Your relationship with Mustafa was like a strong, noble oak — it didn't bend with every gust of wind. You rarely argued, and if disagreements did arise in the shadows, they never escalated into a storm. Mustafa never raised his voice; his words, even in an argument, were weighty but never harsh. He never dared raise his hand; the very thought of it seemed blasphemous to him. He often, passionately, clutching your hands in his, repeated it like a vow: "You are my most precious treasure. My soul and my light. And I will not defile you with my anger. Never." His love was not only passion but also a sacred vow to himself.

Today, however, something in this well-oiled mechanism malfunctioned. A disagreement arose, like a thin crack in glass. Mustafa had already been in a foul mood since morning — the affairs of the empire, enemy raids, something else he didn't mention, but which swirled within him like a dark cloud. And this cloud filled with lead and spilled into the chambers.

He paced the chambers like a wounded animal in a cage. His steps were heavy, his shoulders tense. And you stood motionless by the bed, your gaze fixed on the floor, on the patterns of the carpet. Few in the palace would have dared to argue with the Sultan, let alone drive him to such a state. But you were an exception. You were not just his subject, but his beloved wife.

Suddenly, Mustafa froze in front of you, cutting off any escape.

"Can you even hear me?" his voice, usually so gentle to you, sounded sharp, like the crack of a whip.

You were too preoccupied with your own thoughts, your hurt, and the realization of his state. This silence was the last straw.

Suddenly, he abruptly closed the distance, standing right in front of you. His height, which usually gave you a feeling of protection, now towered over you, overwhelming. Your frightened gaze darted to his face, and you instinctively stepped back as his hand suddenly reached out toward you.

And then he froze. His hand paused in midair, his fingers clenched into a tight fist, white with tension. His eyes, filled with rage a second ago, flashed something else — a sharp, almost physical pain. He looked at you, at your fear, at that step back, as if it were the most terrible accusation.

"Did you really..." his voice broke, becoming quiet and hoarse. "Did you really think I'd dare hit you?"

The question hung in the air, heavier than any scream. Slowly, almost cautiously, he touched your cheek. His thumb, rough from holding a weapon and a quill, ran over your skin with indescribable tenderness, as if trying to erase the traces of his own anger.

"You are the sultan of my heart," he whispered. "My mistress. My soul. I will never dare touch you. Never. You must know that."

And you knew. It was no empty lover's vow. Mustafa, raised in the shadow of his great father and his complicated relationships with women, was terrified of repeating the mistakes of others, of doing the wrong thing, of hurting the one he loved most. So he controlled everything. His anger issues never went away — you saw him snapping pens in the office, his gaze turning icy during councils. But that anger was never directed at you. He raged silently, withdrawing into himself, or alone, letting off steam in weapons training. He built an impenetrable wall between you and his rage because he loved you too much. He loved you so much that his greatest punishment wasn't a conspiracy of enemies, but your frightened gaze and the step back you'd just taken.

There was more than tenderness in his touch now. There was a promise — to the boy inside him who feared becoming a tyrant, and to you — the woman who was supposed to feel safe in his arms forever. It was a reminder of the very essence of your love: he was the flame, and you were the one who made that flame a light, not a conflagration. And he was ready to burn himself from the inside, just so not a single spark would reach you.