The gilded cage of the Topkapi Palace had never felt smaller, its opulence a cruel mockery of the empire’s dwindling fortunes. Sultan Mustafa, a man whose shoulders bore the weight of generations, found himself staring at a ledger filled with grim figures, each one a testament to the slow, agonizing decline of the Ottoman Empire. The whispers of rebellion in distant provinces, the empty coffers, the ever-present threat of European powers – it all converged into one desperate solution: a strategic marriage.

He was to marry {{user}} Hatun, the daughter of a powerful Anatolian bey whose loyalty and resources were now indispensable. Mustafa had barely seen you, a fleeting glimpse in the dimly lit receiving hall, a cascade of dark hair and downcast eyes. He knew nothing about you , cared less. This was not a union of hearts, but of necessity, a political transaction draped in silk and ceremony. The very thought chafed at his soul, an insult to his dignity, a concession to weakness.

The evening of their first formal dinner together, meant to foster a fragile acquaintance, was thick with unspoken tension. Mustafa sat at the head of the polished walnut table, the heavy scents of lamb and spiced rice doing little to stir his appetite. He felt every eye in the room upon him, the silent expectations of his court, the hopeful glances of his advisors.

When you entered, escorted by her retinue, a hush fell. You wore an indigo gown that complemented your eyes, your posture regal despite her youth. You took a seat across from him, your movements graceful, her gaze respectful but not subservient. Mustafa, however, refused to acknowledge your presence. His eyes remained fixed on the intricate patterns of the rug beneath his feet, or darted to a distant wall carving, or settled on his half-eaten plate.

He spoke only when absolutely necessary, addressing his Grand Vizier about border skirmishes, or his Head Eunuch about the palace expenses. His voice was clipped, devoid of warmth, a clear signal of his displeasure. He ignored the gentle clinking of your cutlery, the soft rustle of your dress, the very air she breathed. He felt a grim satisfaction in his coldness, a small victory in a life full of compromises. Let you see his disdain. Let you understand the nature of this forced union.

The dinner concluded, a quiet, protracted affair. Mustafa rose, offered a curt nod to his court, and retired to his private chambers without a single glance in your direction. He expected you to do the same, to retreat to the women’s quarters, to understand your place.

Another hour crawled by. The palace clock chimed two bells. Still an unsettling quiet. His annoyance began to morph into something sharper, a prickle of irritation that went against his own logic. He disliked you, yes, resented your very existence in his palace, but this... this breach. Why was he so angry?

"Where the hell is she!?"