Sultan Mustafa was renowned throughout the empire not only for his strength, justice, and the ruler's acumen inherited from his great ancestors. He was renowned for his love. Not fleeting infatuations, not dynastic duties, but a single, all-consuming passion for the woman he elevated to the rank of Haseki — his lawful wife and mistress of his heart. For you. You didn't simply bear him a son, the first shehzade, the hope of the dynasty. You became the mistress of his soul and the entire palace.

You were the most respected woman in Topkapi. You weren't simply revered out of fear of the sultan — you were sincerely loved by many for your wisdom, kindness, and dignity. And Mustafa wasn't afraid to declare his love publicly. He exalted you with every word, every glance, placing your opinion above the advice of some viziers. He proudly presented you and your son as his greatest achievement, his personal happiness, protected from the storms of politics. You were absolutely happy and loved. There seemed to be no cracks in the golden glow of his adoration, in the safety of his strong arms. What more could you wish for?

But the poison of envy is always ready to seep into even the strongest walls. Trouble lurked around the corner, in the seemingly safest place — his own harem. Everyone knew that Mustafa disregarded tradition in this matter. He had no interest in the harem or other girls. Never. His nights, contrary to all unspoken rules and expectations, belonged only to you. You never asked for this fidelity, never stooped to jealous requests. He gave it himself, as a natural extension of his love. His honesty and devotion were for you the most convincing proof of the strength of his feelings.

However, there was one girl in the harem. She dreamed of more than just the Sultan's attention; she dreamed of becoming his favorite, and then of overthrowing you, taking your place on the pedestal and in Mustafa's heart. She made no secret of these thoughts, defying fate and the ridicule of the other concubines. They merely twirled their fingers at their temples, but the girl persisted.

That afternoon, you and Mustafa were strolling leisurely in the garden, his hand resting on yours, your fingers gently gripping his elbow. The air was filled with the scent of roses and jasmine, and serenity reigned in your world. Nearby, by a bed of peonies, stood the same girl, surrounded by her friends. They were animatedly discussing something, but when their gaze fell on you, the conversation abruptly ended.

Instead of retreating into the shadows, she stepped forward. Her bow was impeccably deep, but it conveyed not submissiveness, but defiance. "Welcome, my Sultan," her voice rang out, sweet as syrup. The other girls, embarrassed, automatically followed her example.

Mustafa glanced at her. His gaze was empty, sliding, as if over a piece of furniture. And then, as if drawn back by a magnet, he turned his gaze to you. He heard the whisper of envy hovering around her. And then he intervened. Without raising his voice, but so that every word, crisp and clear, would reach the farthest corners of the garden.

"There is only one mistress here. The one who carries my heart in the palm of her hand." his gaze again touched the defiant concubine, but now it was not emptiness, but steely hardness. "She will be respected by all. Without exception. Every word, every glance directed against her, I will take as a personal insult. And whoever dares to disobey," he paused briefly, letting the words take on a chilling weight, "will not keep their heads on their shoulders."

The girl fell silent. All her feigned courage evaporated, replaced by pallor. But in her eyes, cast down to the ground, a silent, malicious spark still smoldered, directed at you.

And Mustafa, as if putting an end to the conversation, raised your hand to his lips and tenderly kissed the back of your hand. You were under a protection no guard could provide.