ARSHILA — POV
Home smells different.
Not richer. Not fancier.
Just… mine.
The second we step into the mansion at some ungodly early hour after Italy, my lungs finally unclench.
Two weeks in another country pretending I belong in rooms built for people who drink power for breakfast? Exhausting.
Now it's almost evening. The sun is low, bleeding gold through the tall windows. The living room is loud in that comfortable way. Familiar chaos. Familiar idiots.
Peace.
Real peace.
And the three disasters are here.
Eshan is sprawled across the couch like he owns oxygen. Razmir is half-lying on the carpet with papers scattered around him like he fought a printer and lost.
Rafaen is seated properly, of course. Back straight. Calm. Judging everyone silently like a bored god.
Zayan is standing near the low table, speaking in that quiet business tone that makes grown men sit up straighter.
I'm curled on the other couch, legs tucked under me, pretending I understand the spreadsheet open on the screen.
I don't.
But I like watching them work.
It's weirdly hot.
Not in a horny way.
Okay, fine. A little horny.
They're sharp when they talk business. No wasted words. No filler. Just point, counterpoint, solution. Money moving like chess pieces.
I missed this.
I missed them.
Italy was beautiful.
Offensively beautiful.
But it wasn't this.
Eshan looks up first. He spots me staring into nothing and grins.
"How's Italy, baby?"
I blink. "Italy is beautiful."
I stretch my legs out lazily. "And their food is sexy."
Razmir chokes.
Actually chokes.
On air.
He coughs violently like I just poisoned him.
Rafaen smirks without even lifting his head from the file in his hand.
Zayan doesn't look at me.
"She stayed indoors most of the time," he says calmly.
I roll my eyes so hard I almost see my own brain.
"I was cleaning the dots," I mutter.
Eshan squints. "The what?"
"The dots," I say. "You know. The… invisible social anxiety dots. The ones that connect from me to every rich asshole in a room. I was mentally erasing them."
Razmir sits up. "How was the gala?"
I pause.
I sip from the glass in my hand.
"That was horrible."
All three of them freeze.
Razmir stares at me like I just said water is dry.
"Horrible?" he repeats. "Tavarian gala? No way."
I lean forward, elbows on knees.
"Let me say something, okay?"
Zayan's jaw tightens.
Subtle.
But I see it.
"When we were at the gala," I continue, "I was sitting in a corner—"
"That was her first gala," Zayan cuts in smoothly. "So of course it was overwhelming for her."
I look at him.
He doesn't look at me.
But the side-eye?
Sharp.
Clear.
Shut your mouth.
Oh.
Threat noted.
I smile sweetly.
Razmir shakes his head. "Still don't believe Tavarian gala is horrible."
"It was," I insist.
Eshan leans forward suddenly. "Wait. What happened?"
I open my mouth.
"A man—"
"That was her first formal event outside the country," Zayan interrupts again, tone casual but firm. "Different environment. That's all."
I slowly turn my head toward him.
Are you serious?
His expression doesn't change.
But his eyes?
Careful.
Warning.
Don't.
Eshan frowns. "A man what?"
"That man found d—"
"Are you hungry?" Zayan says sharply.
The room goes quiet for a second.
I stare at him.
You're actually unbelievable.
Razmir blinks between us. "You got tanned," he says to Zayan suddenly.
Rafaen finally looks up properly.
"He does," Rafaen says. "Looks sexy."
Eshan makes a dramatic gagging sound.
Razmir nods thoughtfully. "Yes. I'm hungry. Make me food."
Zayan gives me one more look.
A silent conversation.
Drop it.
Then he moves toward the open kitchen like he didn't just publicly shut me up twice.
I exhale through my nose.
Fine.
I slide off the couch and follow him.
Of course I do.
The open kitchen lights up when he steps in. He washes his hands, movements precise. Controlled.
Always controlled.
I open the fridge and grab strawberry yogurt because I refuse to starve in my own house.
I hop up on the counter and sit there, legs swinging slightly.
He finishes washing.
And then—
His ritual.
He grabs the hem of his shirt.
Pulls it over his head.
Throws it aside.
Just like that.
Eshan whistles from the living room.
"Here comes the strip show."
Razmir groans dramatically. "My favorite part of the day."
"Mine too," Rafaen adds dryly.
I pinch the bridge of my nose. "God. Get a room."
Razmir's voice floats over. "Are you okay with that?"
"With what?" I shoot back.
"Having your husband in a room."
I make a disgusted noise. "Ew."
Zayan smirks while opening a cabinet.
Of course he does.
Eshan calls out, "I really want to know why you don't wear a shirt in the kitchen."
Razmir answers immediately, "Probably to make the vegetables pregnant."
Rafaen doesn't miss a beat. "If they're ovulating, it's over."
I stare at them.
"What the actual fuck is wrong with you three?"
They burst out laughing.
Idiots.
Absolute idiots.
Zayan starts chopping vegetables like nothing phases him. Knife steady. Shoulders flexing.
I hate that I notice how his back moves.
Zayan doesn't even look up from the cutting board.
"You guys know I started learning to cook at four."
His knife keeps moving. Clean. Even. Controlled.
Eshan snorts. "Four? I was eating crayons at four."
Zayan ignores him. "Back then I didn't get comfortable clothes in my size."
He reaches for another carrot.
"So I didn't wear anything in the kitchen."
Silence.
I blink.
"Your size?" I repeat slowly. "You were that slim back then?"
Razmir makes a sound like he swallowed a laugh and it exploded halfway.
Rafaen presses his lips together. Fails. Looks down at the file like it personally offended him.
Eshan is already shaking.
"What?" I look between them. "Why are you laughing?"
Eshan points at Zayan like he's exposing a criminal. "You didn't hear what he said?"
"Explain, you bastards."
Razmir sits up fully now, grinning like this is Christmas. "Zayan was chubby."
I stare at him.
"No."
"He was a fucking mochi," Razmir continues, delighted. "Round. Soft. Illegal levels of baby fat."
I whip my head toward Zayan.
He doesn't stop chopping.
He doesn't defend himself.
That tiny smile at the corner of his mouth is trying to stay professional and failing.
Rafaen nods calmly. "No clothes fit him until he was four. His mother had to get things altered."
I cover my mouth.
"You're joking."
"We are not," Rafaen says, too serious for this.
Eshan loses it. "He had cheeks for days. You could rest a spoon on them."
I slide off the counter, staring at Zayan like I just discovered a classified file.
"You were that chubby?"
He finally looks at me.
And he smiles.
Not the controlled business smirk.
Not the calculating one.
A small, shy one.
It wrecks me.
"I was," he says quietly. "Until I was five."
Five.
Five.
My brain is trying to compute this image.
Little Zayan. Round. Soft. Probably glaring at the world with serious eyebrows and a milk mustache.
I'm losing it.
"After that?" I ask, biting back a laugh.
Razmir leans back on his palms. "After that, Kamal Rashid threw him into the ring."
The room shifts.
I blink.
"The ring?"
Eshan's grin sharpens.
"The Bloody Ring."
.