"Happy anniversary, sweetheart."

The deep, familiar voice stirred me from sleep, warm and teasing. I blinked against the remnants of my dreams, my vision adjusting to the sight of Zavian leaning over me, grinning like he had a secret to share.

"Anniversary?" My voice was thick with sleep as I stretched, the sheets rustling around me. "Zavian, we just got married a month ago."

His smirk deepened as he traced slow, lazy circles over my ribs before wrapping an arm around my waist, pulling me snug against his warmth. "Exactly. Happy one-month anniversary, wife."

I huffed a sleepy laugh, rolling my eyes, but the flutter in my chest betrayed me. "You're ridiculous."

"And you love it," he murmured, pressing a kiss to my forehead. "Now, since it's a special occasion, I'm making dinner tonight."

I arched a brow, my amusement laced with skepticism. "You? Cooking?"

Zavian scoffed, feigning offense. "You wound me. I happen to be an excellent chef."

I snorted, poking his chest. "Last time, you nearly set the kitchen on fire."

He shrugged, completely unbothered. "That was an experiment gone wrong. This time, I have a plan."

I gave him a look. "Should I be worried?"

He grinned, eyes twinkling. "Absolutely."

I groaned, burying my face in his chest as he laughed, his arms tightening around me. Whatever disaster awaited in the kitchen, I already knew—I wouldn't trade this moment for anything.

_

I giggled, darting away as Zavian chased after me, his face covered in flour, looking both ridiculous and adorable.

"Oh, you just wait," he laughed, determination flashing in his eyes.

Before I could escape, his arm wrapped around my waist, pulling me back against him. His grin was all mischief as he rubbed his flour-covered hand over my face.

I squealed, laughing as a cloud of white dust puffed around us. "Zavian!" I gasped between giggles, feeling the fine powder settle over my skin.

He only grinned wider. "You started it."

I scowled, trying—and failing—not to laugh. "It was just one small, cute touch! You're so dramatic!"

Zavian chuckled, his arms still holding me close. "Dramatic? Says the woman shrieking like I dumped a whole bag on her."

I huffed, wiping at my face, but all it did was spread the flour even more. His laughter rumbled through his chest, and despite my mock outrage, I couldn't help but smile.

"Truce?" I offered, breathless from laughter

Zavian smirked. "Hmm... I don't know. I feel like revenge isn't quite complete yet."

I gasped. "You wouldn't dare!"

His grin turned downright wicked. "Oh, sweetheart... I would."

And before I could run, he scooped a handful of flour from the counter.

I shrieked, bolting for the door, but I already knew—I was doomed.

Two hours later, Zavian and I sat at the dining table, staring at his creation—a pizza that looked... unique, to say the least. The crust was slightly uneven, the cheese a little too golden in some spots, and the toppings? Let's just say they were an interesting choice.

I pressed my lips together, fighting back a laugh as Zavian shot me a mock glare. "Masha-e-Mehtaab, it's not that bad," he insisted, slicing a piece with exaggerated confidence.

I raised a brow, eyeing the pizza skeptically. "Says the man who almost mistook sugar for salt."

He ignored my jab, lifting a slice and bringing it to my mouth. "Come on, taste it. I slaved away for hours."

I snorted. "Two hours."

"Still counts," he said, undeterred.

I sighed dramatically before taking a bite. The flavors hit my tongue all at once—definitely edible, just... chaotic. I chewed slowly, trying to school my expression, but the moment my lips twitched, Zavian narrowed his eyes.

"Don't you dare laugh," he warned.

I swallowed and pressed a hand to my heart. "I would never."

His gaze remained suspicious as he took a bite himself. A pause. Then, he winced ever so slightly.

I lost it.

Laughter bubbled out of me as he groaned, dropping his head onto the table. "Okay, fine! Maybe I went overboard with the oregano."

I gasped between laughs. "Zavian, this tastes like—like a confused spice rack!"

He lifted his head just enough to glare at me. "Well, at least I tried. That should count for something."

I wiped away a tear, grinning. "It does. Effort points. And because I love you, I'll eat another slice."

His smirk returned. "That's my Mashal-e-Mehtaab."

With an exaggerated sigh, I picked up another slice, and as disastrous as it was, I knew—this was a night we'd never forget.

I had just finished my last bite when Zavian's phone rang, slicing through the comfortable silence between us.

He glanced at the screen, his brows knitting together as something unreadable flickered across his face. Without a word, he picked up the call, bringing the phone to his ear.

At first, his expression remained neutral. But as he listened, the easy warmth in his eyes faded, replaced by something sharper—serious, almost calculating. His fingers tapped against the table, slow and deliberate, a silent rhythm to whatever was being said on the other end.

Then, a small nod. "Don't worry," he murmured, his voice quieter now, laced with a weight I couldn't quite decipher. "I'll have it done by midnight. I'm sure."

A pause. His jaw tensed slightly before he exhaled. "Yes... of course. I understand. I'll be careful... Sure. Okay."

With that, he ended the call.

For a moment, he didn't move. Just sat there, the phone still in his grip, his gaze fixed on nothing in particular. Then, just as quickly as the tension had appeared, it was gone—replaced by the familiar smirk I knew too well.

I narrowed my eyes. "What was that?"

He leaned forward, resting an arm on the table, and tilted his head, amusement flickering in his eyes. "Nothing you need to worry about, sweetheart."

I wasn't convinced.

Before I could press further, he stood, rounding the table with a smooth, effortless grace. His fingers brushed along my jaw before tilting my chin up slightly. "I'm sorry, Mashal-e-Mehtaab, but I have to go. Some unfinished work that needs handling before midnight."

"Office work?" I questioned, searching his expression for something—anything—that would give him away.

He only chuckled, but there was something else behind it, something just out of reach. "Let's call it that.

That answer didn't settle well.

Zavian leaned down, pressing a lingering kiss to my temple. "I'll be back soon."

And just like that, he was gone, leaving behind nothing but the fading warmth of his touch and a strange, creeping curiosity curling in my chest.

_

Zavian's POV:

I adjusted my tie, smoothing out imaginary wrinkles as I stepped inside. The air was thick with expensive cologne, clinking glasses, and the low hum of conversations laced with underlying tension.

A familiar, grating voice cut through the noise.

"Zavy, there you are."

I barely contained my irritation as Robert beamed at me, patting the empty space beside him like I was some pet summoned at his convenience. I gave a slow nod, slipping into the seat beside him, a smirk playing on my lips—one that didn't quite reach my eyes.

The dinner was in full swing, the room brimming with carefully curated elegance, but beneath the polished exteriors sat vultures, each waiting for their chance to strike.

Across from me, a group of women giggled, batting their lashes with feigned innocence, their painted lips curving in false sweetness. Disgusting. I didn't spare them a second glance, instead focusing on Robert as he reached for the bottle of wine, pouring a generous amount into my glass.

My expression darkened for half a second before I smoothed it over, concealing my distaste.

"Robert," I drawled, picking up the glass only to push it away with deliberate slowness. "You know I don't drink this. Not up to my standard."

He chuckled, his breath reeking of liquor and something stale, and I had to fight the urge to knock the grin right off his face. Not yet. Not now.

Robert leaned back, completely unbothered, his amusement as irritating as the entire charade of this evening. Then, with a self-satisfied smirk, he rose to his feet, raising his glass high.

"Well, ladies and gentlemen," he purred, his voice oozing with theatrical charm, "we are gathered here for a very special occasion..."

I exhaled slowly, my fingers curling around the armrest.

Something was coming.

And I wasn't sure whether I'd find it amusing... or an inconvenience I'd have to deal with before the night was over.

Robert's voice droned on, his words laced with arrogance, but I barely listened. My fingers traced the rim of the untouched wine glass as my mind worked through the intricate details of the night.

Something was coming.

And I had to ensure it ended exactly the way I intended.

The officials had been clear—take care of them, but make it clean. Subtle. No unnecessary attention. The others—the women, the few select men—they were for another day. Tonight was only the beginning.

My gaze swept across the room, memorizing every face, every movement. Most of the guests were too deep into their self-indulgence to notice the shift in the air. Glasses clinked, laughter spilled between sips of wine, and deals were made in hushed voices. They thought they were untouchable.

How unfortunate.

Robert, still lost in his speech, gestured for a toast, his glass raised high. A room full of fools followed, toasting to something that wouldn't matter in the next few hours.

I lifted my own glass, a smirk tugging at my lips.

Showtime.

I took a slow, deliberate sip—not of the wine, but of the water I had switched it with when no one was looking. The taste was crisp, untouched. Unlike theirs.

The first sign came almost too soon.

A man across the table—Harris, if I remembered correctly—paused mid-sentence, his hand gripping the edge of the table. His throat bobbed, eyes blinking rapidly as his skin lost its color. Another shifted uncomfortably beside him, rubbing at his chest as if trying to shake off an invisible weight.

Robert hadn't noticed. Not yet.

I leaned back, watching as confusion flickered through the room like a slow-burning fuse. Harris exhaled sharply, then coughed—a wet, ragged sound that made the woman beside him recoil. A few others began shifting in their seats, suddenly restless.

"Something wrong, gentlemen?" I asked smoothly, tilting my head, my voice laced with just the right amount of curiosity.

Robert finally turned, his brow furrowing as he looked at Harris. "What's with you?" he muttered, but there was something uncertain in his voice now.

Harris tried to answer but only managed a choked gasp before his body gave out, his head slamming against the table with a dull thud.

The room stilled.

Panic was a slow ripple at first—a few murmurs, a sharp inhale—but then another man dropped his glass, his hands trembling as sweat beaded on his forehead.

And then another.

Robert shot to his feet, his face twisted in confusion and something else—fear. "What the hell—"

The chaos unfolded swiftly.

One by one, they began to fall. Some clutched at their throats, others slumped in their chairs, their eyes rolling back before they could make sense of what was happening.

And I sat there, sipping my water, watching.

No gunfire. No violence. Just a silent, calculated execution. Clean.

Robert stumbled back, his breathing heavy, his face paling as he looked around, realization dawning far too late. He turned to me, eyes wild. "Zavy..." His voice was barely a whisper now.

I smiled. "Not up to my standard, remember?"

His lips parted, but whatever words he had died before they could leave his tongue. His body hit the floor, lifeless.

The few untouched men and women in the room screamed, their chairs scraping back as they scrambled away from the scene. They weren't meant to die tonight. Their time would come later.

I stood, adjusting my cufflinks, stepping over Robert's body without sparing him another glance.

Outside, the night air was cool against my skin. I exhaled slowly, slipping into my car, my heartbeat steady, my hands clean.

By the time the authorities arrived, I would be long gone.

And no one—no one—would know I had ever been there.

I dialed a number, pressing the phone to my ear as I drove through the empty streets, the hum of the engine the only sound in the quiet night. My thoughts were already elsewhere—on the warmth of home, on the woman waiting for me.

As soon as the call connected, I spoke, my voice calm, measured. "Keep me clean."

A brief silence. Then, a voice on the other end, just as steady. "Already done."

I hummed in acknowledgment, then ended the call without another word.

Pulling over to the side of the road, I reached into my pocket, retrieving the phone's SIM card. With a practiced ease, I slid it out, snapping it between my fingers. The tiny fragment of plastic and metal—evidence of the night's events—was useless now. I rolled down the window, letting the cold breeze brush against my skin as I flicked the broken pieces into the darkness.

Reaching for another SIM, I slotted it into place, the faint click sealing away any trace of what had transpired.

A clean slate.

With one last glance at the rearview mirror, I smirked, then shifted the car into gear, heading home.

To my wife.

To the only part of my world untouched by the darkness I walked through. For now.

By the time I reached home, the clock had already struck one a.m. The house was quiet, bathed in the soft glow of the moon filtering through the windows.

Slipping into our room, I moved with practiced ease—discarding my jacket, loosening my tie, and changing into something more comfortable. The weight of the night lingered, but as I turned toward the bed, it all faded into the background.

Iman lay curled up beneath the blankets, her breathing slow, steady—completely unaware of the shadows I had walked through hours ago.

I slid into bed beside her, the mattress dipping under my weight. Without hesitation, I reached for her, wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her closer.

She stirred slightly, her body instinctively molding into mine, her warmth chasing away the last remnants of the cold I carried.

I pressed a slow, lingering kiss to her hair, exhaling against the softness.

Home.

For now, that was all that mattered.