The summons arrives at dawn.
A eunuch appears at Mehmet's chambers with a message sealed in imperial wax. I watch Mehmet's jaw tighten as he reads, watch something like concern flicker across his face before he can mask it.
"My father wants to see you. Alone."
My stomach drops. "When?"
"Now."
The walk through the palace feels like a march to execution. The eunuch leads me through corridors until we reach doors so massive they seem designed to remind you how small you are.
The throne room swallows me whole. At the far end, elevated above everything else, sits the Sultan.
Gray threads through his beard, lines carved around eyes that have seen empires rise and fall. Power radiates from him like heat from a flame, absolute and unquestionable.
I approach with my head bowed, my legs trembling. When I reach the base of the dais, I sink into the deepest bow Nurbanu taught me.
"Rise."
His voice carries the weight of command that's never been questioned. I obey, forcing myself to lift my head and meet his gaze.
He studies me with the same calculating precision a general might use to assess enemy fortifications. The silence stretches until my skin feels too tight.
"Leyla of House Razavi." He says my family name like he's testing how it tastes. "Tell me about the scandal that brought you here."
My throat closes. This is it—the moment he decides I'm not worth his son's attention, that I'm exactly what my family said I was.
"My sister orchestrated my humiliation, Your Majesty. Forged letters suggesting I was desperate. She wanted my betrothed for herself, and she succeeded. My family chose to send me here rather than deal with the shame I supposedly brought them."
"And these letters were false?"
"Yes, Your Majesty."
"Yet your father believed them?"
The question cuts deeper than I expect. "My father wanted to believe them. I was never the daughter he hoped for—I reminded him of doubts about my mother's fidelity. Yasmin looked like him. I didn't. The letters gave him an excuse to be rid of a burden."
The Sultan's expression doesn't change, but something shifts in his eyes. Recognition, maybe. Or calculation.
"How did you catch my son's attention?" The question comes sharper now, more pointed. "Prince Mehmet hasn't chosen anyone in six months. Then you arrive—disgraced, with no family backing, no apparent value—and suddenly he can't look away. Explain that."
I could lie. Should lie, probably. But something in his gaze tells me he'll know, and lies here mean death.
"I met him before I knew who he was, Your Majesty. In a tavern in the city, the night before I came here. I was desperate to choose my own destruction rather than let my family choose it for me. He was kind when he didn't have to be. He listened when no one else would. And he made me feel like I mattered."
The Sultan goes very still. "You’ve met my son believing he was a commoner."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
"And when you discovered his identity?"
"I was terrified. I thought he'd use it against me, that I'd made everything worse." My hands twist in my lap. "But he didn't. He protected me instead."
Something that might be approval flickers across the Sultan's face. It vanishes before I can be certain.
"What do you want from this position, girl? Don't give me pretty words about honor and service. What do you want?"
The honesty he demands feels like a trap, but lying feels more dangerous.
"I want to survive, Your Majesty." The words come raw and true. "And perhaps prove I'm more than what my family believed. That I have value beyond being decorative or convenient."
The Sultan leans back slightly, and his smile makes my blood run cold—approving in a way that suggests I've passed some test I didn't know I was taking.
"My son hasn't shown genuine interest in anyone for years. He performs when required, chooses favorites when politics demand it, but there's no life behind it." His gaze pins me in place. "You've awakened something in him I thought died with his mother."
The words land like stones. "Your Majesty?"
"She was poisoned when Mehmet was twelve. Someone decided she had too much influence." His voice remains steady, clinical. "He watched her die over three days. It taught him that emotion equals vulnerability, that caring for someone gives your enemies a blade to cut you with."
I remember that story, remember how it sent ripples through the country. But remembering the news and imagining little Mehmet is… completely different.
"He's been dead inside since then. Brilliant, capable, the heir I need—but hollow." The Sultan's eyes bore into mine. "Until you."
I don't know what to say. Can't form words past the thickness in my throat.
"If you break his heart—" His voice drops to something lethal. "—I will know. And the consequences will be severe and merciless. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Your Majesty." The words come out steady despite my terror.
"But if you're genuine..." He pauses. "If what I see in his eyes when he looks at you is real, then you might be exactly what he needs. Someone who remembers how to feel without it destroying him."
The dismissal comes abruptly. "Go. Tell my son everything we discussed. He'll be climbing the walls by now, convinced I've had you executed."
I bow and flee before he can change his mind.
The walk back to Mehmet's chambers passes in a blur. My hands shake so badly I can barely push open the doors.
He's there, pacing like a caged animal, his usual control shattered. When he sees me, relief crashes across his face so visceral it stops my breath.
"What did he say?" He crosses to me in three strides, hands cupping my face. "Did he threaten you? Are you hurt?"
"I'm fine." The words tumble out. "He asked about the scandal, how we met, what I want. He tested me to see if I was lying or using you."
"And?" His jaw clenches.
"He said I awakened something in you he thought was dead. That your mother—" My voice breaks. "He told me about your mother."
Something shutters in his expression. Pain, quickly masked, but I saw it.
"He approved of me," I continue softly. "Said if I'm genuine, I might be what you need. What the Empire needs."
The relief that floods through him is so profound his hands tremble against my face. "He gave his blessing."
For a second I’m silent, observing. Seeing Mehmet from different perspective, before it hits me. "It matters to you. His approval."
"More than I want it to." The admission comes rough, honest. "He's the Sultan. My father. I've spent all my life proving I'm worthy while hiding how much that effort costs."
I reach up, covering his hands with mine. For the first time since I've known him, Mehmet looks unguarded. Vulnerable. The carefully constructed armor cracks enough for me to see the boy who watched his mother die, who learned to bury everything soft to survive.
"You don't have to hide with me," I whisper. "I see you anyway."
He pulls me against his chest, his face pressed into my hair, and for long minutes we just stand there. Two people who've learned to survive by hiding the parts of themselves that hurt, finally admitting those parts exist.
And for the first time, I feel like I'm not just being protected or claimed or saved.
I feel like I'm helping him too.