche gleams under the sun. I drove too fast getting here.
I know I did because Izar had to chase me like a machine in full bodyguard mode, his car cutting through traffic with that silent, ruthless focus he always has.
He is standing outside now, arms crossed, sunglasses on, looking like he was carved from stone.
Girls passing by keep glancing at him.
Some slow down.
Some pretend to check their phones while taking pictures.
He does not react. He stands there like breathing is optional and attention is irrelevant. Typical Zayan-trained soldier energy.
My phone starts ringing.
I look at the screen and immediately regret existing.
The Fucking Prince.
Of course.
I answer, already irritated. "What."
His voice comes smooth and amused. "Where are you?"
"Why."
A soft laugh travels through the speaker. "Just tell me."
I lean against a shelf and stare at a row of thrillers. "I'm at a bookstore."
"Which one?"
I close my eyes for a second. "Why do you need my exact location?"
"Because I'm coming."
I snort quietly. "Are you my husband now?"
There is a short pause, then his voice lowers just a little. "Maybe I could be."
I blink.
What the hell was that supposed to mean?
I shake my head like he can see me. "I'll send the location."
I hang up before he can say anything else and text him the address. Then I look outside at Izar through the glass wall. He looks back immediately, like he felt my stare. His expression does not change, but I know he will report this call if he thinks it matters.
A few minutes later, the sound hits first.
A McLaren slides into view like it owns the road. It does not park normally. It arrives.
People freeze.
Literally freeze.
Phones come out like weapons. Girls start whispering, pointing, giggling. The literal crown prince stepping out of a McLaren in front of a random bookstore is not a normal Tuesday event.
Rafaen steps out alone.
No visible bodyguards. No heavy security. Just him, like he decided boredom was worse than danger.
He walks inside like this is his house.
The entire bookstore shifts its focus from books to him in less than five seconds.
Then his eyes find me.
And now they are looking at me.
Wonderful.
He comes straight toward my aisle, ignoring the whispers and cameras.
"What are you doing here?" he asks casually, glancing at the pile in my basket.
"Buying vegetables," I reply dryly. "What does it look like?"
His eyes move over the journals, the pens, the stack of highlighters. "Planning to open a stationery shop?"
"Colors make life better."
He lifts a pack of neon highlighters and stares at it like I handed him a bomb. "You need this many?"
"Yes," I say confidently. "It looks expensive and organized. I like standards."
He shakes his head with a faint smile and then grabs one of the books from my basket. His eyebrow lifts as he reads the title.
"So this is your taste."
"Do not open it," I warn him. "You are not emotionally ready."
He ignores me and flips it open anyway.
His expression changes instantly.
"What is this madness?"
I burst out laughing. "Told you."
He closes it slowly like it offended him personally. "You read this?"
"I have hobbies."
He looks at me longer than necessary, something unreadable flickering in his eyes, but before he can say anything, two girls rush over, holding books against their chests.
"Your Highness, can you sign this?" one of them asks, almost shaking.
He turns charming in one second. "Of course."
He takes their books and signs the first page like he wrote the entire thing himself. The girls stare at him like he invented oxygen.
Then one of them looks at me and asks, "Is she your girlfriend?"
He does not hesitate. "Yes."
My head snaps toward him so fast I almost get dizzy.
The girls blink at me, scanning me from head to toe like I just hacked the royal system.
They thank him and walk away whispering loudly, throwing glances over their shoulders.
I elbow him hard. "You could have said I was your friend's wife or even sister."
"You are not my sister," he replies smoothly. "And I do not see you as just a friend ."
I narrow my eyes. "So I am an outsider?"
He steps closer.
Too close.
My back almost touches the shelf.
His face is different today. Less playful. More serious.
"No," he says quietly.
Something in his tone makes my shoulders tense.
I step back first, shaking off whatever that moment was. "You realize Zayan would bury you alive for that little girlfriend statement."
He chuckles, low and careless. "That's the interesting part."
I roll my eyes and walk to the counter before he says something even more reckless.
I start placing everything on the desk. Journals. Pens. Books. Highlighters. The cashier scans them with wide eyes, clearly aware that royalty is breathing the same air.
I reach into my bag for my card.
Before I can pull it out, Rafaen slides his black card onto the counter.
The cashier freezes.
I freeze.
He smiles at her politely, and she turns pink immediately.
I stare at him. "What are you doing?"
"Buying you vegetables," he says calmly.
The cashier giggles nervously while processing the payment.
I cross my arms and study him.
What is his deal?
He looks relaxed, but there is something sharp under it, something that does not match the playful prince image the world loves.
He glances at me like he can feel my stare.
And for a split second, his smile softens in a way that does not feel like a joke at all.
I step out of the bookstore with my bags in both hands and the sun hits my face like reality trying to slap me back into place.
Before I can even breathe properly, a hand wraps around my wrist.
I freeze.
Not because it hurts.
Because we are standing on a public road with cameras, people, cars passing, and the literal crown prince is holding my hand like we are in some dramatic romance trailer.
I slowly turn my head toward him. "What exactly is your problem?"
He looks calm. Too calm. His thumb presses lightly against my pulse like he is checking it for fun. "Do you want to grab a matcha?"
I stare at him like he just insulted my ancestors. "I hate that green grass water."
His mouth curves slightly. "Then coffee."
Before I can argue, he starts walking, dragging me toward the café next to the bookstore like this is perfectly normal behavior.
People are staring openly now. Some are recording. I can already imagine headlines: Crown Prince Kidnaps Mysterious Girl From Bookstore.
He pushes open the café door and the smell of roasted beans fills the air. He finally lets go of my wrist when we reach the counter, but he stands too close. Not touching. Just close enough to feel intentional.
We sit at a small table near the window.
He orders for both of us without asking, which is annoying, but when the coffee arrives it is exactly how I like it.
I narrow my eyes at him. "Are you spying on my coffee habits too?"
He leans back in his chair, watching me instead of his cup. "You talk about it enough."
His eyes are not casual today. They move over my face slowly, from my forehead to my lips and back again, not in a cheap way but in a careful one. There is a softness there that does not fit his usual teasing.
I take a sip to avoid reacting. "You know if Zayan sees you holding my hand in public, he will not hesitate."
He smiles, and this time it is not playful. "Let him."
I almost choke on my coffee. "You are insane."
He rests his elbows on the table, leaning closer. "You think I don't know the risk?"
I roll my eyes, but my heart beats a little faster because his tone is different. It is not flirting. It is something heavier.
"I will not take responsibility if he kills you," I warn him.
He laughs under his breath. "Please do. At least then I die for something interesting."
I shake my head, trying not to smile. "You really enjoy danger."
He looks at me like I am the danger. "Not all danger. Just specific types."
I ignore that.
The conversation drifts to random things. He asks why I bought so many journals. I tell him I am planning to become a full-time villain mastermind. He says I already look like one when I drive. I tell him to stop talking like a fanboy. He pretends to be offended.
But between the jokes, he keeps watching me.
Not in a hungry way.
In a careful way.
Like he is memorizing my reactions.
Like he is trying to understand something about me that I am not even aware of.
When we finish, he pays again without asking and stands up before I can protest. Outside, the street is still buzzing from his arrival. Cameras are lower now but not gone.
We walk toward my car.
Suddenly, he grabs my hand again.
This time his grip is firmer.
"Come with me," he says quietly. "I want to show you something."
I blink at him. "I have my own car, bro."
His face changes slightly at that word. "Bro?"
"Yes, bro."
He exhales slowly, looking personally attacked. "Leave it here. Just come with me. It's important."
Before I can answer, a shadow steps between us.
Izar.
He positions himself directly in front of me, his body slightly angled toward Rafaen. His voice is calm but firm. "Let go of her hand, Your Highness."
The air shifts.
Rafaen does not move immediately. He tilts his head slightly, and a dark smirk spreads across his face, nothing like the charming prince from five minutes ago.
"And if I don't?"
My stomach drops.
This is not mansion Rafaen. This is something else.
Izar's expression does not change. "Then I will have to intervene. It will not look good."
Rafaen tightens his grip on my wrist just a little and pulls me closer to his side. "What will you do? Shoot me? Drag me?"
Izar's tone remains dangerously steady. "Do not push this."
For a second, I forget to breathe.
They are both calm.
Too calm.
Rafaen's eyes flick to mine for a moment, and there is something there. Not arrogance. Not ego. Something stubborn and protective and reckless all at once.
"I said I would take her somewhere and return her safely," he says.
Izar shakes his head once. "That will not happen."
Then in one swift motion, Izar takes my wrist from Rafaen's hand and steps slightly in front of me again, creating distance without making it look aggressive.
"Get in your car," Izar tells me quietly.
I do not argue.
I walk to my Porsche and open the door, sliding inside. Before closing it, I look back at Rafaen.
He is standing there, hands in his pockets now, watching.
"Come to the mansion if you have that much courage," I call out through the open window.
His smirk returns. Slow. Sharp.
He glances at Izar, and the look they exchange is not friendly.
Izar walks to his own car without breaking eye contact first.
I start the engine.
As I pull away, I check the mirror.
Rafaen is still standing there, watching my car disappear like he just lost something he was not supposed to want in the first place.
Izar's car falls in behind mine immediately.
And for some reason, as I press the accelerator and the city blurs around me, I cannot shake the feeling that something just shifted between all three of us.
______________
ZAYAN POV
The study is quiet in the way only expensive rooms can be quiet, thick walls swallowing sound, dark wood absorbing light, the scent of leather and old paper settling into the air like a secret that refuses to leave.
Catherine stands across my desk, tablet in hand, posture straight, voice measured. She never fidgets. That's why she's still here.
"The Tavarian Lux expansion in the southern district is ahead of schedule," she says, swiping to the next slide.
"Construction will be finalized within six weeks. We've secured the coastline permits without opposition. The investors from Zurich are requesting a private walkthrough before the official launch."
I lean back in my chair, fingers steepled under my chin. "They don't get a walkthrough."
She doesn't blink. "They're contributing twenty percent of the offshore liquidity."
"They can wait for the gala like everyone else." My tone stays even. "Scarcity creates hunger. Hunger creates leverage."
Catherine nods once, making a note. "Understood. Regarding the Tavarian Lux flagship property, occupancy is at ninety-eight percent. The presidential suites are booked solid for the next three months. There is a request from the royal office for a permanent reserved floor."
I let out a quiet breath through my nose. "Deny it."
Her brow shifts just slightly. "Your reasoning?"
"They want influence without cost. If they want a floor, they buy the building." I tap the edge of the desk with one finger. "And increase security presence around the penthouse level. Discreetly. I don't want the press smelling anything."
"Yes, sir."
She transitions smoothly. "There is also the acquisition of the Milan property. The Tavarian Lux branding will require a full renovation. The current owner is hesitant about relinquishing naming rights."
"Double the offer," I say without hesitation. "Then remind him what happens when I withdraw it."
A small silence passes. Catherine understands exactly what that means.
Before she can continue, my phone vibrates against the desk.
Once.
Sharp. Brief.
I don't look at it immediately. Catherine keeps speaking.
"The projected revenue for the Tavarian Lux USA branch has exceeded our expectations. However, there are rumors that a competing chain is attempting to undercut pricing in the luxury tier—"
It vibrates again.
My gaze drops to the screen.
Izar.
He does not text unless it matters.
Catherine pauses. "Should I step out?"
"No." My voice is calm. Controlled. "Continue."
I unlock the phone with my thumb while she resumes.
"The Tavarian Lux private membership program has surpassed twelve thousand applicants. We've filtered the list to eight hundred high-net-worth individuals. The rest have been declined—"
A notification preview slides down.
A news alert.
My jaw tightens before I can stop it.
I tap it open.
The headline fills the screen in bold letters.
Crown Prince Spotted In a Book Store with His Girlfriend
For a moment, the room feels smaller.
Catherine is still speaking. Something about strategic partnerships in Monaco.
I don't hear a word of it.
The article thumbnail loads.
A blurry image.
Her.
Him.
His hand around her wrist.
Public road. Cameras. Spectacle.
My jaw tightens, the muscle ticking once.
Then slowly—
Very slowly—
A dark smirk curves across my face.
I lean back in my chair again, phone still in my hand, eyes fixed on the screen.
"Interesting."