The whispers start before I even leave Mehmet's chambers.
I hear them in the corridors—soft murmurs that follow me like smoke. When I pass clusters of women, conversations die. Eyes track my movement with fascination and venom.
By the time I reach the communal gathering, the rumors have metastasized into something monstrous.
The gathering room sprawls with cushions and low tables where concubines spend their afternoons. I enter because hiding would only confirm whatever poison they're spreading.
Every head turns. The silence is deafening.
Whispers resume, just loud enough to hear: "Dark magic... unnatural acts... how else could someone like her..."
I tune into a different conversation that’s—blessedly—not about me.
I find a seat near the edge of the room, trying to make myself invisible. It doesn't work. Never has.
“I don’t know what to do. The new pasha is terrorizing my family with the taxes! And it’s not only us, the whole Diyarbekir Eyalet suffers!” one girl complains to another.
"Leyla."
Safiye materializes beside me, her expression grave. She settles with careful movements, her voice low.
"Gülnar is spreading rumors. She's telling everyone you used witchcraft, that you must have done unspeakable things." Her fingers squeeze mine. "Be careful. She's dangerous when threatened, and you've threatened everything she's built."
"I didn't do anything," I whisper, but the protest sounds weak even to my own ears.
"I know. But truth doesn't matter here—only perception." Safiye's eyes search mine. "You've made her look weak, and she'll destroy you for it if she can."
Before I can respond, another girl approaches—younger, nervous. She's pretty in an anxious way.
"Leyla? I'm Esma." Her voice wavers slightly. "May I sit with you?"
I nod, too surprised to speak.
She settles across from me, and her words tumble out in a rush: "I heard about your sister. Yasmin. I’ve met her a few times—she talked about you sometimes. Said terrible things."
Guilt flashes across her face. "I believed her then. I'm sorry. But hearing what the Prince said yesterday, how he spoke to you... I realized she must have been lying. About everything."
The admission catches me off-guard. Someone who knew Yasmin, who heard her version of events, is now questioning it. The relief feels dangerous, like something that might be snatched away.
"Thank you for telling me," I manage.
Esma leans closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Let me help you. The harem is brutal if you don't understand the politics. Who to trust, who to avoid, how to navigate—"
"How sweet."
Gülnar's voice cuts through our conversation like a blade. She glides toward us with three other women flanking her like weapons. The entire room falls silent, watching with the hungry anticipation of spectators at an execution.
She's devastating up close—beauty weaponized into something lethal. Her crimson silks flow like blood, and her smile could cut glass.
"The Prince's newest... acquisition," Gülnar says, examining me with cold precision. "Making friends already. How ambitious."
I force myself to meet her gaze, though every instinct screams to look away. "I was just—"
"I wonder what you did to catch his attention." She circles me slowly, each word carefully chosen to draw blood. "A girl with no beauty, no family backing, no skills worth mentioning. It's quite the mystery. Some are saying dark magic. Others suggest acts too shameful to name."
The women around us titter nervously. Esma's hand finds mine under the table, squeezing tight.
"I did nothing but exist," I say, and my voice comes out steadier than I feel.
"Nothing?" Gülnar's laugh is crystalline and cruel. "The Prince hasn't chosen anyone in six months. Then you arrive—disgraced, desperate, reeking of scandal—and suddenly he can't get enough. Forgive me if I find that... suspicious."
She reaches for the wine pitcher on the nearby table, pouring herself a glass with deliberate elegance. "It makes one wonder what secrets you're hiding. What desperation drove you to such lengths."
The conversation around us has stopped completely. Everyone watches, waiting to see if I'll break.
But I'm remembering something else—a celebration hall where they humiliated me. A garden where Kemal smiled with relief at my replacement. Years of being told I was worthless while surviving anyway.
I've been broken before. I know what it feels like.
This isn't it.
"I have no secrets," I say clearly. "The Prince chose me. That's all anyone needs to know."
Gülnar's expression hardens. She takes a step closer, the wine glass still in her hand, and something in her eyes promises violence.
"How unfortunate that girls who rise above their station—" She gestures carelessly, and the wine arcs through the air, splashing across the front of my silk dress in a crimson stain. "—often find themselves reminded of their place. Oh dear. How clumsy of me."
The wine soaks through immediately, the expensive fabric ruined. Around us, women gasp with theatrical shock while their eyes gleam with satisfaction.
Gülnar's smile is poisonous. "I'm so sorry. These things happen to girls who don't belong, don't they? Perhaps you should return to your quarters and clean yourself up. You're making quite a mess."
I stand slowly, the wine dripping down my dress, and I'm about to respond—about to say something that will probably get me killed—when the room goes deathly silent.
Mehmet stands in the doorway.
I don't know how long he's been there. Long enough, apparently, because his expression is carved from ice and fury. He moves into the room with that controlled violence that makes experienced soldiers nervous, and women scramble out of his path.
His gaze takes in everything—the wine-stained dress, Gülnar's false shock, the women watching with barely concealed glee. Then his eyes find mine, and something in them promises retribution.
"Gülnar."
His voice cuts through the silence like a blade. The Sultan's favorite turns toward him with a carefully constructed expression of innocence, but I see fear flicker beneath it.
"Shehzade. I was just—"
"You will personally replace the dress you've ruined." Each word drops like a stone into still water. "And you'll do so on your knees, asking Leyla's forgiveness."
The room stops breathing.
Gülnar's face goes white. "Your Highness, surely—"
"Now."
The command cracks through the space with absolute authority. This isn't a request. It's not negotiable. And everyone in this room knows what it means—the Sultan's favorite, the woman who's held power through imperial favor, being forced to kneel before the disgraced girl she just tried to humiliate.
The power shift is seismic. Irreversible.
Gülnar sinks to her knees slowly, her movements stiff with barely contained rage. When she speaks, the words scrape out: "Forgive me. I will replace your dress."
"Good." Mehmet doesn't even look at her. His hand extends toward me, steady and sure. "Come, Leyla. You don't belong here with them."
I take his hand because there's nothing else to do. Because every eye in this room is watching, and he's just declared in front of everyone that I'm under his absolute protection.
That anyone who touches me touches him.
As we leave, I glance back once. Gülnar is still on her knees, her perfect mask finally cracked, while forty women witness the Sultan's favorite humbled by the Prince's chosen.
And I realize with sudden, crystalline clarity—I've just made an enemy who will spend every waking moment trying to destroy me.
Mehmet's hand tightens on mine as if he can hear my thoughts.
"Let her try," he says quietly, just for me. "She'll learn what happens to people who hurt what's mine."
The words should terrify me.
Instead, they feel like armor.