The name hits me like a physical blow. Lord Kemal.
"Are you alright?" the girl asks, concern flickering across her face. "You've gone pale."
I force a smile, though it feels like cracking glass. "I'm fine. Just the heat getting to me. If you'll excuse me."
I stand too quickly, my legs unsteady beneath me. Esma reaches for my arm but I'm already moving, walking with practiced control even though everything inside me is screaming. I need to find Mehmet.
All I can think is that he knew. He knew it was Kemal—my betrayer, my humiliation—and he didn't tell me.
Why would he hide something this important from me?
The guards outside Mehmet's chambers step aside without question. I push through the doors and find him at his desk, surrounded by maps and documents. He looks up, and whatever he sees in my expression makes him rise immediately, concern flashing across his face.
"Leyla, what—"
"Kemal," I say, and the word tastes like poison on my tongue. "The Pasha of Diyarbekir is Lord Kemal. My former betrothed. And you didn't think to tell me?"
His jaw tightens. "Close the door."
"Answer me first."
"Close the door, Leyla." The command makes me obey instinctively. When I turn back, his controlled expression only fuels my anger.
"Why didn't you tell me?" The words crack out of me, raw and desperate. "When I said I'd help gather information, you knew it was him. You knew, and you let me walk into this completely blind."
"I needed you blind," he says, and the bluntness of it steals my breath. "I needed your reactions genuine, your questions innocent. If you'd known it was Kemal from the start, you’d behave differently. And the harem notices everything, Leyla—every breath, every pause, every flicker of recognition."
"So you used me." The accusation hangs between us, sharp and cutting. "You sent me in there like a tool, without warning that I'd be gathering evidence against the man who destroyed my entire life."
"I protected you," he counters, moving around the desk toward me.
"If you'd known too soon, if you'd shown any personal connection to him, the women would have sensed it. They would have questioned your motives, maybe even warned him through their own family connections. Any information you brought back would have been tainted, useless. Worse—you could have become a target yourself."
I step back when he reaches for me, my hands shaking with anger and something else I can't name. "You should have trusted me to handle it."
"I do trust you." His voice drops lower, more intense. "But shock isn't the same as weakness, and I needed you capable. I needed you listening without the weight of personal history clouding every single conversation."
"That's not your decision to make!" The words explode out of me. "You can't protect me by keeping me in the dark. That just makes me useless—stumbling around half-blind while you hold all the information."
Something shifts in his expression. Not quite regret, but acknowledgment. He's quiet for a long moment, studying me with that penetrating gaze that sees too much.
"You're right," he says finally, and the admission surprises me enough that my anger falters slightly. "I thought protecting you and protecting the inquiry were the same thing. But secrets between us make you vulnerable in different ways. You deserve to know the whole shape of the danger you're walking into."
The fight drains out of me incrementally, leaving exhaustion in its wake. I sink onto the cushions near his desk, and he follows, sitting close enough that I can feel his warmth but not quite touching.
"Tell me everything," I say quietly. "No more half-truths."
He nods slowly.
"Kemal was appointed Pasha soon after your sister's wedding—your father's influence, most likely, securing the position as a wedding gift of sorts. Since then, tax records have been systematically falsified. Trade agreements manipulated. Money funneled into private accounts while honest merchants struggle and families starve."
The words land like stones in my stomach. "And you have proof?"
"We're building it. Ledger inconsistencies, testimony from merchants willing to risk speaking out, caravan manifests that don't match reported goods." He pauses. "But we need more—something undeniable that ties directly to him, not just to corrupt officials beneath him."
"So what happens now?" I ask carefully. "How do we move forward from here?"
His hand finds mine, fingers lacing together with deliberate care. "We move as one. I'll proceed formally—quiet summons of officials, ledger checks, questions asked by others rather than me directly. That keeps suspicion away from the palace, makes it look like routine auditing rather than targeted investigation."
"And me?"
"You listen for talk about shipments, payments, anything mismatching official records. What women say when they think no one important listens." His thumb strokes my knuckles. "But I'll tell you everything I know. No more secrets."
The promise settles me. I lean against his shoulder.
"I'm sorry," he murmurs. "I thought I was protecting you, but I was protecting myself from seeing you hurt by his name. That wasn't fair."
"No," I agree softly. "But I understand."
We sit planning in low voices. He explains who he'll summon, what questions will be asked. I describe what I've heard about struggling merchants.
"Be careful with Esma and Nurbanu," he cautions. "Tell them Kemal is under suspicion, that you need information—tell them to keep it quiet. If they want to enact revenge on your part… That would end badly."
"I understand."
When I leave his chambers, afternoon has shifted to evening. The harem is quieter. I find Esma, then send for Nurbanu and Safiye.
They arrive quickly, concern on their faces. I close the door.
"I need your help," I say. "The Pasha of Diyarbekir—Lord Kemal—is under investigation for corruption. I've been asked to listen for information about conditions there or about him specifically."
Nurbanu's expression sharpens. "This is dangerous, child. If word gets out—"
"I know. That's why I need you. Esma, you know the younger women whose families write about struggles. Can you listen without being obvious?"
Esma nods slowly. "I can.”
Safiye joins in, confused but obedient. “But why—"
"Because innocent people are suffering," I interrupt gently. "If we can help stop it, we should."
Nurbanu studies me, then nods. "I'll help. But be careful how you move, how you speak. Never ask direct questions—let conversations flow naturally. Never push too hard. And never let anyone see you taking particular interest in Diyarbekir."
"How?"
"Ask about multiple provinces. Show general interest in trade, in different regions. Make Diyarbekir just one topic among many." Her eyes hold mine. "The key is making people forget you're gathering anything."
We talk through strategies—which women to approach, which topics to introduce, how to redirect naturally. Nurbanu shares wisdom from fifteen years surviving palace politics.
"One more thing," Nurbanu says, preparing to leave. "Prince Selim was asking about you earlier. Wanted to know where you were, seemed disappointed I didn't know. Then he was summoned away."
My chest tightens. "Did he say what he wanted?"
"No. But he seemed genuinely interested in conversation, not politics." She pauses. "Be careful there too. The brothers may love each other, but attention from one prince while belonging to another is dangerous."
After they leave, I sit alone, mind spinning with everything I must do, everyone to watch. The harem suddenly feels less like a prison and more like a battlefield—and I'm finally armed with purpose.