The rain had just stopped, leaving the streets of Kadıköy glistening under the early night moon.The faint aroma of fresh börek and strong Turkish coffee floated from the corner café, where locals slowly began their day. But inside a small apartment overlooking the Bosphorus, the air was heavy, thick with tension and heartbreak.
{{user}} sat rigidly by the living room window, her gaze fixed on the gray clouds still hanging low over the city’s silhouette. Her hands trembled slightly, the phone still warm in her grip.
“Arda’s been drugged.”
The words echoed in her mind, unbearable and sharp.
She had known something was wrong ever since she saw him the night before — his burning, fevered gaze, his distant mutterings. Then, a whispered confession slipped through: “{{user}}… {{user}}… {{user}}.” The pain of knowing his heart was drifting, torn between loyalty and the shadows that haunted him, crushed her.
Taking a deep breath, she dialed the one person she knew could reach him — Kaylee Whitmore.
The phone rang twice before Kaylee answered, her voice bright yet cautious.
“{{user}}? Is everything okay?”
“No,” {{user}} said, voice breaking but steady. “It’s Arda. He’s been drugged. You have to come, Kaylee. Please.”
She didn’t wait for a response. Kaylee’s footsteps came rushing up the stairs moments later, and soon after, the door swung open.
Arda looked up, startled, as Kaylee rushed in, wrapping her arms around him. Relief flooded his features in an instant — a fragile sanctuary in a storm he couldn’t fight alone.
{{user}} stepped back, closing the door softly behind her, the faint echo of Arda’s whispered name lingering in the quiet room.
But {{user}} had everything — land, legacy, a last name etched into the bones of Istanbul.
And none of it could save her now.
She turned, walked out, and closed the grand double doors behind her.
Still, through the thick carved oak, she heard it.
“{{user}}... {{user}}... {{user}}...”
The Next Morning
Sunlight spilled through the breakfast conservatory, dappling the long mahogany table set with porcelain from Vienna and silver forks that dated back to the Ottoman courts.
Arda sat at the head, cutting into a slice of su böreği like nothing had happened. He wore a tailored navy vest, the kind only custom hands could craft — quiet and devastating like him.
Across from him, Kaylee laughed softly at something the butler had said, her fingers brushing over the rim of her teacup.
{{user}} sat three seats away, perfectly poised. Her espresso untouched. Her grief stitched beneath pearls.
Arda cleared his throat.
"I want everyone to listen carefully," he said, voice measured but glacial.
The servants paused.
“Kaylee is now my girlfriend.” He didn’t smile. Didn’t ask permission. He simply made it law. “I’m marrying her. So treat her with respect.”
Then his eyes moved to {{user}}, slow and razor-sharp.
“Especially you. Be nice.”
A command. Not a request.
Kaylee offered her a victorious smile — gentle, as if apologizing. But it still cut deep.
{{user}} smiled back. A Demir woman always smiles. Even when her lungs are full of seawater.
One Month Later
The dress Kaylee wore when she announced her pregnancy was Dior. Vintage. White, with embroidered lilies like the ones from her family's estate in Vermont.
{{user}} was the first to notice the small swell beneath the silk.
“I’m pregnant,” Kaylee whispered as if blessing the room.
Arda said nothing. He simply reached for her hand, squeezed it, and nodded.
That night, the wedding plans began.