I wake on what should be my last morning in this house, already dressed mentally for departure, and find a servant at my door with news that rewrites even that small mercy.
"Your departure is delayed two days, miss." She won't meet my eyes. "The wedding has been moved up. Family must attend."
Yasmin's wedding. Of course.
"You're to remain in your room," she adds quickly. "Orders from your father. You're not to be seen during the festivities."
So I'm trapped. Imprisoned in my own house while they celebrate my replacement.
The preparations begin at dawn. I hear everything from my window—servants arranging chairs in the garden, musicians tuning instruments, the excited chatter of arriving guests. The garden where I used to read. The garden where Yasmin planted roses over my jasmine. Now it's her wedding venue.
I press my face to the glass and watch my life unfold below me, worn by someone else.
The ceremony starts at midday. Sunlight catches on cream silk as Yasmin glides down the makeshift aisle, and my breath stops. That dress. The design is familiar in a way that carves me hollow—the embroidered sleeves, the fitted bodice, the way the skirt flows like water.
I sketched that dress in my diary three years ago, dreaming of the day I'd wear it. Yasmin must have found it. Must have taken even that private dream and made it hers.
She's stunning in my stolen design, radiant in my stolen future.
Kemal waits at the altar in formal robes, his expression soft in a way it never was for me. The officiant begins the ceremony—the same words that were meant to bind Kemal and me, now binding him to my sister.
I watch Kemal speak his vows, his voice carrying clearly through the open window. Love, honor, cherish. All the promises that were supposed to be mine.
Then Kemal glances up.
His eyes find my window. Find me, watching from my exile like a ghost haunting my own life.
He smiles.
Not cruelly. Not mockingly. Just... relief. Pure, uncomplicated relief, as if marrying Yasmin is deliverance from a burden he's finally shed.
Something inside me cracks.
The ceremony concludes with cheers and music. Yasmin kisses her new husband—my former betrothed—while guests throw rose petals. My mother dabs at happy tears. My father looks satisfied, as if a troublesome business transaction has finally resolved itself favorably.
I turn from the window and sit in the silence of my room, trying to remember how to breathe.
The summons comes an hour later.
"You're to attend the wedding dinner," the servant says, and I almost laugh. They've forbidden me from the ceremony but now want me at the celebration? The cruelty has such precise design.
I go because refusal would only delay the inevitable.
The dining hall glitters with candles and crystal. Long tables overflow with delicacies—roasted meats, honeyed fruits, pastries that smell like heaven. I'm directed to the far end of the family table, the seat closest to the servants' entrance. My plate is empty and it’s to remain this way.
Yasmin and Kemal sit at the head table, glowing with newlywed joy. Guests surround them, offering toasts and congratulations. I'm far enough away that I can pretend I'm not really here. That this is happening to someone else.
Kemal's mother rises with a glass of wine, her smile warm and genuine.
"To my new daughter," she says, looking at Yasmin with obvious affection. "We're so blessed to finally have the daughter we always hoped for. Yasmin brings such grace and beauty to our family. Such perfect elegance."
The implication lands like a stone. Finally. As if they've been waiting for the right daughter all along.
Kemal's father stands next, his expression jovial. "We're fortunate indeed that the mistake was corrected in time. These things happen—wrong matches, unfortunate arrangements—but wisdom lies in recognizing and rectifying such errors before it's too late."
More toasts follow. Each one carefully worded to celebrate Yasmin while erasing me. I sip water and taste humiliation.
Halfway through the meal, Yasmin rises from her seat. She glides toward me in her stolen wedding dress, her smile radiant, her new emerald necklace catching the light. She leans down, her lips close to my ear, her voice honey-sweet and intimate.
"He's taking me to bed tonight," she whispers. "The chambers that were supposed to be yours. Think about that when you're lying alone. Think about his hands on me. His mouth on me. How he'll whisper how perfect I am, how grateful he is that he doesn't have to touch you instead."
She straightens, trailing her fingers across my shoulder in a mockery of sisterly affection, and returns to her husband.
I finish my water. Survive the rest of the dinner through sheer force of will.
When the guests finally leave, when the house settles into quiet, I retreat to my room and try to sleep.
I can't.
Because I can hear them.
The chambers Yasmin and Kemal occupy are directly above mine—the wedding suite my parents had prepared for my marriage. The walls are thin enough that sound travels with perfect, terrible clarity.
At first, just murmurs. Movement. Then Yasmin's voice, breathy and performative.
"Yes, Kemal. Oh yes."
It's deliberate. I know it's deliberate. The volume, the exaggeration, the way she cries his name loud enough to ensure I hear every syllable. This isn't passion—it's theater. A final, calculated cruelty designed to break whatever pieces of me remain intact.
"You feel so good," Yasmin moans, her voice carrying through the floorboards. "So perfect."
I press my hands over my ears, but it doesn't help. The sounds continue—exaggerated pleasure, breathless cries, the rhythmic creak of furniture. My imagination fills in every detail I don't want to see. Kemal's hands on her body. His mouth on her skin. The intimacy I thought would be mine, given freely to someone who took everything else.
I've survived humiliation. Survived betrayal. Survived being erased from my own family.
But this—this deliberate theft of even my most private dreams, this performance designed to ensure I feel every moment of what I've lost—this fractures something fundamental.
I sit up in bed, hands shaking, and the decision crystallizes with perfect clarity.
They've already decided I'm worthless. Already written me off as desperate, as ruined, as the scandal that needed covering up with forged letters. If I'm going to be ruined anyway, it should be on my terms. My choice. My destruction to claim.
I wait until the house falls silent. Until Yasmin's performance finally ends and sleep claims the household. Then I move with the careful precision of someone who has nothing left to lose.
The servant's quarters are easy to navigate—I've hidden in them often enough over the years. I find plain clothes, a dark cloak, a few coins someone left on a table. The guilt of stealing barely registers. They've stolen everything from me already. This is just balancing accounts.
The servant passages lead outside, away from the main house. The night air tastes like freedom and desperation in equal measure.
I pull the hood low and walk toward the lower quarters of Istanbul.
Toward the tavern.
Toward whatever waits for me there—anything, anyone, as long as it's my choice this time.
If they've already condemned me as a whore, I might as well earn the title properly.