They're beautiful, these girls. All seven of them. Silk gowns that fit perfectly, hair arranged in elaborate styles, jewels glinting at their throats. They have trunks—actual trunks—strapped to the carriage roof, filled with clothes and perfumes and all the things girls bring when they expect to be noticed.
I have one small bag. And the coins from that night, still hidden in my bodice, pressing against my skin like a secret that burns.
"I heard Prince Mehmet is devastatingly handsome," one girl—Aylin, I think—says with a giggle. "But cold. They say he never smiles."
"Prince Selim is supposed to be kind," another offers. "And he writes poetry."
"The Sultan himself might choose one of us," a third breathes, her eyes wide with possibility. "Imagine. The honor of serving directly."
They talk like this is a prize. Like being shipped to the palace as decoration is something to celebrate. Maybe for them, it is. Their families sent them with hope, with pride, with proper recommendation letters sealed in wax.
My father sent me with nothing.
"What's your family name?" Aylin asks suddenly, her gaze landing on me like a bird spotting prey.
My throat closes. "Razavi."
The carriage goes silent.
I watch recognition flicker across their faces, watch whispers begin without sound—just knowing glances, raised eyebrows, lips pursing in judgment. By the time we reach the first way-station that evening, the isolation is complete.
They cluster together at dinner, a tight knot of silk and perfume, their laughter pointedly excluding the empty space where I sit. I eat alone at the far end of the table, my food tasteless, their whispers carrying just enough for me to catch fragments.
"—scandal at her engagement celebration—"
"—dress ripped right open, can you imagine—"
"—betrothed chose her sister instead—"
"—letters to stable boys, apparently—"
"—desperate enough to spread her legs for anyone—"
Each word lands like a stone. I keep my head down, chew mechanically, swallow past the thickness in my throat.
When the palace finally rises before us—massive, beautiful, utterly terrifying—I feel nothing but dread.
The gates open like a mouth swallowing us whole.
Inside, the harem reveals itself in layers. First, the beauty—soaring arches, intricate tilework, fountains that sing. Then, the hierarchy. It's in every gesture, every glance, every woman's posture as we're led through corridors.
They line us up in the presentation hall. A woman glides forward, and silence falls like a blade.
Gülnar. Even I know her name. The Sultan's First Favorite, draped in crimson silk that flows like blood, jewels glittering at her throat and wrists. She's stunning in a way that makes you forget to breathe—and terrifying in a way that makes you want to run.
She walks down our line slowly, evaluating each girl with cold precision. Aylin gets a slight nod. Elif receives a considering look. Others get dismissive glances.
When Gülnar reaches me, her lip curls.
"Razavi." She says my family name like it tastes rotten. "I've heard about you."
My stomach drops.
"Lowest quarters," she tells the attendant eunuch without looking away from me. "Room seven."
The other girls are led to different corridors—better quarters, I realize. Rooms with windows, with space, with the possibility of something other than this.
I follow the eunuch down stairs that seem to descend forever, into halls where the tilework is plain and the air smells damp. Room seven is cramped, containing four narrow beds and three women who look up when I enter with expressions that curdle my blood.
"This is your new roommate," the eunuch announces, then leaves before I can ask anything.
The women stare. One—older, with a scar across her cheek—laughs without humor. "Razavi. We heard you were coming. Disgraced at your own engagement, weren't you? Dress split right open in front of everyone?"
"I—"
"Don't." Another woman, younger but harder somehow, cuts me off. "We don't care about your excuses. You're bottom tier, same as us. Only difference is, we didn't bring shame. You did."
The third woman doesn't speak, just turns her back.
I learn the harem's structure through observation and cruelty. There are tiers—the favorites who serve the Sultan directly, the hopefuls who still have beauty and backing, the useful ones with skills in music or poetry or politics, and then us. The bottom. The forgotten.
Girls I've never met know my story. Know about Kemal's rejection, about Yasmin's triumph, about letters that were supposedly forged but that everyone now believes were real. They whisper when I pass, fall silent when I approach, look through me like I'm already gone.
The summons to Gülnar's private chambers comes pretty soon.
Her rooms are everything mine aren't—spacious, beautiful, filled with silks and perfumes. She reclines on cushions like a queen, and when I enter, she doesn't tell me to sit.
"Your family discarded you," she says without preamble. "No recommendation letter. No dowry. No value except what you earn here." Her smile is sharp enough to draw blood. "And girls like you don't earn anything."
I force myself to meet her eyes. "Then why keep me at all?"
"Because you're useful as a lesson." She examines her perfect nails. "Every girl who arrives here needs to understand—bring shame, and this is what you become. Powerless. Worthless. A cautionary tale."
She dismisses me with a wave, and I flee before she can see me break.
I make it to the bathhouse before the tears come. The space is empty, steam rising from pools of heated water, and I sink onto the tiles and let myself shatter.
"Child."
The voice is gentle. I look up through blurred vision to find an older woman watching me with something that might be sympathy.
"I'm Safiye," she says, settling beside me with the careful movements of someone whose body has known too many years. "Fifteen years I've been here. Long past my beauty, kept on to teach new girls." Her eyes are kind in a way that makes me want to weep harder. "I know what you are."
"What am I?"
"Punishment, not opportunity. Same as I was, once." She produces a cloth from somewhere, hands it to me. "Let me teach you how to survive this."
She speaks in practical terms—avoid Gülnar's attention, never approach the younger princes, become invisible during royal visits, learn which eunuchs can be bribed and which will report you. Keep your head down. Don't hope for anything.
"Why are you helping me?" I ask when she finishes.
Safiye's smile is sad. "Because no one helped me. And I remember how that felt."
That evening, a eunuch arrives with an announcement that turns my blood cold.
"Tomorrow at midday, all new arrivals will be presented to the Sultan and his four sons. You will stand with heads bowed while the royal family observes. Occasionally, selections are made for personal service." His gaze lands on me. "Dress appropriately. Behave appropriately. This is an honor."
He leaves, and the room erupts in excited whispers from the other women.
Safiye finds me after, her expression grave. "Listen carefully. Tomorrow, keep your head down. Don't stand out. Pray to every god you know that no one notices you."
"Why?"
"Because in the harem, attention is rarely kind. Especially for girls with reputations like yours." She grips my hand. "The best you can hope for is obscurity. To serve quietly. To survive invisibly."
I nod, but something in my chest feels hollow.