The words hang in the air between us, heavy and suffocating. Your father is involved in the scheming along with Kemal.
"Despite everything he's done to me," I say slowly, staring at my hands folded in my lap, "I never thought of him as a criminal. Not in that sense. Not in the Sultan's wrath sense." My voice cracks on the last words. "Are you absolutely certain?"
Mehmet's expression is gentle but firm. "I wish I weren't, Leyla. But yes, it's all real. The documentation is irrefutable—he's been facilitating the corruption, using his position to smooth over irregularities, taking profits from families who can barely survive."
I swallow hard against the tightness in my throat. "And my mother? Yasmin?" The question tastes bitter.
"They benefit from the fruits of this illegal labor," he says carefully. "Your mother's jewels, Yasmin's wedding expenses, the estate's upkeep—all of it funded by suffering. Whether they actively participated or simply turned a blind eye..." He trails off, letting me draw my own conclusions.
They knew. Of course they knew. My mother is too calculating to be ignorant of where their wealth comes from, and Yasmin too observant to miss the signs.
They enjoyed the spoils while innocent people starved. The silk gowns, the imported perfumes, the endless celebrations—all purchased with coin taken from families who couldn't afford bread.
"Have you found solid proof?" I ask, needing facts to anchor myself against the churning emotions. "Something that will stand before the Sultan?"
"The proof is on its way," Mehmet confirms. "By tomorrow morning, we'll have everything we need—correspondence, financial records, testimony from officials who were pressured to cooperate. Your father's involvement is documented beyond any doubt."
I nod mechanically, trying to process. My father, who called me worthless and unwanted, who sent me away to save face, is a thief who steals from families desperate enough to risk everything for honest work.
My mother, who burned my books and made me eat in the servants' quarters, adorns herself with jewels bought with blood money.
And Yasmin—perfect, golden Yasmin who orchestrated my destruction—wears gowns purchased with the hunger of children.
The pain that shoots through my chest surprises me. After everything they've done, I thought I had no feelings left for them. But some traitorous part of my heart still aches at this final, devastating confirmation that the people who were supposed to protect me are monsters.
"You're allowed to be angry," Mehmet says.
"I am angry." The words come out sharper than I intended. "But I'm also—I don't know. Sad? Disappointed? I shouldn't be disappointed. What did I expect from him? Some secret goodness I never saw? Some redemption that would make the years of pain make sense?"
Mehmet pulls me against his chest, and I let myself sink into his warmth. His heartbeat is steady beneath my ear, a rhythm I can anchor myself to while everything else spins out of control.
"He disowned me," I whisper into his robes. "Publicly severed all ties. Called me a shame to House Razavi. And yet hearing he's a criminal—that he's hurt people the way he hurt me but worse—it still breaks something inside me."
"Because he's still your father," Mehmet murmurs against my hair. "Because losing family, even terrible family, leaves scars. Because you're a good person, Leyla, and good people grieve even when they shouldn't have to."
The tears come then, hot and bitter. I cry for the father I never had and never will. I cry for the innocent families whose suffering funded my sister's wedding. I cry for the girl I was, desperate for any scrap of approval from people who were rotten to their core.
And I cry because despite everything—despite the disownment, the cruelty, the systematic destruction of my spirit—some small, foolish part of me still hoped they might change.
Mehmet holds me through it all, his presence unwavering while I fall apart. When the tears finally subside, I pull back enough to meet his eyes.
“How are you feeling?”
The question is soft, quiet, as saying it louder will break me. I smile—soft and tired, because tears will do nothing.
“Overwhelmed,” I admit. “Everything’s been so much. Today. Yesterday. All of it.”
He nods slowly, his eyes tracking my face as if reading between my words. Then he turns without speaking and disappears for a moment, only to return with a small glass bottle in hand.
“Take your clothes off and lie on your stomach,” he says gently. I throw him an incredulous look, unsure if he really means it. “Trust me. I know what you need.”
I hesitate, then do as he asks. The sheets are cold, sending goosebumps down my skin. I hear the rustle of his clothes, the soft pop of the bottle opening, then the quiet drip of oil into his palm.
The first touch startles me—it’s warm, smooth, and grounding. He starts with my shoulders, kneading gently, easing the tension gathered there. His thumbs press firm circles into muscle knots I hadn’t realized I carry.
“You hold everything here,” he murmurs. “Like you’re bracing for something.”
“I usually am,” I say into the mattress.
He doesn’t answer with words. His hands move lower, along my spine, gliding slow and steady, applying pressure with care. Every motion feels intentional. He works his way down to my lower back, then the tops of my thighs, coaxing breath from me I hadn’t meant to hold.
My body softens under him. It isn’t just the massage—it’s him. The way he pays attention. The way he treats each touch like it matters.
When his hands move to my hips, something shifts. The pace slows. Grows more deliberate. One palm flattens against the curve of my rear, kneading slowly. The other slides between my thighs, coaxing them open just slightly.
I let out a soft sound.
He leans forward, his breath hot against my shoulder blade. “You want me to stop?”
“No,” I whisper.
He kisses the back of my neck, then drags his lips down my spine. Oil-slick fingers graze the inside of my thigh, nudging me open further. My hips arch into his touch before I can stop them.
He chuckles softly. “Relaxation’s doing its job, I see.”
“Don’t gloat.”
“Never.” He kisses the base of my spine. “Just appreciating the view.”
His hand finds the center of me, warm and slick and knowing. I gasp into the pillow, gripping the sheets. He doesn’t rush, drawing lazy circles, coaxing me higher with each pass.
When he finally moves over me, lining our bodies together, he pauses, hand still working between my legs.
“I want you to feel good everywhere,” he says. “Not just where it hurts.”
Then he pushes into me slowly, letting me feel every inch. I moan, spine bowing as he fills me. The stretch feels deeper like this, more intense. He stays pressed against me, grinding slow and deep, one hand gripping my hip, the other stroking my side.
Each thrust builds slow pressure, not frantic, but insistent. His mouth kisses the space between my shoulders as he moves, whispering soft praises. When I come, I cry out against the sheets, muffled but raw.
He follows soon after, hips stuttering, breath sharp against my skin.
He collapses over me, arms wrapping around my waist from behind.
“That was...” I breathe.
“A good massage,” he murmurs, lips smiling against my neck.
I laugh, chest rising under him. “Best I’ve ever had.”
We stay like that for a while—breathing in rhythm, tangled limbs cooling beneath the sheets. His hand drifts along my arm in lazy strokes, no urgency, no expectation. Just him. Just warmth and calm.