The presentation hall is designed to make us feel small.
Massive doesn't even begin to describe it. Marble columns soar toward a ceiling painted with conquests and glory, while golden light pours through windows too high to reach. The space swallows sound, swallows breath, swallows any illusion that we matter beyond our decorative purpose.
Forty women wait in the antechamber, arranged in groups of eight. I'm in the last group because of course I am. Low status, low priority, low everything. The other women in my group won't look at me—they've already heard the rumors, already decided I'm contaminated by scandal.
The first group is called. We hear their footsteps echo, hear the ceremonial pronouncements, hear nothing else. When they return, their faces are flushed with excitement or disappointment. One girl whispers about how handsome the princes are. Another mentions the Sultan's commanding presence.
I keep my head down and try to breathe.
Group by group, the women are called and presented. The wait stretches like torture, each passing moment tightening the knot in my stomach. I focus on breathing, on staying upright, on not thinking about the tavern or the stranger whose scent still haunts my dreams.
Finally: "Last group."
We file into the hall, and the sheer scope of it steals what's left of my courage. The Sultan sits enthroned at the far end, draped in robes that cost more than my father's estate. Four men—his sons, I assume—stand arranged by rank on either side of him.
Even from this distance, even with my head bowed as protocol demands, I can feel the weight of power radiating from that dais.
My heart hammers against my ribs.
We form our line, heads down, seeing only marble floors and the hems of expensive robes. A eunuch begins the formal address—something about honor and service, about the privilege of joining the Sultan's household.
The words blur together, meaningless ceremony designed to reinforce our position: decorative objects awaiting selection.
The introductions begin.
Each woman is announced by name and family, their fathers' titles and accomplishments recited like credentials. The girl beside me is introduced with a full paragraph—notable bloodline, extensive education, musical talents. Her father sent a letter of recommendation thick enough to be a book.
Then: "Leyla of House Razavi."
That's it. No titles, no accomplishments, no letter singing my praises. My father couldn't even be bothered to pretend I was worth recommending. The brevity speaks louder than any scandal could—I'm here because I had to go somewhere, not because anyone wants me here.
Silence follows my introduction. Not the interested silence that followed the other names, but the awkward kind that comes when nobody knows what to say about nothing.
The Sultan speaks then, his voice carrying the weight of absolute power, discussing administrative matters with his sons. We're meant to stand here with bowed heads while they talk—a deliberate display of submission, of knowing our place. I stare at the marble and try to disappear into it.
Minutes pass. My legs start to ache. Someone shifts beside me and is immediately stilled by a eunuch's sharp glance.
Then, cutting through the ceremonial drone, a voice that stops my heart:
"I request Leyla of House Razavi."
The hall gasps. Even I hear it—forty women, dozens of attendants, all inhaling at once in shock. That voice. Cultured roughness, contained violence, impossible familiarity.
No. It can't be…
Whispers erupt and die just as quickly. Someone—Gülnar, from the sharp intake of breath—sounds like she's been struck. The Sultan's response carries amusement I can hear even through my panic:
"How... interesting. Prince Mehmet hasn't chosen a new woman in six months, and now this."
Prince Mehmet.
The stranger from the tavern is Prince Mehmet.
The stranger who worshipped my body is the Empire's heir.
The man I gave my virginity to is royalty.
Hands guide me forward—eunuchs or servants, I don't know, can't think through the roaring in my ears. My legs move mechanically, carrying me toward the dais while my mind screams denials. This isn't possible. Can't be possible.
But that voice. God, that voice.
I'm positioned before the throne—before him—and I still can't raise my head. Protocol forbids it until given permission. My gaze locks on expensive boots, perfectly polished, the kind of craftsmanship that costs more than I'm worth.
My heart threatens to break through my chest.
"Look at me."
The command cracks through the hall. The same command he gave me in that room, in that bed, when he made me watch him worship me. When he made me believe I was wanted.
I raise my head slowly, every instinct screaming to run, to hide, to do anything but obey. My eyes travel up royal robes embroidered with gold thread, past a jeweled dagger at his hip, up to—
His face.
The stranger. The man who called me magnificent. The man whose scent I can still taste, whose touch I still feel, whose words saved me from drowning in my own worthlessness.
Prince Mehmet, heir to the Ottoman Empire, looks at me with dark eyes that know every inch of my naked body, every tear I've cried, every desperate word I spoke in darkness.
His smile unfolds slowly. Predatory. Triumphant. Like he's been searching for prey and finally found it.
"I've been searching for something precious that was lost," he says, his voice carrying to every corner of the hall. "It seems my search has ended."
The court watches in stunned silence. I can feel their stares, their confusion, their judgment. Why would the prince choose her? What does he see that nobody else does?
Then he leans forward, close enough that his next words reach only me:
"Hello again, my brave, magnificent ruin."
The endearment from that night—the words he whispered while inside me, while making me feel wanted for the first time in my worthless life. Hearing them here, in this hall, with hundreds of witnesses, shatters every defense I've built since dawn.
"Did you really think you could disappear after giving yourself to me?"
My world tilts. Spins. The marble floor feels suddenly unstable beneath my feet. This can't be real. Can't be happening. The desperate bid for freedom, for control, for one night of choosing my own destruction—it's delivered me directly into the hands of the most dangerous man in the Empire.
A man who knows my body intimately. Who knows my pain. Who knows every secret I spilled in darkness while thinking he was nobody.
He rises from his position, and the entire court seems to hold its breath. Breaking protocol, breaking every rule, Prince Mehmet extends his hand to me personally. His fingers are steady while mine tremble.
"You'll come to my chambers tonight," he says, loud enough for everyone to hear. His eyes hold mine with an intensity that makes breathing impossible. "We have much to discuss about that night you thought you were ruining yourself with a stranger."
His smile sharpens, and I see it clearly now—the predator recognizing its prey, the hunter who's finally cornered what he's been chasing.
"I remember everything, little dove. Every tear. Every word. Every desperate, beautiful moment you gave me."
The hall erupts in whispers, but I hear nothing except my own heartbeat and his voice, promising things I don't understand yet.
I'm utterly, completely trapped.
And from the possession burning in his eyes, he knows it.