Dusk falls as I slip away from the harem, keeping my head down. The rumors Gülnar planted have taken root—whispers about Selim and me, about divided loyalties. Every time I catch his eye, I see speculation bloom on watching faces.
So I avoid him. It's cowardice, maybe, but also survival. I won't feed the gossip.
Mehmet's corridor is empty when I reach it. The guards nod, familiar with my presence. My heart pounds as I approach his doors.
The door opens before I can knock.
A woman emerges—young, beautiful, her silks askew. Her flushed cheeks and mussed hair tell a story I don't want to read. She doesn't meet my eyes, but I catch the satisfied curve of her mouth.
My stomach drops.
She came from his bed. The truth hits me like a physical blow. I stand frozen while she disappears around the corner.
I should have expected this. Should have prepared myself for what it means to belong to a prince. Mehmet is the heir to the Ottoman Empire. Of course there are other women.
But knowing it intellectually and seeing the evidence are entirely different things.
I turn and walk away. My mind replays her flushed face, her satisfaction.
The jealousy is sharp, twisting in my chest. I fight it down, swallow it like poison. I have no right to feel this way. I'm not his wife. Just a girl he chose, protected, claimed in ways that might be temporary.
He's a prince. This is what princes do.
I repeat it like a mantra. But the tight knot in my chest grows with every step away from his chambers.
I tell myself not to care. Tell myself what we have—the tenderness, the nights he holds me—is enough.
It doesn't help.
I'm halfway to my own chambers when the eunuch finds me.
"His Highness requests your presence," he says with a bow. "To share his bed tonight."
Of course he does. The summons should feel like an honor. Instead, it feels like salt in a wound I'm trying to ignore.
But I go. Because refusing would create questions I can't answer. Because I still want to be near him.
Inside, Mehmet stands by the window, his shoulders tense. He turns when I enter, his expression softening.
"Leyla. I was beginning to think you wouldn't come."
I force a smile. "I was detained in the harem. Listening, as you asked."
He crosses to me, and I see him notice—the too-careful way I'm holding myself, the smile that doesn't quite reach my eyes. His brow furrows slightly.
"What's wrong?" His hand reaches for my face, but I step back. The hurt that flashes across his expression makes my chest ache.
"Nothing's wrong. I'm just tired."
"Don't lie to me." His voice drops lower, gentler. "Not you. Not about this. Tell me what happened."
I want to spill everything—the jealousy, the image I can't erase. But the words stick in my throat.
"I saw her," I finally whisper. "The woman leaving your chambers. I saw her."
Understanding dawns in his eyes, followed by something that might be regret. He reaches for me again, and this time I let him cup my face, let him tilt my head up to meet his gaze.
"And it bothers you." It's not a question.
"It shouldn't." My voice cracks. "You're a prince. You have duties. I have no right to—"
"To feel?" He finishes. His thumbs stroke my cheekbones. "To want me to yourself? To hate seeing evidence of other women?"
Tears burn behind my eyes. I blink them back. "It's not my place to question your actions. I'm nobody. Just another concubine. I can't expect—"
"Stop." The command is soft but absolute. He pulls me closer. "That woman meant nothing. It was duty—a political necessity I couldn't avoid. The Sultan expects certain behaviors. But it wasn't you."
"I know that." The admission tastes bitter. "I know I shouldn't feel—"
"Human?" His hand tightens on my waist. "Honest about what you feel? That's not weakness. That's trust."
The tenderness in his voice undoes something in me. A sob tries to escape, and I press my face against his chest to muffle it.
"I don't need your permission," he continues, his voice steady. "I don't need you to approve every choice. But I need your trust. I need you to believe that when I'm with you—really with you—it's different. That you matter in ways they never will."
I pull back enough to meet his eyes. "How can you ask me to trust that when I just saw proof that I'm not the only one?"
"Because you're the only one who makes me feel alive." The words are raw, honest. "The rest is performance. Politics. But this—" His hand presses over my heart. "—what we have when it's just us? That's real."
"But you were with her." I can't let it go, can't stop prodding the wound. "You touched her. You—"
"I fulfilled an obligation," he interrupts. "And I thought about you the entire time. Wished it was you."
The confession makes everything more complicated. I'm silent, trying to sort through jealousy and understanding, possessiveness and pragmatism.
"I don't know how to do this," I finally whisper. "How to share you. How to accept that you'll be with others while telling myself it doesn't matter."
"It does matter." His forehead presses against mine. "Your feelings matter. But so does the reality of what I am—who I have to be. We're both navigating something neither of us fully understands."
"Then tell me how," I plead. "Tell me how to live with this without it destroying me."
He's quiet for a moment, his breath warm against my skin. When he speaks, his voice carries the weight of truth.
"By trusting that what we have transcends duty. By believing me when I say you're different. By knowing that when I claim you, when I make love to you, it's not performance—it's need." His hands frame my face again. "And by letting me prove it to you. Tonight. Tomorrow. However long it takes until you believe it in your bones."
The promise loosens something in my chest. Not completely—the hurt is still there—but blunted by his honesty.
"I want to believe you," I whisper.
"Then let me show you." He kisses me softly, a question rather than a demand. "Let me make you understand what you mean to me."
I kiss him back, tentative at first, then deeper. His hands are gentle as he undresses me, as he lays me on his bed and follows me down. Every touch is deliberate, reverent, his gaze never leaving mine.
"You're mine, Leyla," he murmurs against my skin, his mouth trailing heat down my throat. "Not because I own you. Because you chose me. Because what we have is real."
When he enters me, it's slow and claiming all at once. He makes me watch him, makes me see the truth in his eyes—that this matters, that I matter, that whatever political games he plays outside these walls don't touch what exists between us here.
"Say you believe me," he commands softly, his rhythm steady and deep. "Say you understand."
"I believe you," I gasp, my body arching into his. "I understand."
And in that moment, tangled together in the lamplight, I almost do.