One word sent that night—yes—became the turning point that upended Alya’s entire universe. Hatred as cold as ice had now transformed into a plan far darker, deadlier, and ironically, one that required her to plunge into the sea of passion she had avoided all this time. If Arshaka Revander was the devil who ruled the underworld, then Alya would become the goddess of death who came to claim him with a smile.
Dawn light began to slip through the curtains of the luxurious apartment. Arshaka jolted awake on the sofa. His sharp eyes swept across the room at once. Empty. A panic that had never visited the heart of the Revander heir suddenly clutched at his chest.
“Alya!” he called, his voice hoarse with buried fear. The man who had never trembled before the hiss of bullets now felt his world collapsing simply because he couldn’t find the silhouette of the woman he loved. He strode forward, breathing hard, searching every corner of the apartment.
His steps halted at the pantry doorway. The sight before him seemed to freeze Arshaka’s blood, then send it rushing violently through his veins.
Alya sat on a stool with her long legs crossed elegantly. Her straight, waist-length hair hung loose over her back, reflecting the golden light from the pendant lamp. She wore a silk robe that clung tightly to her dream body, making her look utterly stunning and untouchable. In her hand was a cup of warm milk, its steam still rising faintly.
Hearing Arshaka’s footsteps, Alya turned. The woman didn’t avert her face with the disgusted look she usually wore. Instead, her pink lips curved into the sweetest, gentlest smile Arshaka had ever seen.
“Morning, Arsha,” Alya greeted him in a calm, melodious voice.
Arshaka stood frozen in place. His hawk eyes stared intensely at Alya, searching for a lie, an illusion, or any trace of the grief that had nearly destroyed her the night before. Yet Alya looked perfect. As though the tragedy that had befallen Rehan had never happened. As though the shadow of death had never enveloped them.
“You... you’re all right?” Arshaka asked softly, stepping forward with care as if afraid the beautiful illusion before him might shatter.
Alya set down her cup and extended one hand, touching the man’s muscular arm. “I’m just tired of crying over fate. And I’m hungry,” she whispered coyly. Alya looked straight into Arshaka’s eyes. “Could you make me breakfast? Just something simple.”
The request sounded trivial, but to an Arshaka accustomed to being served and giving orders, it was an anomaly. Yet the mad love nesting in his heart crushed every ounce of his ego. The ruthless man who led a mafia empire worth trillions nodded, picked up a frying pan, and began cooking breakfast in the kitchen in his rumpled shirt. Behind Arshaka’s broad, straight back, Alya’s smile faded, replaced by a gaze as cold as the angel of death. Eat this illusion, Arshaka. Enjoy your obedience to me, Alya thought.
Although Alya’s change in attitude filled Arshaka with overwhelming happiness, his predatory instincts still left behind a sliver of suspicion. Why the sudden change? Was this desperation, or acceptance? But his possessive, hopelessly lovesick nature defeated everything else. He didn’t care about the reason, as long as Alya was willing to remain in his arms.
After a breakfast that felt like a dream to Arshaka, the dominant man took Alya’s hand. “Get ready. We’re not staying here. I’m taking you somewhere to clear your head,” he ordered in his characteristically stiff tone, though tenderness shone in his eyes.
A private helicopter carried them to a hidden coastal peninsula that was a private asset of the Revander family. White sand stretched endlessly, untouched by any other human footprint, meeting the churning blue sea at its edge. The sea wind struck Alya’s face, lifting the hem of her elegant summer dress.
Arshaka embraced her from behind, wrapping his arms around Alya’s slender waist and letting his broad, muscular chest press against the journalist’s back. Arshaka’s scent of musk and masculinity wafted around them, mingling with the salt in the sea air.
“Do you like this place?” Arshaka whispered in Alya’s ear, his voice deep and hoarse, stirring a strange tremor in the woman’s chest.
This was the moment. Alya turned within Arshaka’s embrace. She tipped her head back, gazing at the hard line of his jaw and the sexy lips of the man who was the target of her revenge. Cunningly, Alya looped both arms around Arshaka’s neck. No resistance. No tears.
“I like it, as long as you’re here,” Alya lied with perfect ease.
Arshaka’s eyes widened, shock mingling with desire as it erupted uncontrollably. His lewd, dominant side—the part that was always demanding—immediately took over. Without waiting another second, Arshaka bent down and seized Alya’s lips in a deep, wild, possessive kiss.
This time, Alya kissed him back. She opened herself, welcoming every invasion of Arshaka’s tongue with desire she had deliberately created. The waves crashing against the rocks became silent witnesses as Alya tore away the last remnants of the mafia boss’s sanity. Across that expanse of white sand, beneath the endless canopy of sky, Alya offered Arshaka the earthly pleasure of paradise he had yearned for all this time. Every touch, every moan, and every drop of sweat was a silk snare Alya wove with exquisite care.
At the peak of that blinding desire, when Arshaka groaned her name in fervent worship, Alya closed her eyes. She let the devil possess her body while silently reciting her vow: This love will become your drug, Arshaka. And when you can no longer breathe without it, I’ll be the one to strangle you to death.
Yet, in that warm embrace and intoxicating kiss, Alya failed to notice the most dangerous thing of all: the poison of love she had been feeding Arshaka had quietly begun to drip inside and infect her own heart. This deadly game had only just begun, and the boundary between revenge and true love was beginning to blur like sand swept away by ocean waves.