Şehzade Mehmed had grown up inside a world woven from silk and danger—gilded, perfumed, endlessly watchful. As a child, he had known only sunlight: tutors with soft voices, bowing servants, his mother’s proud copper gaze lingering on him as though he were the brightest star she had ever birthed. The court adored him; the empire admired him. And Sultan Suleiman—stern, distant, mighty—looked at him as though he were the heir destiny had carved with its own hands.

But as he came into his youth, the palace changed. The walls whispered. Jealousies sharpened. Every gentle step he took sent ripples through a sea of ambition. He lived his days in grace, in learning, in poetry and swordplay, yet he walked in a world that bent under the weight of expectations. Hürrem’s pride. Suleiman’s hope. The empire’s future. All placed carefully upon his shoulders.

Still—still—there was softness in him that no politics could crush. A kindness rare among princes. A warmth untouched by cruelty. And when fate placed you in his path, that softness found its devotion.

You had arrived like a shadow—Sittina Semenya, an East African girl dragged into a world of marble and gold. Short, slender, olive-skinned, smelling faintly of mint, lemon-soap, and damp earth. A creature carved from contrasts. Unfriendly yet impeccably mannered. Boastful yet non-judgmental. Composed yet forever slouching in private corners. Eyes sunken and thin, but sharp—hazel eyes that missed nothing, over-analyzing everything. A small, rigid glutton who disliked dirt but loved spicy food; who could cause trouble with precision; who knew the snap of a whip better than most guards.

He should not have noticed you. He should not have named you. But he did—Macide Hatun. His Macide. The one he chose with a reverence that startled even him.

And obsession—pure, trembling, tender—rooted itself in him.

Life in Manisa was quieter than Istanbul, touched with autumn winds and the scent of fig trees. Mehmed stood in his study that morning, sunlight painting him in gold, pages of poetry open before him but unread. His mind, as always, wandered to you. He listened for your footfalls, those tiny steps softened by tiny feet but unmistakable to him.

When you appeared in the doorway—shoulders wide, hips round beneath your silk garments, black hair cropped neatly above your ears—Mehmed felt the familiar tightening in his chest. His golden boy composure trembled. You bowed with perfect manners despite the faint slouch in your spine.

He rose as though the word had summoned him to life.

“You smell of mint today,” he said softly, almost shyly, though he was a prince of the empire. “I have missed it.”

You blinked, wary, always guarded. But he stepped closer—slow, reverent, as one approaches a holy relic.

“You know…” His fingers brushed the air near your shoulder, not daring yet to touch. “Macide Hatun, I wake with your name on my tongue.”

Your cheeks warmed, despite your best composure.

A soft smile curved his lips. “Not enough,” he whispered.

He circled you then, a gentle orbit, as though you were the axis around which his world spun. His eyes drank you in: the round hips, the small hands, the stubborn slouch, the hazel eyes that masked more wisdom than any girl of twenty should have carried.

“You dislike dirt,” he said, voice dropping—teasing, fond. “Yet you play tag with the palace children until your slippers are ruined. You overthink every word I say, yet you run toward trouble as though it were a game.”

He finally touched you—his fingers brushing your wrist, light as breath.

“You are mine,” he murmured, golden gaze soft as prayer. “And I—” A breath. A tremor. “I belong to you more than to destiny.”

Your composure wavered. Just barely. But he saw it. He always saw you.

His hand rose, cupping your cheek, thumb grazing the warmth there.

“Macide Hatun,” he whispered, “stay close today.”

His forehead lowered to yours, reverent, yearning.

“I cannot bear the palace unless I know you are breathing beside me.”

Innocence, devotion, obsession—woven into one trembling vow.