"That damn Daniel. He's not answering my calls. Been missing for two days now."
I blink once. Slow. "What? Daniel's missing?"
Damien nods, fingers digging into his temples like the news just punched him again. "Yeah. I don't know where the fuck he's gone. His phone's off, his tracker's dead. I even sent one of my guys to his apartment — place looks empty. Like he just vanished."
I lean back, pretending to be casual. My face stays blank, but inside?
Yeah, I already knew that.
Daniel's phone's sitting in a drain, thirty miles from here — right where I told Izar to drop it.
"Relax," I say, keeping my voice calm, smooth. "Maybe he's on a trip. Or took someone with him."
Damien shakes his head so hard I think he might snap something. "No. No, no, no. He doesn't go anywhere without telling me. He doesn't even take a piss without sending me the location."
I hum, drag my eyes lazily toward the window. "Then maybe your little watchdog needed a break. You've been working him like a damn mule."
"Not funny," he snaps. "This isn't just some fucking vacation, Adam. Something's wrong."
I shrug like it doesn't matter. "You worry too much. He'll turn up."
But his face—
yeah, he's not hearing me anymore. His phone vibrates on the table. The sound slices through the air, that sharp buzz that makes the whole room tilt for a second.
He grabs it immediately, squints at the screen. The expression that hits his face next—
pure static.
Then he jerks upright, chair scraping against the marble. "No."
Voice cracks once.
Then again, louder.
"No! No, no, no, no!"
He's full-on yelling now, and the sound is ugly — not powerful, just desperate.
I frown, just enough to look confused. "What the hell's going on?"
He doesn't answer. Just keeps staring at the screen like he's watching his own funeral in real-time.
"Damien," I push, leaning forward, calm but firm. "What happened?"
He looks up at me — eyes bloodshot, jaw tight, sweat already starting at his temples. "My fund," he says, voice trembling. "My fucking fund— it's frozen!"
I blink once. Tilt my head slightly. "What?"
He's pacing now. Wild. "My accounts— they're fucking frozen, Adam! Every single one of them! Swiss, Cayman, even the fucking Singapore offshore — all gone! All locked! This can't be happening!"
"What the hell are you talking about?" I grab the phone when he thrusts it at me.
The screen shows a simple bank message.
"Account activity suspended pending investigation."
A single sentence that's about to ruin his whole empire.
My fingers twitch — not because I'm surprised, but because this is the part I built for. The part that starts breaking men like him from the inside out.
Still, I put on the show. "Maybe it's just under maintenance or some bullshit," I say, handing it back. "Banks pull that sometimes."
He shakes his head violently. "Maintenance? Are you out of your fucking mind? These are offshore accounts. They don't just 'maintain.' They don't fucking blink unless you tell them to!"
I sigh, rubbing my chin. "Then maybe it's fraud alert. Maybe your idiot accountant messed something up."
He growls under his breath, hands gripping his hair. "Daniel handled all my shit. My transfers, my funders, my goddamn passwords. And now he's gone. Missing. And my accounts are frozen." He slams his fist against the wall. "This isn't a coincidence."
I raise a brow, just slightly. "You think he ran off with your money?"
He spins to me, eyes wide. "No. Daniel's not that stupid. Someone hit us. Someone got in. Someone who knows how to dig into Swiss firewalls, and that's not just some nerd with a laptop."
I almost smile. Almost.
He's right. It's not.
I lean forward, elbows on my knees, tone low, calm — the kind of calm that usually makes people confess shit they shouldn't. "Okay. Let's say someone did hit you. Then the question is… why?"
"I don't fucking know, Adam!" Damien roars, voice cracking halfway. He grabs the edge of the table like it's the only thing keeping him from falling apart. "Everything's gone. I swear to god, I had full access two days ago—now it's like someone erased me from my own goddamn empire!"
He's pacing hard, running a hand through his hair, breathing like he's been sprinting for miles. His phone's still in his other hand, screen lighting his face—pale, twitchy, desperate.
I stay where I am. Calm.
Arms resting on my thighs, back leaned against the couch, watching him fall apart like he's in slow motion.
"Okay," I say quietly. "Breathe."
He glares at me like I just told him to smile at a funeral.
"Breathe?" he spits. "I'm fucking ruined, Adam! You understand that? They froze my funds, my transfers, my shell companies—everything! Do you know how much money that is?"
"More than you can count without choking," I mutter, low enough he doesn't quite catch it. Then I look up. "Hey. Calm the fuck down. You have me. We'll fix this."
He freezes for a second, like he's not sure he heard right. "What?"
"I said, you have me."
I meet his eyes, steady. "You're not alone in this shit. The fund—don't worry about it. I got you."
He steps closer, his voice dropping. "You sure about that?"
I nod, slow, measured. "Yeah."
I stand up, match his height, and put a hand on his shoulder. "We'll figure it out. Together, alright?"
For a second, he just looks at me. His breathing slows down, shoulders dropping a little. "Alright…" he mutters, half to himself. "Together."
Then he starts pacing again, talking under his breath—names, numbers, countries, the usual filth people like him hide behind.
And I just watch.
God, it's fucking good to see.
All that power he used to walk with—the arrogance, the smug grin, the way he'd look at women like they were disposable—gone. Replaced with fear. Real, cold fear.
That's the thing about men like him.
They don't break in silence. They break loud.
They break ugly.
He keeps pacing, muttering about calling his contacts, trying to figure out who hit him, while I just stand there, calm, hands in my pockets.
This.
This right here.
This is the reason I do it.
Not because of some hero complex.
Not because of justice.
Because watching monsters choke on their own blood—metaphorically or not—is the closest thing to peace I've ever felt.
He slams his phone down again. "This can't be happening, Adam! Do you get it? This fucking can't—"
"Sit," I cut him off, tone quiet but sharp enough to slice.
He does.
He actually listens.
Good.
I crouch in front of him, my face calm, my voice steady. "You said Daniel handled your passwords, right?"
"Yeah."
"Then whoever got in, probably used him as an entry point."
He nods quickly. "You think they killed him?"
"Maybe." I shrug. "Maybe they needed him alive to finish the job. Either way, he's not your problem anymore. I'll check into it."
"You can do that?"
"I can do a lot of things."
He nods again, rubbing his face. "Fuck… okay. Yeah. Okay. You're right. You're right. I just—fuck."
He looks like a man about to throw up, and for a moment I almost pity him. Almost.
But pity doesn't belong here. Not for men like Damien.
He's one of those who build their empires on women's screams and children's silence. He calls it business. I call it hell.
And he's next in line.
"Get some rest," I tell him. "Tomorrow we start tracking the breach. I'll talk to some people I know in Falconridge's cybersecurity wing, see if I can find anything."
He exhales, shaky, but nods. "Thanks, Adam. Really. I don't know what I'd do without you right now."
Yeah, I bet you don't.
I stand up, smooth my shirt, give him a small smile—easy, unbothered. "You'll be fine. Just hold your shit together for now."
He watches me head toward the door, still mumbling something about bank codes and fucking Swiss protocols.
And as I step out, the night air hits my face.
Cool. Quiet. Clean.
Inside, Damien's world is falling apart piece by piece.
Outside, mine is falling right into place.
I pull my phone out, tap once. Izar's message lights up.
"Done. All traces wiped."
I smile, faint.
"Good," I type back.
Then I pocket the phone, eyes on the empty road ahead.
I'm sorry, Damien.
Maybe you'll see everything before you die.
Maybe you'll realize too late that I was the one sitting across from you, helping you clean up the mess I made.
But for now—
I let you breathe.
Because watching you unravel is better than killing you too fast.
And the hunt?
It's only getting started.
_________________________
Arshila's pov
My phone buzzes again, lighting up the screen.
"Living room."
That's all it says.
From Rafaen.
I stare at it for a solid five seconds, squinting.
Excuse me? Who the hell gave him the right to order me around like he's my husband?
I mumble to myself as I stand up. "Oh, so now the prince of the country texts like we're in a fucking monarchy sitcom. Love that."
Still, I walk. Because curiosity's a bitch.
The halls are dim — that golden light spilling from the wall lamps, quiet, expensive, and suffocating. The air in this house always smells like him — like sandalwood, spice, and trouble.
But Zayan's not here.
And that's weird.
Because if Rafaen's here, he should be too. They're basically a package deal, the Sovereign set. They move like one organism — quiet, dangerous, perfectly synced.
So yeah. The fact that it's only him? Red flag. Big one.
By the time I hit the end of the hallway, I can already hear it — the faint sound of something clicking, maybe his ring against the glass table.
Then I step in.
And there he is.
Sitting like he owns the damn place.
One arm thrown over the back of the couch, legs spread just enough to scream power, smug as fuck.
Rafaen Izaan Nazrani — the royal bastard himself.
And of course, he looks good.
Too good.
Like he just walked out of a magazine cover and decided to make it everyone else's problem. Fresh haircut, skin glowing like he just did a skincare campaign. The man has no right looking that put-together in my house.
My house.
Not his.
I stop near the edge of the couch, cross my arms. "Where are the other two?"
He tilts his head slightly, that lazy half-smirk pulling at his mouth. "Don't know."
I raise a brow. "You always come with them."
"Why?" he says, slow, voice calm and low like honey with a bite. "I can't come alone?"
I blink. "You can, but—"
I pause, narrowing my eyes. "When the hell did you even get here? Did the guards just let you in like you're part of the furniture?"
He shrugs, still lounging. "They did."
"Zayan isn't here," I say flatly.
"I know."
That makes me squint harder. "You know?"
He nods once, that same calm smugness radiating off him like static.
"So tell me why you're here then," I press.
He meets my eyes, that quiet stillness he always carries making the room feel smaller.
"Nothing," he says. "Just got bored."
I laugh — short, disbelieving. "Oh? The prince of the country is bored now?"
His lip twitches. "Seems like it."
"And you think I can help you with your boring life?" I shoot back, one brow raised.
He leans forward just slightly. "Maybe."
That earns a laugh out of me — a real one this time. "You got it wrong, bro. I'm not part of your royal entertainment package."
Before he can say anything else, footsteps echo down the hall.
I don't even have to turn.
I know that sound — quiet, controlled, heavy in all the right ways.
Izar.
He steps into the doorway, silent as ever, his dark eyes flicking between us once.
Doesn't speak. Just stands there like a warning label at the edge of the room.
I smirk and glance back at Rafaen. "Oh? You're under protection even from me?"
That earns me a low chuckle.
"So I'm dangerous now?"
"You've always been dangerous," I say, leaning against the side of the couch, arms still crossed. "You just hide it behind royal manners."
He studies me — slow, quiet, eyes doing that subtle drag thing that makes heat crawl up my neck.
He doesn't answer.
Doesn't need to.
I exhale, tilt my head, voice dropping into something halfway between teasing and warning. "You're always the quiet one, huh? Got the guts to come here in the middle of the night, alone?"
He finally smirks — that slow, knowing kind of smirk that says he doesn't do anything by accident.
"Guess I like testing limits."
Yeah, of course you do, I think.
You and every other fucked-up man I know.
But I don't say it.
I just smile back, all teeth and no warmth.
"Careful, Your Highness," I say. "Some limits bite back."
He leans back again, still watching me like I'm the most interesting thing in the room.
And maybe I am.
But he's not getting that satisfaction from me.
Not tonight.
He stares at me for a second too long — that lazy kind of stare that makes you wanna fidget even when you know you shouldn't.
Then, calm as fuck, he goes, "Can I ask you something?"
I tilt my head, half-grin playing on my mouth. "Yes, your grace."
The corner of his lip kicks up — not a real smile, more like he finds me amusing in a way he shouldn't.
"I know you don't respect me," he says, voice low, casual, like he's talking about the weather. "And all this 'grace, highness' shit… it means something when you say it."
I smirk. "Does it?"
"Yeah," he says, eyes locked on mine. "Like you're trying not to laugh when you say it."
I shrug, playing dumb. "Maybe I am."
He leans back a bit, still smirking. "Thought so."
I raise a brow. "So? What do you wanna ask?"
He hums, like he's debating whether it's worth saying. Then: "Who do you think Zayan is?"
That catches me off guard. I blink. "Who do I think Zayan is?"
"Yeah."
I scoff. "What kinda question is that?"
"Answer it."
I squint at him. "Why the hell do you want my opinion about my husband?"
He grins then, full and slow, that grin that looks too sharp to be friendly. "Husband, huh?"
I roll my eyes. "Don't start."
He leans forward, elbows on his knees. "Go on. Tell me."
I cross my arms tighter. "Zayan's the kind of man who'll kill you if you touch me wrong," I say, staring him dead in the eye. "Even if you're his best friend. Or the damn prince of the country."
He lets out a quiet laugh — not shocked, not offended. Just amused. "Damn. Hot."
I don't answer. I just hold his stare, jaw tight.
And then he stands.
Not in a rush. Not with noise. Just—stands. Like he's got all the time in the fucking world.
The air shifts instantly. My heartbeat gets stupid loud for no reason. He walks towards me, slow, deliberate, like each step's meant to see how much I'll flinch.
Spoiler: I don't.
He stops right in front of me, close enough that I can feel the heat off his chest. I can smell the faint trace of whatever royal cologne he wears — that expensive kind that probably costs more than my college tuition.
I lift my chin slightly, refusing to back off. Our eyes lock. His are darker up close — not soft, not harsh, just… unreadable.
My brain's screaming don't blink first.
Then I see Izar. Still by the door. Calm.
Watching.
Like he already knows how this ends.
Rafaen tilts his head the tiniest bit, that smirk still playing like it's a secret. "No wonder," he says.
My stomach tightens. No wonder what?
Before I can ask, he murmurs, "I get what I want."
And yeah, I swear the way his eyes drop — quick glance at my mouth — makes my breath hitch even though I hate myself for it.
Then he steps back. Smooth. Easy. Like he didn't just throw a grenade into the air between us.
He turns around, hand sliding into his pocket, and waves behind him — lazy, like it's just another Tuesday.
"Goodnight, Mrs. Tavarian."
The door clicks shut behind him, and suddenly the silence feels too loud.
I stand there, staring at the spot he left, pulse hammering, brain still trying to piece together what the hell just happened.
Did I just… lose a round in a game I didn't even know we were playing?
I exhale, run a hand through my hair, and mutter under my breath,
"Fucking royals, man."
And yet, deep down, I can't shake it — that weird pull.
Like something just shifted under the floorboards.
Something that shouldn't have.
I'm still standing in the foyer when I hear it—
the low rumble of an engine.
Rafaen's car pulls out slow, headlights cutting through the dark like a scene straight out of a secret you shouldn't have witnessed.
He doesn't look back. Of course he doesn't.
He just drives like nothing happened. Like he didn't leave the air around me fucking vibrating.
But then—
the second he clears the gate—
another car slides in.
Black. Familiar. Quiet in that dangerous way.
My chest does this stupid thing—
a jump.
A thud.
Like it knows before my brain does.
Zayan.
Of course it's him.
Their cars stop nose-to-nose for a second. Both engines still running. Both tinted windows rolled up.
And I swear there's this weird silence, like even the night's holding its breath.
They're talking—through that small gap between their windows, low, unreadable.
I can't hear a word. But I can feel it. That thick energy that comes when two men who shouldn't be talking are talking anyway.
Then Rafaen's window slides up.
He drives out.
The guards close the gate behind him, locks clanking in a way that sounds final.
And I'm just there, barefoot on cold marble, heart being a total drama queen for no reason.
I move. Slowly.
Get inside before I can start overthinking every little sound.
By the time Zayan's car slides into the garage, I'm already in the room.
My brain's running on pure static—half Rafaen's words, half the memory of the way his eyes flicked down at me before leaving.
And now—Zayan.
There's this off feeling sitting heavy in my chest, like something in the air doesn't match the furniture anymore.
I sit down on the couch, facing the door, trying to look normal. Whatever that means.
A soft click.
The doorknob turns.
And there he is.
Adam Zayan Tavarian.
Perfectly calm. Perfectly unreadable. The kind of calm that should come with a warning label.
He steps in, shuts the door behind him, and—locks it.
Of course he does.
My throat goes dry.
I pretend I didn't see it, didn't hear it, didn't feel the slight drop in temperature that came with it.
Just stare at the floor like I'm suddenly obsessed with the rug pattern.
He says nothing. Just starts unbuttoning his shirt.
One button.
Two.
His movements are slow, precise, like he's peeling off the day piece by piece.
The room feels smaller, heavier, too full of something I can't name.
My eyes drag up before I can stop them—
the skin showing through the undone buttons, the vein on his forearm flexing as his fingers move, the chain against his collarbone catching light.
My heart skips in that annoying way again.
God, I hate that.
He looks up.
Straight at me.
And for a long second, that's all we do.
Just stare.
No words. No fake small talk. Nothing to hide behind.
Then I say it, voice coming out steadier than I feel:
"If I say to someone… 'he's the kind of man who'll kill someone if they touch her wrong'… what do you think that person gets from that?"
He stops. Doesn't even blink.
"What did you understand from it?" I ask again, slower this time.
He watches me for a beat. Then he walks toward me.
Every step he takes pulls the air out of the room.
I don't move.
He stops right in front of me, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to look up at him. His shadow falls over me, long, heavy.
My pulse is ridiculous.
He's just standing there.
Not touching me. Not speaking.
But it feels like pressure — like something coiled right behind my ribs waiting to snap.
I look at his face, his jaw tight, eyes unreadable.
He looks down at me the way people look at things they're not sure they wanna destroy or protect.
And then he says it — voice low, steady, almost quiet enough to miss.
"If you say that to someone…"
His eyes lock with mine.
"Then you just revealed your weakness"