The library has become my sanctuary. Mehmet left for council meetings an hour ago, and I've buried myself in Arabic poetry, trying to lose myself in someone else's words. The sunlight streams through the tall windows, painting everything gold, and for a moment I can almost forget where I am.
The door opens. Mehmet enters with that controlled violence he wears like a second skin, but something's different. His jaw is tight, his eyes burning with barely contained fury. In his hand, he holds a folded parchment bearing an official seal.
My heart drops.
He crosses to me without a word, stopping close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his gaze. Then he extends the letter.
"This arrived this morning," he says, his voice carefully controlled. "Addressed to palace administration. Not to you."
My hands shake as I take it. The seal is broken—he's already read it. I unfold the parchment and force myself to read.
To the Office of Palace Administration:
Let it be known that House Razavi formally severs all familial ties with Leyla, eldest daughter of Lord Razavi. She has brought irreparable shame upon our house through her disgraceful conduct and moral failings. We no longer acknowledge her existence or claim any connection to her person. She is dead to us in all ways that matter.
No correspondence regarding this individual should be directed to our household.
Lord Razavi, Head of House Razavi
The words blur together. I read them again, trying to make them mean something different, but they remain stubbornly unchanged. Clinical. Final. As if they're discussing a business arrangement rather than erasing a daughter from existence.
"They truly don't want me," I whisper, and the words taste like ash. I knew this was coming. Expected it, even. But seeing it written so formally, with my father's seal pressed into wax, destroys something I didn't know still needed destroying.
Mehmet moves before I can process the grief. Two strides and he's cupping my face, tilting it up until I have no choice but to meet his eyes. They're blazing with something that looks like possession and protection mixed into something almost feral.
"Good," he says, and the word cracks through my misery like lightning. "You're mine now. Not theirs, not the harem's—mine. And I don't share."
The possessiveness should frighten me. Instead, it anchors me. Gives me something solid to cling to while everything else crumbles.
"They've legally disowned me," I say, my voice breaking on the words. "I have nothing. No family, no home, no—"
"You have me." His thumbs stroke my cheekbones with devastating gentleness. "That's everything that matters. Do you understand? Everything they took from you, I'll give back tenfold. You don't need them anymore."
"Mehmet—"
"No." He pulls me against his chest, one hand cradling my head while the other wraps around my waist. "They've done you a favor. Cut you free from people who never deserved you. Now you're mine to protect, mine to care for, mine to—"
He stops, and I feel his heart hammering against my cheek. "You're just mine, Leyla. Say you understand that."
"I understand," I whisper into his chest, and somehow I mean it. The grief is still there, sharp and cutting, but beneath it runs something else. Relief, maybe. Or the beginning of freedom.
He holds me until my breathing steadies. When he finally pulls back, his expression has shifted into something determined.
"Come with me," he says, taking my hand. "You're not spending today drowning in their cruelty. I won't allow it."
"Where—"
"The gardens. I want to show you something beautiful."
The private gardens are stunning in the afternoon light. Flowering trees cast dappled shadows across manicured paths, fountains sing their constant melody, and the air smells like jasmine and roses. Mehmet leads me through it all with my hand firmly in his, pointing out rare flowers imported from distant provinces.
He's deliberately distracting me, and I'm grateful for it. The tightness in my chest loosens incrementally with each step.
We round a corner near the training grounds and encounter unexpected company.
Prince Selim stands in a cleared space, shirtless and gleaming with sweat, practicing sword forms with fluid grace. He's younger than Mehmet by a few years, leaner, with an easy smile that appears when he notices us watching.
"Brother!" He lowers his blade, grinning widely. "Come to critique my technique? I know you're dying to tell me my footwork's sloppy."
"Your footwork is adequate," Mehmet says, but there's warmth beneath the dry observation. "Though you're still dropping your shoulder on the backswing."
"Of course I am." Selim sheaths his sword and approaches, his gaze shifting to me with open curiosity. "And this must be the mysterious Leyla who's captured my brother's complete attention. The entire palace is talking about you."
Mehmet's hand tightens on mine. "Selim, behave."
"I'm always on my best behavior." Selim's smile widens, and I watch the brothers fall into familiar territory—playful needling wrapped in genuine affection. Mehmet makes a comment about Selim's recent diplomatic disaster. Selim counters with something about Mehmet being too serious for his own good. They banter back and forth, easy and natural, and something in my chest aches.
This is what siblings should be. This teasing and warmth and underlying loyalty. Not the calculated cruelty Yasmin perfected, not the systematic destruction disguised as family. Just—this. Simple affection between people who actually care about each other.
"You have a lovely smile," Selim says suddenly, his attention fully on me now. "It lights up your whole—"
Mehmet's expression shifts instantly. The warmth vanishes, replaced by something cold and possessive. He steps slightly in front of me, blocking Selim's view, his body language screaming territorial claim.
"We're leaving," Mehmet says flatly. "Enjoy your training, brother."
He's already pulling me away before Selim can respond, his grip firm but not painful, his jaw set in a hard line. We walk in tense silence until we're back at his chambers.
"Mehmet," I start carefully, unsure how to navigate whatever just happened. "He was just being friendly—"
"I know what he was being." He stops abruptly, turning to face me. His eyes are dark with something that looks like jealousy mixed with fear. "I know my brother. I know how he talks to women he finds attractive."
"Why?" I ask softly, stepping closer. "Why are you so afraid?"
He’s silent for a moment, taken aback by my observation. I don’t take the words back.
"Because you're real," he says simply, and the words land like truth. "In a palace full of performers—people who say what I want to hear, who calculate every word and gesture—you're the only genuine thing I've found. When you look at me—"
His voice cracks slightly. "—you see me. Not the prince, not the heir, not the power I represent. Just me."
The confession breaks something open inside me. I rise on my toes and kiss him. It's tentative at first, testing, unsure if I'm doing this right. But his hands come up to cradle my face immediately, and he kisses me back with a tenderness that makes my eyes burn.
When we break apart, I'm breathless and steady all at once. "I choose this," I whisper against his lips. "I choose you. Not because I have nowhere else to go, not because you're protecting me. Because being with you feels like the first time I've ever felt like I belong somewhere."
His forehead presses against mine. "You're home now, little dove. With me. Always with me."