The morning after, I wake alone. Mehmet left before dawn—another council meeting, another demand on his time. I dress quickly in simple silks and slip from his chambers before the palace fully wakes.
I'm not going to the main harem today. Not to the gathering rooms where Gülnar's eyes track my every movement, where rumors about Selim and me still simmer beneath polite conversation. Instead, I head deeper into the palace—toward the baths and laundry rooms where the real work happens.
These spaces belong to servants and lower-tier women who labor in steam and soap, their hands red from hot water and lye. They don't recognize me as anyone important. My simple dress helps with that illusion. Here, I'm just another woman passing through, easy to ignore.
I settle near the edge of the bath house, pretending to examine some abandoned embroidery while my ears tune to the conversations around me. The women talk freely, their voices carrying over the splash of water and the rhythmic beating of wet fabric against stone.
"My sister wrote again," one woman says, her voice tight with worry. "Father's shop is struggling. The new Pasha keeps raising fees—inspection costs, permits for this and that. Everything requires payment now."
"Same in my family," another responds, wringing out a sheet with vicious efficiency. "My brother says half the merchants in Diyarbekir are considering leaving. But where would they go? They've built their lives there."
I keep my head down, fingers moving over the embroidery without actually seeing it.
"It wasn't always like this," a third woman adds. "When the previous Pasha was alive, business thrived. My father rode there to sell, often. Fair taxes, reasonable regulations. Now it's like bleeding a stone—squeeze every drop until there's nothing left."
"Fat dowries," someone mutters darkly. "That's what my cousin calls them. Bribes disguised as legitimate fees. You pay to operate, pay to trade, pay for protection from officials who create problems just so you'll pay to solve them."
My pulse quickens. This is what Mehmet needs—confirmation that the corruption extends beyond just tax manipulation.
"And the caravans," another woman says, her voice dropping lower. "My husband works in the trade offices. He says the ledgers don't match anymore. Goods arrive that aren't recorded. Payments go missing. When he questioned it, his superior told him to keep his mouth shut unless he wanted to lose more than his job."
The threat hangs heavy in the humid air. Around me, women exchange knowing glances—the kind that says they've all heard similar stories, that this corruption is an open secret everyone knows but no one speaks about where it matters.
I move to the laundry rooms next, where the conversations continue in different forms. Here, the complaints are more specific—shipments that never arrived, contracts that vanished, officials who suddenly became unreachable unless coin changed hands first.
"My father sent a letter last week," a younger woman says, spreading wet linens across drying racks. "He said Lord Kemal's office is impenetrable now. Used to be, you could appeal directly if there was an issue. Now there are layers of administrators, each requiring their own payment just to pass your petition forward."
"And none of it gets resolved anyway," her companion adds bitterly. "The system exists to extract money, not provide justice. My family paid three times to have a trade dispute heard. Three times! And still nothing."
I catalogue every detail, every name dropped casually, every hint about how this corruption operates. The women don't know I'm listening—don't know their whispered frustrations are building a case against the man who once promised to marry me.
By midday, I've heard enough. I slip away from the service areas and return to my chambers, my mind spinning with information that needs organizing.
I pull out parchment and ink, settling at the small desk by the window. My hand moves quickly, recording everything while it's fresh: mentions of fat dowries, manipulated ledgers, intimidated officials, the layers of bureaucracy designed to extract payments at every level.
I write carefully, keeping my observations clinical. These aren't just complaints—they're evidence of systematic theft from people who can't afford to lose more.
When I finish, the afternoon sun slants through my window. I read through my notes twice, making sure nothing important is missing. Then I send word to Mehmet through one of his trusted servants that I need to see him when he's available.
He arrives as evening settles over the palace, still dressed in formal robes from whatever meetings consumed his day. His expression is tight with exhaustion, but it softens when he sees me.
"You found something," he says immediately, reading my face with that uncanny accuracy he has.
"I did." I hand him the parchment. "The women in the baths and laundry rooms—they talk freely because no one thinks anyone important is listening. I heard enough to confirm that Kemal isn't just manipulating taxes. He's created an entire system designed to extract payments at every level."
Mehmet reads through my notes, his jaw tightening with each line. When he finishes, he looks at me with something that might be pride mixed with concern.
"This is good work, Leyla. Better than I expected." He sets the parchment on my desk. "You've given us patterns—multiple women from the same region describing the same corruption. That strengthens our case considerably."
"What happens now?" I ask, settling beside him on the cushions.
"The investigations are ongoing. My men are working from the inside—clerks who've been documenting inconsistencies, merchants willing to risk testifying. But we have to be careful."
His hand finds mine. "If Kemal suspects we're building a case, he could destroy evidence or silence witnesses. The corruption you've uncovered probably involves people beyond just him—officials who benefit, administrators who enable it. We can't tip our hand too early."
"So we keep gathering information?"
"Yes. But understand—this is dangerous." His fingers tighten on mine. "You're documenting crimes committed by powerful people. If they discover what you're doing, they won't hesitate to silence you too."
The warning should frighten me more than it does. Instead, I feel something settle in my chest—purpose mixed with determination.
"I'm not afraid," I say quietly. "Not of this. These people—the families struggling, the merchants being bled dry—they deserve someone fighting for them. If I can help with that, the risk is worth it."
Mehmet studies me for a long moment, something shifting in his expression. "When did you become so brave?"
"I've always been brave," I counter. "I just never had anything worth being brave for. Now I do."
He pulls me against his chest, his arms wrapping around me. "Continue listening. Continue documenting. But if you sense any danger—if anyone questions why you're asking about Diyarbekir or shows particular interest in your movements—you stop immediately and tell me. Understood?"
"Understood."
We sit in comfortable silence as darkness settles outside. His hand strokes through my hair absently, and I lean into the warmth of him.
"Thank you," he murmurs finally. "For doing this. For being willing to help when you didn't have to."
"I want to help," I say simply. "I'm tired of being powerless. Tired of watching bad things happen without being able to stop them."
"You're not powerless anymore." His lips press against my temple. "You're becoming exactly what this empire needs—someone who sees suffering and refuses to look away."
The words lodge somewhere behind my ribs, precious and painful in equal measure. I tilt my head back to look at him, finding his dark eyes already watching me.
"I won't let you down," I promise.
"I know." His smile is soft, genuine. "You never have."