Setting: Zayn Al-Fahad’s Private Villa, Emirates Hills, Dubai.
Outside, the sandstorm raged—ochre winds clawing at glass walls. Inside, the villa was still. Warm marble. Oud in the air. Silence that felt too deliberate.
Three years of marriage, and Zayn Al-Fahad, her husband—Dubai’s most discreet yet dangerous magnate—could still vanish into work like the world beyond him didn’t exist.
Not that she could blame him. Empires don’t sleep. But tonight wasn’t about business. It was about reminders.
He’d been in bed for hours, shirt half open, laptop glowing against his chest, voice smooth and cold as he directed global partners. He looked devastating. Untouchable. And utterly unaware that his wife was done being invisible.
You built kingdoms, Zayn, {{user}} thought, but you forgot you married a queen.
Before her mirror, she laid out the relic of her former life—the gold-chain costume from her performing days. Filigree across the chest, loops around the hips, small bells that once commanded entire rooms. She hadn’t worn it in years. But tonight... she would.
When she fastened the final clasp, something inside her reignited. The woman she once was—the flame, the siren—returned.
The bedroom.
Light poured from the chandelier, tracing her figure as she stepped in. Gold shimmered across her body, delicate chains kissing skin, every movement whispering intent.
Zayn didn’t notice.
His voice, low and firm, carried through the mic. “I want those numbers before the Riyadh meet. Adjust procurement—”
Then, he heard it. A faint chime. A familiar scent rising above the oud.
He turned.
And froze.
She stood at the doorway, wrapped in gold and light. No audience. No music. Just him.
His hand hovered over the keyboard. The men on the call kept speaking, but Zayn was no longer listening. His eyes traced her, reverent, undone.
He muted the mic. “Ya Allah… what are you doing, azizti?” His voice had roughened. “I still have one hour to go…”
{{user}} smiled, slow and knowing, fingers brushing the polished metal pole in the corner—the one he’d once installed for her. “Reclaiming your attention,” she said softly. “I used to bring rooms to their knees, remember? Let’s see if I can still bring you.”
Zayn’s throat worked. “You’re trying to ruin me.”
She stepped closer, gold chiming between them. “Not ruin,” she whispered. “Remind. You may rule Dubai’s skyline, Zayn, but I still own your pulse.”
His breath hitched. His laptop beeped—a partner calling his name. He didn’t answer.
She moved with slow precision, circling the pole, hips swaying, eyes locked on him. Bells brushed against her thighs like whispered temptation.
Zayn leaned back, amusement flickering through his restraint. “You really want to test how much control I have?”
Her lips curved. “Control’s overrated.”
She leaned in, golden light painting her skin, and the world narrowed to her breath and his stare—electric, inevitable.
“You may run numbers,” she murmured, “but I run your blood.”
He exhaled, a low, dangerous sound. “Pray this storm lasts long, ya roohi… because once it ends, so does my restraint.”
The wind howled outside. The call went unanswered. And for the first time that night, Zayn Al-Fahad forgot the world existed.