ARSHILA — POV
The man is on the floor.
Pinned.
And straddling him, one knee crushing his chest, one fist tangled in his collar like gravity personally chose sides—
Zayan.
My brain doesn't catch up right away.
It lags. Buffers. Throws an internal error.
Because this isn't the Zayan who was murmuring reassurance into my ear five minutes ago. This isn't the man whose thumb was grounding my pulse in the car.
This version looks like something peeled straight out of a nightmare and dropped into a marble hall full of chandeliers and money.
I stand up too fast.
My knees lock. My mouth opens. Nothing comes out.
Before anyone can react—before security, before shock, before etiquette—
TWAK.
Zayan's fist comes down.
Hard.
The sound is wrong for this room. Too loud. Too wet. It cuts through the music like someone snapped it in half.
The man screams.
Zayan doesn't pause.
TWAK. TWAK.
No warning. No words. No posturing. Just raw motion. His shoulder rolls with each hit, controlled and brutal, like he's punching something that stopped being human three seconds ago.
I can't move.
I literally cannot move.
My eyes are glued to his face and that's the worst part—because there's nothing there. No anger. No rage. Just empty focus. Dark eyes locked in like a machine executing a command.
This isn't defense.
This is execution with fists.
The man starts crying. Full sobs. High, ugly, panicked sounds as his face turns red, then purple, then wrong. Blood sprays with each hit, dots the marble, smears Zayan's knuckles.
CRACK.
That sound—
That's bone.
My stomach flips.
He keeps going.
No break. No breath. Just punch after punch after punch, rhythm steady, horrifyingly precise. Each hit lands like he's correcting a mistake. Like he's been waiting all night for permission to do this.
My heart slams against my ribs.
"Zayan—" I try.
Nothing.
He doesn't hear me.
The crowd has frozen. Whispers die mid-breath. Someone gasps. Someone drops a glass and it shatters, sharp and useless against what's happening.
Men start moving.
Too late.
From the side, suits surge forward—the man's people. Faces tight. Hands reaching.
They don't get close.
Izar steps in like a wall that learned how to fight.
Everything explodes.
Fists fly. Jackets tear. Bodies slam into pillars. Tavarian men move with brutal efficiency, cutting off angles, dragging attackers down. The soundscape goes feral—grunts, curses, fabric ripping, shoes skidding on marble.
Zayan is still punching.
The man on the floor isn't even screaming now. Just choking. Gurgling. His head snaps sideways with each hit, face already unrecognizable, blood slick and everywhere.
My fingers start shaking.
Bad.
I taste metal.
"Zayan," I say louder.
Nothing.
Fear crawls up my spine, cold and real and ugly. This isn't impressive. This isn't hot. This is terrifying. This is watching a line get crossed and not knowing where it stops.
My voice cracks.
"Zayan, stop."
He doesn't.
My chest tightens. My vision blurs at the edges.
And then—
"ADAM."
Kamal Rashid Tavarian's voice cuts through the chaos like a blade.
Authority. Absolute.
Zayan's fist freezes mid-air.
Just hangs there.
The room holds its breath.
"Enough."
The word lands heavy.
Zayan exhales—sharp, angry—and runs his free hand through his hair like he's dragging himself back into his own body. His shoulders rise and fall once. Twice.
Then he looks at me.
And something in his eyes shifts.
His eyes soften instantly and that somehow makes it worse. The contrast is too much. My knees almost give.
He gets up fast. Too fast. Blood drips from his knuckles onto the floor as he strides toward me.
I take a step back without meaning to.
My body reacts before my brain can defend him.
He sees it.
It hits him harder than anything else tonight.
He stops in front of me, breath uneven, eyes searching my face like he's checking for damage.
"You okay?" he asks urgently. "Did he touch you?"
I shake my head.
No.
I can't speak.
My mouth is open but no sound comes out because what the fuck just happened and who is this man and why does my heart feel like it's trying to escape my body.
He grabs my hand.
His grip is firm but gentle. Protective. Familiar.
His hand is still bloody.
"You're safe," he says, lower now. Grounding. "It's okay."
I stare at him.
At the blood. At his eyes. At the man still moaning on the floor behind him.
My brain finally catches up.
Zayan doesn't look away from me when he shouts.
"Whatever deal we have with this bastard—end it. Now."
His voice carries.
Not loud.
Final.
It moves through the room like a switch being flipped.
Men nod without speaking. Phones come out. Messages are sent. Decisions die in real time. I don't understand the Italian that follows, but I understand the posture change. Spines straighten. Faces close. Permission granted.
One of the Tavarian men turns toward the crowd.
"Party is over," he says, calm, bored. "Get the fuck out."
No arguing.
No offended gasps.
No billionaire ego tantrums.
They move.
Slow at first. Then faster. Groups breaking apart, heels clicking, suits brushing past each other, heads down. They head for the stairs like trained animals who recognize a tone they learned to obey a long time ago.
I've never seen money walk this quietly.
My heart is pounding so hard it's almost painful. I can feel it in my throat. In my ears. In my fingers.
Zayan is still holding my hand.
His blood is warm.
It drips from his knuckles, slow and heavy, down his wrist and onto my skin. A dark line sliding across my fingers like it belongs there. I stare at it, detached, like my brain hasn't decided whether this is real yet.
I want to scream.
I want to yank my hand back.
I want to demand answers. All of them. Now.
Who the fuck are you? Where did the man I know go? Which version is the lie?
But I don't.
Because I don't know which one he is.
And that's the part that scares me most.
Behind us, the man on the floor groans.
Not words. Just sound.
Tavarian men grab him by the arms. No care. No rush. They drag him across the marble like he weighs nothing, his shoes leaving streaks, his head lolling sideways.
He isn't treated like a person.
He's treated like a mess that needs removing.
I flinch when his heel bumps a step.
Zayan tightens his grip on my hand, subtle, grounding.
He leans in, voice low.
"Don't look."
I don't know if that's for my sake or his.
I look anyway.
The doors swing open.
Night air rushes in.
Then they're gone.
The doors close.
Silence crashes down like something heavy.
My chest finally pulls in a full breath and it shakes on the way out. My legs feel weak. Not dramatic weak. Structural weak. Like they're considering betrayal.
Zayan turns to me fully now.
He searches my face again. Slower this time. Careful. Like he's reading damage.
"You're shaking," he says.
I hadn't noticed.
"I'm fine," I lie.
It comes out flat. Useless.
His jaw tightens.
He lifts my hand between us. Sees the blood.
His blood.
On me.
"Shit," he mutters.
He pulls a handkerchief from his pocket, clean, expensive, folds it without thinking, and gently wipes my fingers. Slow. Methodical. Like he's trying to erase more than stains.
The contact makes my stomach twist.
Not because it's intimate.
Because it's familiar.
And that makes everything worse.
Around us, the hall empties. Glasses abandoned. Music dead. Chandeliers still shining like nothing happened. Kamal stands a few feet away, watching silently, eyes sharp, saying nothing.
Zayan finishes cleaning my hand and looks up.
His eyes are back.
The ones I know.
Concerned. Controlled. Mine.
"You're safe," he says again.
I nod.
Still can't speak.
Because I don't know if I married a man who can turn into a monster.
Or a monster who pretends to be a man.
And standing there, with his blood on my skin and his name echoing in the room like a warning, I realize something cold and heavy settles in my gut.
I don't know him.
Not really.
And whatever he just unleashed—
It wasn't new.
It was waiting.
_______________
Author's Note:
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