ARSHILA — POV
The yard looks like peace.
It's disgusting.
Blue water stretching forever. Waves hitting the shore in soft, fake therapy sounds. White sand. Expensive silence.
The Tavarian mansion sitting behind me like it owns the coastline and probably half the damn government.
And I'm on a wooden bench with a laptop open in front of me and a small journal on the table like I'm about to write poetry or some shit.
I'm not.
I'm spiraling.
The sea breeze keeps moving my hair off my face and I keep pushing it back, annoyed at everything, including oxygen.
It's supposed to be relaxing here.
It isn't.
Because my brain won't shut the fuck up.
Did Zayan kill him?
The question keeps circling like a fly that won't die.
I can't believe it.
I don't believe it.
There's no proof.
None.
But the way he reacted. The way Izar reacted. That calm. That bored "oh." Like someone mentioned the weather, not a dead man.
That's what's crawling under my skin.
I saw Izar differently that night.
For the first time.
Not the quiet shadow.
Not the efficient assistant.
A fucking predator.
And it scared me a little.
Not because he's dangerous.
Because I didn't know.
That's the part that makes my stomach tight.
I flip the laptop screen toward me again.
The Italian article is still open.
Professional font. Clean layout. Calm tone.
It reads like a press release for a product launch, not a corpse.
I translated it earlier. Every line.
"Lorenzo De Luca, prominent entrepreneur and owner of multiple luxury fashion houses and high-end dining establishments, was found deceased in his private residence."
Prominent.
Entrepreneur.
Such classy words for a body.
"Preliminary investigation suggests prolonged isolation prior to death. Authorities report that De Luca had not attended any public events during the week preceding his discovery."
That's the lie.
Because he attended the gala.
He was there.
I swallow hard.
The article continues.
"Cause of death pending autopsy. Evidence of severe facial trauma and multiple fractures noted. Signs of excessive nicotine and alcohol consumption prior to death."
Nicotine.
Alcohol.
Eyes destroyed.
Facial trauma.
My mind jumps back to that punch.
Zayan's fist.
The way it landed.
The sound.
The way the room went quiet.
Maybe the eye damage was from that.
Maybe it wasn't something new.
Maybe he died from the injuries.
Maybe.
And then—
"Body discovered suspended within the residence. Authorities confirm staged positioning. Investigation leaning toward homicide rather than suicide."
Staged.
Clinically planned murder.
My stomach flips.
I scroll further.
Apparently he had business ties with drug distribution. Quiet rumors. Offshore accounts. Money that moved weird.
The comments section is worse.
"He deserved it."
"Finally."
"Karma."
"Karma."
Karma.
I actually feel sick reading that.
How do people celebrate someone's death?
Even if he's trash.
Even if he's disgusting.
Death shouldn't feel like entertainment.
I dig deeper.
Search again.
Different articles.
Different sources.
And then I find it.
Old headlines.
Years back.
"Business magnate Lorenzo De Luca marries 16-year-old."
My eyebrows pull together.
Sixteen?
The article explains legal loopholes. Family consent. Wealth. Influence.
She gets pregnant.
He divorces her before she turns legal.
I blink.
What the fuck.
Another article.
Another girl.
Young.
Barely out of school.
Three marriages total.
All young.
All uncomfortable to read.
One source literally calls him "a well-protected predator shielded by money."
My stomach turns again.
Pedophile.
That word just sits there.
I lean back on the bench.
The sea keeps moving like it doesn't give a shit.
Okay.
He's sick.
He's disgusting.
He's a predator.
But that doesn't mean someone can kill him.
Right?
Or does it?
No.
No.
We're not doing vigilante justice logic right now.
Murder is still murder.
Unless—
Unless the Tavarians don't operate on "normal."
The gala was private.
High-level.
Partners only.
If they decide someone wasn't there—
He wasn't there.
Reality edited.
Erased.
Like deleting a file.
That's the part that makes my skin cold.
They can erase reality.
And I married into it.
My journal is open beside the laptop.
Page filled with one sentence.
Did Zayan kill him?
Over and over.
Different handwriting pressure.
Some angry.
Some shaky.
Some almost carved into the paper.
I stare at it.
If he did—
Why doesn't he look guilty?
Why does he look calm?
Why does he look… satisfied?
The sound of footsteps crunching over gravel pulls me out of my head.
I don't even look up first.
I know the walk.
Confident.
Unhurried.
Like the ground belongs to him.
"What are you doing, wife?"
His voice hits first.
Low. Casual.
I look up.
He's walking toward me in sunglasses, loose white shirt half open, fabric moving with the wind. Shorts sitting low on his hips. Backward cap.
His chest is almost fully on display but not enough to be accidental.
He does that on purpose.
Sunlight hits his skin.
He looks like summer.
And danger.
Shit.
My heart betrays me and speeds up.
I casually slide the journal under my ass.
Smooth.
Hopefully.
The pages literally scream Did Zayan kill him.
He reaches the bench.
Pauses.
Glances at the laptop.
At me.
I close the screen halfway.
"Just enjoying the view," I say.
He hums.
Not agreement.
A question.
"Hm?"
He removes the sunglasses slowly.
That vein in his forearm flexes as he hooks them into his shirt collar.
He sits across from me.
Leans back.
Spreads his legs slightly.
Relaxed.
Too relaxed.
"What's your opinion then?" he asks.
I blink.
"Opinion of what?"
His mouth curves faintly.
"The view."
I glance at the sea like I forgot it existed.
"Oh. Yeah. The view. It's good."
Smooth, Arshila. So convincing.
He smirks.
Looks at the water.
Not at me.
"You've been staring at the screen for an hour," he says lightly. "The sea isn't that interesting."
My stomach tightens.
"I like researching."
"Researching what?"
His tone is casual.
But his eyes.
His eyes are not.
"Random stuff," I shrug.
He leans forward slightly.
Forearms on his knees.
"And what random stuff requires you to hide a notebook under your ass?"
Fuck.
My jaw tightens.
He noticed.
Of course he noticed.
I cross one leg over the other.
Buy time.
"When are we going home?" I ask suddenly.
Deflect.
His tongue presses against the inside of his cheek.
There it is.
He tilts his head slightly.
"You miss home?"
His voice lowers.
Not soft.
Controlled.
I look away toward the ocean.
"Nothing."
He studies me.
"Home, huh."
I exhale through my nose.
"That was a slip of the tongue."
"Yeah," he says. "Believable."
His knee bumps mine under the table.
Not accidental.
My pulse jumps.
He leans closer.
Close enough that I can smell his cologne mixed with salt air.
"You're tense," he says quietly.
"I'm fine."
"You're not."
His fingers reach out.
Not touching yet.
Hovering near my wrist.
"You're thinking too much."
My heart pounds.
Because yes.
Because always.
Because I'm thinking about whether you staged a fucking murder.
I look at him.
He studies my face like he's peeling layers off.
Slow.
Annoyingly patient.
"What are you writing?" he asks.
His voice is casual.
Too casual.
My brain scrambles for something normal.
"A book," I say.
He lifts one brow.
"What kind of book?"
I don't hesitate. I refuse to.
"Dark romance."
His mouth curves.
There it is.
That dangerous little smirk.
"Of course it is," he murmurs. "Who's the male lead?"
I shrug like it's nothing.
"My first love."
The smirk drops.
Instant.
Gone.
No teasing.
No softness.
Just blank.
My stomach flips.
Why did I say that like that.
Why am I like this.
He doesn't blink.
"Your first love," he repeats.
Flat.
Before I can process the shift, he reaches across the table and slides the laptop toward himself.
Fast.
Efficient.
I freeze.
Shit.
The article is still open.
The Italian headline bold across the screen.
He opens it fully.
Scrolls once.
Twice.
His eyes move calmly over the words.
No tension.
No reaction.
Then—
The smirk returns.
Slow.
Controlled.
He looks at me over the screen.
"Give it to me," I say, trying to sound irritated instead of caught.
He ignores that.
"Why are you reading about a fucking murder in the morning?" he asks lightly.
He shuts the laptop but keeps his hand on it.
"What exactly are you getting from this?"
"It's not like that."
"Then what is it?"
His tone doesn't rise.
That's worse.
"You like the thrill?" he continues. "The drama? The blood?"
I glare.
"I don't feel like that."
He tilts his head slightly.
"Is it research for your dark romance?"
My jaw tightens.
"Maybe."
He leans back in the chair.
Long legs stretching under the table.
"And in your book," he says calmly, "does the hero beat men to death?"
I swallow.
"He's not the hero."
"Oh?" His brow lifts. "Then what is he?"
"The villain."
His eyes darken slightly.
Under the table, I feel it.
His leg sliding forward.
Hooking around mine.
My breath catches.
He traps my calf with his ankle.
Casual.
Like it's nothing.
I try to yank my leg back.
Doesn't move.
Of course it doesn't.
His grip tightens.
"Make me the villain," he says softly.
Heat shoots straight up my spine.
"What?"
"In your book." His voice drops lower. "Make me the villain."
I try to free my leg again.
Nothing.
His other leg hooks around my other ankle now.
Caging both.
"What are you doing?" I hiss.
"Listening," he says smoothly.
His thumb taps against the laptop.
"You're obsessed with this man's death. You're writing dark romance. You're staring at me like you want to ask something."
He leans forward.
Our knees press together now.
"Make me the villain," he repeats. "Give me the worst traits. The worst sins. The worst reputation."
My pulse is stupid.
Fast.
"Why would I do that?"
His mouth curves faintly.
"Because you're already thinking it."
The words sit between us.
Heavy.
I don't look away.
"Villains like Luca?" I ask.
It slips out before I can smooth it.
His expression shifts.
Not dramatic.
Just… sharpened.
"Luca?" he repeats.
Like tasting the name.
I shrug like my heart isn't beating out of rhythm.
"Predators. Powerful men who think money makes them untouchable."
His jaw tightens once.
Barely visible.
"And you think I'm like him?" he asks.
His voice is even.
Too even.
"I think," I say carefully, "that villains don't see themselves as villains."
A flicker in his eyes.
Interest.
Danger.
Amusement.
The flicker in his eyes doesn't fade.
It settles.
Calculates.
Amuses itself with me.
"Villains don't see themselves as villains," he repeats softly. "So tell me… what do you see when you look at me?"
The air feels thinner.
"I see someone who doesn't like losing control."
His mouth curves faintly. "Control isn't something you lose. It's something you allow."
Silence stretches.
Then he studies me for a long second and says, almost conversationally, "Do you have anything to ask me?"
The question lands heavier than it should.
I swallow.
"Yes."
His gaze sharpens.
"Did you kill him?"
There it is.
No softness now.
No teasing.
Just truth sitting naked between us.
He doesn't answer immediately.
Instead, he stands.
Slow.
Deliberate.
He walks around the table without breaking eye contact. Stops behind me.
I feel him before he touches me.
Heat at my back.
His presence closing in.
His hands settle on the back of the bench on either side of me.
Caging.
Not touching.
Just there.
"These Type of questions make you comfortable?" he asks calmly.
That hits harder than any denial would have.
His breath brushes the shell of my ear.
Warm.
Measured.
"You think I killed him?" he murmurs near my neck.
My breath stutters despite myself. I hate that my body reacts. Hate that heat creeps up my throat.
"I didn't say that."
"You didn't have to."
His fingers slide down from the bench.
Rest lightly on my shoulders.
Controlled.
Possessive without pressure.
"If I did," he says quietly, his lips hovering just above the sensitive skin below my ear, "would you look at me differently?"
My mind screams yes.
My body stays very, very still.
He leans closer, and his breath ghosts down the curve of my neck. I can feel the slow inhale, like he's tasting my reaction.
"Would you be scared?" he whispers.
There's a challenge in it.
A dare.
I turn my head just enough that our faces are inches apart.
"I don't scare easily."
His eyes darken, something molten moving beneath the calm.
"I know."
His thumb slides from my shoulder to my collarbone.
Slow.
Distracting.
A deliberate drag of skin against skin.
My pulse betrays me.
Loud.
Wild.
Under his hand.
His lips brush just barely against the side of my neck. Not a kiss. Just contact. Enough to send heat straight down my spine.
The question is still there.
Hanging.
Demanding.
I force it out again, louder this time.
"Did you kill him?"
He pulls back just enough to look at me.
No smirk.
No softness.
Just steady, unreadable eyes locked on mine.
And then, evenly—
"I killed him."