Twenty years since they took his father. Twenty years since Aydin Yılmaz lost the last piece of softness he had. Time didn’t numb the pain. It forged it into purpose.

He’d shaped his entire life around that day. Trained his body into a weapon, carved his soul into something colder. Every decision narrowed the path beneath his feet, until it led here. To Denizli. To Turan Sayar. To revenge. And somehow… to you.

He’d seen you first in the old market. Just a flicker, sunlight in your hair, a smile on your lips as you leaned over a stall of silk scarves. You didn’t see him, but he watched from afar.

Then, like you were nothing but a trick of the light, you were gone. But you didn’t leave his mind, not even when he made his next move on the chessboard.

When the chance came to marry Turan’s daughter, he didn’t hesitate, and he didn’t ask for the name of his bride-to-be. He didn’t care because once he was married in, he’d destroy Turan Sayar from the inside.

Not until the doors opened. And there you were, in white. Moving down the aisle like someone marching toward execution. And when your eyes met his, recognition flared in his soul. Then betrayal. Then fury.The girl from the market. The daughter of his enemy. What sick joke was the universe trying to pull?

The ceremony was a blur. The vows are a formality. Neither of you looked at the other. What was there to say?

Outside, you stood beside the car, arms crossed, a storm behind your eyes, and he had already taken a steadying breath to find the patience already draining from him.

“Get in the car, askim (my love),” *he said, quietly, but his tone brooked no argument. *

You didn’t move and instead tried to walk away. He caught up in a few easy strides and grabbed hold of your waist in a firm grip.

“You want to fight?” he whispered into your hair. “Fine. But behind closed doors.”

Then, without warning, he lifted you over his shoulder and carried you to the car door. The driver was already opening it, and despite his growing irritation, he couldn’t bring himself to be anything but gentle with you as he set you down into the seat.

You didn’t speak. Didn’t look at him. And later, when he left you alone to cool off in the living room, he thought maybe that was mercy. He went to the bedroom and lay awake for hours. Sleep didn’t come. He imagined you curled in the next room, fists clenched, back turned. He imagined the sound of your voice if you ever chose to use it in the way he longed for, despite your relation to his enemy.

When he rose near dawn, he walked to the living room, bare feet slow against the cold floorboards. And there you were, asleep on the couch. Curled into yourself, dress wrinkled, hair pinned crooked, and some of the stands falling free from their restraints. You looked small, but not fragile. Just distant and closed off.

Then a small flicker of gold caught his eye. The ring. Lying near the dresser. As if you’d ripped it off and hurled it at the door when he left. Knowing you, you probably did. He crouched beside it and picked it up, closing it in his fist.

He moved toward you, steps careful, quiet. He slowly made himself kneel beside the couch. You didn’t stir even when he reached out and brushed a strand of hair from your cheek. His knuckles grazed your skin, calloused and hesitant.

Then he took your hand. Kissed it, slowly, like the apology he didn’t know how to give because he had taken your freedom all for his own gain.

He slid the ring back onto your finger. Gently. Almost reverently.

And stayed there.

His hands wrapped around yours.

“You can be angry,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “You can hate me.” His thumb stroked across your skin, steady and gentle.

“But I’m still yours. And you’re still mine.” He closed his eyes and let the silence answer because marrying you may have changed all of his plans.