The kitchen is still thick with heat and oil and something heavier that no one is naming.
Garlic burns lightly in the pan. Butter melts into spice. Four grown men move around stainless steel and marble like they didn't just describe childhood in terms of bruises and blood.
I'm still standing there with yogurt in my hand like an idiot who walked into the wrong documentary.
The question crawls up my throat before I can filter it.
"You don't hate your grandfathers?"
Eshan laughs first. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just a short breath through his nose like the idea itself is naive.
Razmir leans back against the counter, arms folding over his chest. "Why would we?"
"They made us what they wanted," Eshan adds, calm as hell. "That's the point."
"That's why we can break men in seconds," Razmir says, not flexing, not bragging, just stating something clinical.
I roll my eyes because if I don't, I might actually scream. "Very funny."
Rafaen doesn't smile. He studies Zayan instead. "If anyone should hate his grandfather, it should be him."
That lands heavier than the rest.
My eyes slide to Zayan.
He's wiping his hands on a kitchen cloth. Slow. Neat. Controlled like everything else about him.
"I don't hate my grandfather," he says.
No tension in his voice. No bitterness.
"not before. Not now. Not after this ."
I stare at him. "He tortured you."
He folds the cloth once and sets it down like we're discussing business strategy.
"Being a Tavarian heir is torture," he replies. "If I am expected to build an empire after him, I should be capable of it. He made me capable."
He looks straight at me.
"I should be grateful."
For a second I just blink at him.
Then I laugh because what the hell else do you do with that.
"This is my first time seeing a bunch of idiots so proud of their trauma."
Eshan moves before I register it. He steps close, grabs my wrist lightly, and licks the strawberry yogurt off my spoon like he's five.
I kick him hard in the shin.
He winces but keeps chewing. "Being an heir isn't easy, bitch."
"You're the second son," I snap, pulling the bowl away from him.
"Yes," he says, reaching for it again like he has no shame.
"Then how are you the heir if you have an older brother?"
Razmir answers before Eshan can. "We're all second born."
Everything inside me pauses.
"What?"
Eshan shrugs like it's nothing. "I have an older brother."
"So do I," Razmir says.
Rafaen straightens slightly. "I have a sister."
Ofcourse The princess.
The air shifts again.
Eshan smirks toward Zayan. "If he hadn't rejected the princess, he'd be even more powerful."
Zayan makes a faint disgusted sound in his throat.
I turn to him fully. "You rejected the princess?"
"She's my sister," he says flatly.
"She's Rafaen's sister."
"My friend's sister is my sister," Zayan replies without hesitation. "How can someone date his best friend's sister?"
Rafaen nods like that's an unbreakable rule.
Razmir nods too.
Eshan says nothing.
He's staring at the floor now, jaw slightly tight.
Suspicious.
Very suspicious.
I file that away.
"Back to the actual point," I say slowly, looking at all of them. "How are you all second born and still heirs?"
They exchange glances. Subtle. Quick.
Then they shrug.
Like it's not important.
Like lineage is a casual detail.
And that's when the math in my head starts screaming.
Zayan isn't second born.
He's first born.
His father is the eldest son. Married first.
But somehow Zayan is the youngest adult grandson in that entire bloodline.
That doesn't just happen.
That requires timing.
Planning.
Delay.
I look at him again.
He's plating the food now, precise, measured portions, like he portions everything else in his life.
"Food is ready," he says.
The smell hits harder now. Butter, heat, something smoky and rich. It's unfair that he smells like dinner and danger at the same time.
Eshan starts serving plates without being told.
Rafaen adjusts the table, straightening cutlery like we're hosting diplomats instead of recovering child soldiers.
Razmir pulls glasses out and lines them up perfectly.
Normal.
Too normal.
I'm still standing there, brain racing.
All of them second born.
All of them heirs.
Except Zayan, who is technically first born but somehow positioned last in age.
His father the oldest.
His birth the latest.
That's not coincidence.
That's orchestration.
Zayan walks past me carrying a plate. He stops just close enough for his shoulder to almost brush mine.
"You're calculating," he says quietly.
"I always am," I reply.
His eyes flick to mine. Calm. Assessing.
"Careful," he murmurs. "Some math isn't meant to be solved."
Then he walks to the table like he didn't just confirm everything I'm thinking.
And I stand there for a second longer, watching four men who claim they're proud of what made them.
Family, they call it.
But something about the way they move around each other feels less like chance and more like design.
And I can't shake the feeling that none of them became heirs by accident.
The table fills fast, plates sliding into place like this is some royal banquet instead of four men who just casually admitted their childhood training involved pain tolerance and emotional extinction.
Zayan sits across from me, posture straight, expression calm, like he didn't just warn me about math that shouldn't be solved.
Razmir doesn't wait for anyone. He digs in first, takes one bite, then another, and then he actually makes a sound.
A low, shameless, moan.
I inhale wrong.
The food goes down my throat the wrong way and suddenly I'm coughing, choking, slamming a hand against the table while everyone stares at me like I'm malfunctioning.
Zayan presses a glass of water into my hand, fingers brushing mine just long enough to feel deliberate.
I gulp, glare at Razmir, and rasp, "What is wrong with you? Why are you moaning at dinner?"
Razmir doesn't even look embarrassed. He leans back, chewing slowly, eyes half-lidded like he's tasting something sinful. "It's exceptional," he says smoothly. "Almost as good as him."
I make a face so dramatic it could win awards.
Zayan doesn't raise his voice. He just looks at Razmir. One look. Calm. Flat. Controlled.
Razmir swallows and focuses very hard on his plate.
Silence falls for half a second, and then something absolutely inappropriate flashes across my mind. I lower my gaze quickly, staring at my food like it personally offended me, trying not to smile.
Under the table, something warm brushes my ankle.
I freeze.
A second later, legs slide against mine and lock there, slow and deliberate.
My heart jumps into my throat before I glance down and realize it's Zayan.
Relief floods in first. Annoyance follows right after.
I look up at him sharply, sending a clear message with my eyes. Move bitch.
He tilts his head slightly, like he heard me perfectly and chose to ignore it, and then his legs tighten around mine.
Across from me.
While eating.
Like this is normal behavior.
Eshan suddenly points his fork at me. "By the way, you went to Italy and came back empty-handed? That's cold. Terrible manners."
I roll my eyes. "You're the one who once said you could have breakfast in Milan, lunch in Switzerland, and dinner in Hawaii."
Razmir laughs. "If that were true, physics would need to resign."
"I was making a point about money," Eshan argues. "We have options."
"Then give me some," I say casually.
Without hesitation, he pulls out his wallet and flicks a black card across the table toward me.
It slides right to my plate.
Everyone goes quiet.
I stare at it. Then I look at him. Then back at the card.
A slow smile spreads across my face. "You sure?"
Before he can answer, Zayan reaches forward and sends the card sliding right back.
"Why are you giving her your card?" he says evenly. "Have you lost your mind?"
Eshan throws his hands up. "All of you have sisters. I don't. I finally get one and you're all territorial."
I grin sweetly, devilishly. "Careful. I might start accepting gifts."
Eshan leans forward. "From Italy, maybe?"
That makes me pause.
"Oh," I say slowly. "Wait here."
I push my chair back and head toward our room before anyone can question me. The air shifts as I leave, their conversation dropping lower behind me.
The bedroom is dimmer, quieter. I move straight to my bag and pull out the small velvet pouch I almost forgot about.
Inside are the shell necklaces I picked up in Italy. Four of them. I made them without thinking about who they were for.
I grab the pouch and turn toward the door, but something catches my eye.
The walk-in closet light flickers once.
Then again.
I hesitate, then step inside.
The closet is massive, shelves lined with suits and shoes arranged with military precision. The flickering light makes everything feel slightly off. One of the cabinet doors near the back is open.
I frown and walk over to close it.
As I touch the door, something slips from the shelf and hits the floor.
A small, dark booklet.
It lands near my feet.
I bend down and pick it up.
Zayan's name.
An old passport.
___________
AUTHOR'S NOTE 🫠 🤍
Hi my lovely readers 🤍
First, I want to apologize for not updating Zayan for the past three days. I know many of you were waiting, and I truly appreciate your patience.
I've been preparing something new and very special for you.
If you loved Zayan and Arshila — their tension, emotions, and intensity — then I truly believe you're going to love this new story too.
It's called "Contracted To My CEO Ex" by bambamby.
It has the same emotional depth, but with a completely different dynamic — powerful CEO, ex-lovers, tension, jealousy, and drama.
If you're interested, please go check it out, add it to your collection, leave a comment or review, and don't forget to drop your powerstones. Your support means everything to me.
Thank you for always being here 🤍