The engine hums low and controlled beneath me as the car cuts through the night, smooth enough that it almost feels unreal, like I am not even touching the road.
I lean back against the leather seat of his Lamborghini Urus, my fingers resting lazily against my thigh while my eyes drift toward the window, watching the city lights stretch and blur into long golden lines.
Rafaen drives like he owns the road but not like a man trying to prove it, and I notice that immediately.
He is fast, but not reckless, controlled in a way that feels deliberate, measured.
Thank God for that, because if this were Zayan behind the wheel, the speed alone would have my pulse climbing for entirely different reasons.
The low growl of another engine follows us at a distance, steady and persistent, and I do not even need to look to know it is the SUV carrying his guards.
It feels less like protection and more like surveillance, like I am not just being escorted but watched.
I shift slightly in my seat, turning my head toward him. He looks different tonight, almost careless in a way that does not suit a prince.
Baggy jeans hang low on his hips, a loose-fit shirt falling effortlessly over his frame, sleeves pushed up just enough to show his wrists.
It should make him look relaxed. It doesn't. There is still something too precise about him, like even his carelessness is calculated.
"Where exactly are we going?" I ask, my tone casual but edged, my gaze lingering on his profile.
He does not look at me immediately. His fingers tap once against the steering wheel before he answers, his voice calm, almost too calm. "Somewhere quiet. Somewhere no one knows."
My brows lift slightly, suspicion curling in my chest. I turn more toward him now, studying his face properly. "That sounds suspiciously like a kidnapping plan."
A quiet chuckle slips out of him, low and amused, like I just said something entertaining instead of accusing him.
"Kidnapping?" he repeats, finally glancing at me. "That usually doesn't come with consent, Arshila."
I tilt my head, my lips curving just a little, not quite a smile. "Funny. Because I don't remember giving any."
His gaze sharpens for half a second, something darker slipping through before it smooths out again. "You got into the car."
"And you called like you owned the right to summon me," I shoot back without missing a beat, my voice steady but carrying enough bite to mean it.
That earns me a proper look this time. His eyes move over my face slowly, like he is reading something under my skin instead of just looking at me.
"Careful," he murmurs, his tone dropping just enough to brush against something dangerous. "You're talking to a man who can make things happen without asking."
I lean in slightly, my elbow resting against the door, my chin tilting just enough to meet his gaze head-on.
"Careful," I echo softly, my voice laced with something sharper. "I know how to bite."
For a second, the air in the car shifts.
He doesn't look away. Doesn't laugh. Doesn't dismiss it.
Then his lips curve slowly, a smirk that feels too knowing. "That," he says, his voice quieter now, more deliberate, "is exactly why you are my type."
A soft scoff leaves me, and I lean back again, breaking the moment before it stretches into something else.
"I'm sorry to hear that," I reply flatly. "Truly unfortunate taste. And just so we're clear, you are not mine."
His grip on the steering wheel tightens just slightly, subtle but not invisible. "Then what is your type?" he asks, his tone casual, but there is something under it now, something probing.
I don't answer immediately. I let the silence sit for a second, thick enough to feel, before I turn my head toward him again, my gaze steady and unapologetic.
"Someone who carries so much darkness it spills without apology," I say slowly, my voice calm but deliberate.
"Someone who wouldn't bow, wouldn't care if it's a king or a crown prince standing in front of him, not when it comes to me."
The car doesn't slow, but something inside it does.
Rafaen's lips twitch, that same dangerous amusement creeping back in. "So basically," he murmurs, glancing at me from the corner of his eye, "Zayan."
I don't flinch. Don't deny it.
Instead, I let a small smirk form, turning my gaze back to the road ahead. "So," I say lightly, ignoring the weight of what he just said, "where exactly are we going, Your Highness?"
The reaction is immediate.
"I don't like you calling me that," he says, sharper this time, his jaw tightening just enough to give him away.
I hum softly, tilting my head as if considering. "Then what should I call you?"
There is a pause, and then he glances at me again, something almost playful sliding into his expression. "What about mine?"
I make a loud, exaggerated gagging sound, turning my face away like I might actually throw up. "Absolutely not."
His laugh this time is real, low and unrestrained, and it fills the car in a way that feels too alive for the quiet night outside. "That bad?"
"Worse," I mutter, crossing my arms. "I'd rather stay with 'Your Highness.' At least that sounds like a warning."
He nods slowly, exaggerated, like he is accepting a challenge instead of a rejection. "Noted."
The car slows then, the movement smooth as it pulls up in front of a place that screams wealth and unnecessary elegance.
A fancy restaurant stands tall in front of us, glass walls glowing with warm light, people dressed like they belong in a completely different world moving behind it.
I stare at it, unimpressed.
"This is your 'quiet, no one knows' place?" I ask, my tone dry enough to cut.
He chuckles again, already unbuckling his seatbelt. "Come on."
He steps out before I can argue, moving around the car with easy confidence and opening my door like this is some perfectly planned gesture. I step out, my expression flat, my eyes already scanning the place with mild irritation.
I hate places like this. The rules, the silence, the way everything feels too polished, too controlled, like even breathing wrong might get you judged.
"Come," he says again, his voice softer but leaving no room for refusal.
I follow, but the moment he turns away from the main entrance and heads toward a side corridor, my suspicion spikes again.
"Where are we going?" I ask, narrowing my eyes slightly.
He doesn't answer immediately. Instead, he reaches back and wraps his fingers around my wrist, not tight, not rough, but firm enough to guide me forward.
"Come," he repeats, quieter this time.
The touch is enough to make something shift under my skin, something sharp and alert. I don't pull away, but I don't relax either.
We move through a narrow corridor, the noise of the restaurant fading behind us until it disappears completely.
The air changes, cooler, quieter, almost too still. A hidden stairway appears, leading down into something that does not belong to the polished world above.
We descend.
Step by step, the light dims, the atmosphere tightening around us until it feels like we are walking into something deliberately hidden.
At the bottom, there is a small door.
Unremarkable. Plain.
Wrong.
Rafaen pushes it open and steps aside slightly, gesturing for me to go in. "After you."
I hesitate for half a second, then step through.
And everything changes.
Warm light greets me, soft and golden, wrapping around shelves lined with books and small tables scattered across a cozy, quiet space.
It is a café, tucked away like a secret, the air filled with the faint scent of coffee and paper.
I turn back to him slowly, my brows lifting.
He watches my reaction closely, something unreadable in his gaze. "I know you don't like fancy places," he says, his voice calmer now. "And you have a thing for places like this."
A laugh slips out of me before I can stop it, light but genuine, cutting through the tension that has been building since the car. "You've been doing your research."
"I don't do anything blindly," he replies, already moving further inside.
He leads me to a table, pulling out a chair like this is normal, like this entire situation is not layered with something far more complicated than it looks.
I sit, crossing one leg over the other, my eyes still on him.
"You're acting like this is a date," I say, my tone teasing but edged with something sharper underneath.
He doesn't even hesitate. "It is."
The words land heavier than they should.
I lean back slightly, my gaze hardening just a fraction. "I'm married," I say, my voice steady, clear. "And I'm loyal to my husband."
He nods once, like he heard me.
But the way he leans back in his chair, completely unfazed, tells me he doesn't care.
And somehow, that feels more dangerous than if he did.
He watches me for a moment like he is measuring something, then leans back slightly in his chair, one arm resting lazily over the backrest, his gaze still locked on me with that same unsettling focus.
"So," he says, his tone lighter now but carrying something underneath it that refuses to soften, "what kind of books do you like?"
I pick up the menu without really looking at it, flipping a page as if I am actually considering something, even though my attention is still half on him.
"Hmm," I hum, dragging it out just enough to be annoying. "Anything with a hot male lead."
He exhales through his nose, a quiet sound that almost turns into a laugh but doesn't quite make it. "Of course you do."
I glance up at him, one brow lifting slightly. "What? That surprises you?"
"Not at all," he replies, his gaze sharpening just a fraction. "The real question is… did you wish for one?" He tilts his head slightly, watching me too closely. "Is that why you married Zayan?"
A laugh slips out of me before I can stop it, low and amused, like the question itself is ridiculous.
I lean back in my chair, crossing my arms loosely, my eyes holding his without hesitation. "You really think I'd base a marriage on fictional standards?"
"I think you're the kind of woman who doesn't settle," he says calmly. "So if you chose him, there was a reason."
I let that sit for a second, then shake my head slightly, a faint smirk playing on my lips.
"Trust me," I say, my voice lighter now, almost teasing. "I wouldn't recommend reading what I read."
"I know," he replies without missing a beat, his tone quiet but certain.
That answer makes me pause for half a second, my eyes narrowing just slightly before I look away, reaching for the drink placed in front of me.
The glass is cool against my fingers, condensation sliding down slowly as I bring it to my lips.
The café is calm around us, low murmurs blending with the soft rustle of pages turning somewhere nearby.
I pick up a book lying on the table beside me, flipping it open absentmindedly, letting my eyes skim over the words without really reading them.
And then—
Something shifts.
My gaze drifts past the page, past the soft lighting, landing on the window across the room.
Outside, under the dim streetlight, a figure stands.
Uniform.
Still.
My grip tightens slightly around the glass as recognition hits sharp and immediate.
The police officer.
The same one who was investigating my stalker.
The same one who got transferred without explanation.