ARSHILA — POV
Italian businessman Lorenzo De Luca found dead in his apartment.
I read it once.
Nothing happens.
My brain just… stares. Like a frozen screen that forgot how to refresh.
Dead.
I read it again.
Still dead.
That word doesn't rearrange itself into something nicer. It just sits there. Heavy. Ugly. Permanent.
My thumb scrolls without asking permission.
The article opens.
Black text. White background. Calm font. Like this is a grocery list and not someone's entire existence getting erased.
Authorities report signs of extreme physical assault.
My stomach tightens.
Severe facial trauma.
I swallow.
Multiple fractures.
Okay. Okay. That's—bad. But—
Eyes destroyed due to repeated blunt force trauma.
My hand jerks like the phone burned me.
What the fuck.
No. No no no.
I reread that line because surely I hallucinated it. Surely my brain filled in something dramatic because it's already fucked up from the gala.
But it's still there.
Cold.
Clinical.
Matter-of-fact.
Eyes destroyed.
I taste bile.
Two days ago.
Two days ago he was breathing. Bleeding, yeah. Crying. Barely conscious. But alive. Very fucking alive.
I saw his chest move.
I saw him choke and gasp and sob.
Zayan stopped.
He stopped.
My pulse starts misfiring.
I scroll faster.
Sources state De Luca had not left his apartment for over a week prior to his death.
I freeze.
I actually stop breathing for a second.
A week?
No.
That's not right.
That's not fucking right.
Because two days ago he was in the Tavarian gala.
Very public. Very loud. Very real.
I was there.
My skin remembers.
My hands start shaking.
Not cute shaking. Not nerves. Full-on, traitor-level shaking like my body is trying to crawl out of itself.
I scroll again.
The last confirmed public sighting of Lorenzo De Luca was at an inauguration ceremony for a French fashion conglomerate held last week.
French.
Inauguration.
Last week.
My laugh bursts out sharp and ugly and wrong.
That's bullshit.
That's absolute bullshit.
I whisper it to the empty room. "That's not true."
My voice sounds thin. Like it doesn't even believe itself.
Because I saw him.
I heard his voice.
I watched him smile at people like he owned oxygen.
I watched him being a dick .
I scroll harder, like speed might fix reality.
Following the ceremony, reports indicate De Luca remained isolated in his residence. No outings. No visitors.
My head shakes on its own.
"No," I say out loud. "No, that's wrong."
I scroll back up.
Scroll down.
Up.
Down.
Looking for the correction.
The footnote.
The oh-wait-we-fucked-up part.
It doesn't come.
Instead—
De Luca, a multimillionaire entrepreneur, was the owner of several luxury fashion houses and high-end restaurants across Italy.
Fashion.
Restaurants.
Money.
Power.
The kind of man people protect.
The kind of man who doesn't just… die quietly.
My fingers are numb now.
I scroll.
Police are investigating but have not identified any suspects.
Of course not.
My heart is pounding so hard it actually hurts.
Suspects.
My brain throws Zayan's face up without asking.
Not the calm one.
Not the dinner-table one.
The other one.
The one with empty eyes and blood on his hands.
My stomach flips.
No.
He didn't kill him.
He punched him.
Yes.
Brutally.
Terrifyingly.
But—
He stopped.
Kamal stopped him.
He walked away.
Alive.
I know that.
I know that.
So why—
I scroll again , like an idiot.
Cause of death pending autopsy.
Pending.
Which means they're still figuring out how badly he was finished off.
My hands are shaking worse now.
I lock the phone.
Unlock it.
Lock it again.
My brain is loud. Messy. Swearing at itself.
Okay. Think.
Two days ago: gala.
One week ago: French inauguration.
The article says after that—he never left his apartment.
But I saw him.
So either—
The press fucked up.
Or—
My breath stutters.
Or someone made sure that what I saw never officially happened.
The room feels smaller.
The air feels thicker.
I sit down hard on the couch without realizing I moved.
My skin is cold.
My chest locks.
Like someone reached inside and twisted a dial marked panic all the way up.
I don't think.
I just move.
The phone is still in my hand when I stand up so fast the couch bumps my knees. I don't even register the pain. My body's already gone somewhere else.
Running.
No destination. Just motion.
The dining hall is first because that's where he should be.
I skid in barefoot, breath loud, heart feral.
Empty.
Plates cleared. Candles burned low. The table looks offended I left it mid-war.
No Zayan.
"Fuck," I mutter, already turning.
The hallway blurs.
My feet slap marble as I take the stairs two at a time, lungs burning, brain screaming useless instructions like slow down and don't do this and what if you're wrong.
I don't listen.
Upper floor.
Guest rooms first. Door. Empty.
Office. Closed. I shove it open.
Nothing.
Bedroom.
Empty bed. Curtains still. Air too calm.
My pulse is loud in my ears now. Messy. Uncontrolled. Like it knows something my brain hasn't caught up to yet.
Then—
The balcony.
Upper foyer.
Light.
I stop so hard my body lurches forward.
He's there.
Zayan sits on the balcony chair like he grew out of it. Laptop open on his lap. Sleeves rolled. One ankle crossed over the other. Calm posture. Controlled spine. Moonlight cutting across his face and shoulders like it was designed for him.
He looks unreal.
Too still.
Too composed.
Like the world didn't just tilt sideways.
My lungs finally remember they're supposed to work and all the air rushes out of me at once.
I step toward him.
Fast.
Unsteady.
I don't realize I'm panting until my chest starts stuttering.
He looks up.
Immediately.
Like he felt me before he saw me.
Brows knit just slightly.
Concern switches on.
"You okay?" he asks, already closing the laptop, standing up in one smooth motion. "Why are you running?"
I shake my head.
Words pile up behind my teeth and none of them make it out.
My mouth opens.
Nothing.
I try again.
Still nothing.
My hands are shaking so hard the phone rattles against my palm.
Zayan's face changes.
Not dramatic.
Just sharper.
Focused.
He steps closer. "Arshila. Talk to me."
I breathe in.
Out.
In.
My heart is trying to punch its way out of my ribs.
Adrenaline. Fear. Something else ugly and electric crawling under my skin.
I force my voice to work.
"Zayan," I say, hoarse. "Look."
I shove the phone at him.
Not gently.
He takes it.
His eyes drop to the screen.
I watch his face like my life depends on it.
Waiting for shock.
Waiting for confusion.
Waiting for anything.
There's nothing.
No flinch.
No tightening.
No inhale.
His eyes move down the article once. Calm. Efficient. Like he's scanning a schedule.
Then—
"Oh."
That's it.
Just… oh.
My stomach drops straight through the floor.
"Oh?" I repeat, frozen. "That's it?"
He hands the phone back to me like it weighs nothing.
His mouth curves barely at the corner. Not a smile. Something colder.
"Serves him right."
The words land wrong.
Not loud.
Not angry.
Casual.
Like he's commenting on weather.
My brain short-circuits.
"What?" slips out of me before I can stop it.
Zayan doesn't explain.
Doesn't justify.
He steps past me, brushing my shoulder lightly like we're not standing in the middle of something that feels like a crime scene.
"I've got work," he says calmly.
Then he walks away from the balcony.
Just like that.
No look back.
No reassurance.
I stand there.
Moonlight on my skin.
Phone buzzing in my hand.
My pulse roaring in my ears.
What the fuck just happened.
Why wasan't he surprised.
Why didn't he ask questions.
Why did he look like he already knew.
The wind moves the curtain behind me.
Soft.
Normal.
Everything is pretending nothing's wrong.
My brain finally lets the thought finish.
What if Lorenzo De Luca didn't die because of what happened at the gala—
What if he died because of it.
My throat tightens.
And standing alone on that balcony, staring at the dark where Zayan disappeared, I let the question form fully for the first time.
Did my husband kill him?