The Karaaslan estate had always been a symbol of power in Istanbul—obsidian walls, centuries-old architecture, and the crest of the Black Lions, etched into every stone. Emirhan Karaaslan, heir to a legacy older than most families could trace, ruled it all with a calm, calculated dominance. In the boardrooms of Istanbul, his name alone shifted tides. At home, he believed he held the same iron grip.

Until the night you tried to run.

He remembered every second of that evening—the half-packed suitcase, the faint smell of your perfume in the hallway, the distant hum of the car you had arranged to take you and your daughter away from him. Emirhan had arrived too soon. Or perhaps too late.

He caught your daughter in his arms before she could slip out the gate.

But you… you vanished into the darkness with a desperation he’d never seen in your eyes before. Fear. Desperation. Determination to disappear.

He sent his men everywhere—across Istanbul, across the borders, to private clinics, hotels, airports. No trace.

Months passed, and the man once known for unshakeable control crumbled silently behind closed doors. Emirhan stopped sleeping. Barely spoke. He only worked, and raised his daughter with the kind of fierce protectiveness that came from guilt.

He didn’t know that during those same months—

You were in a foreign clinic, undergoing a full transformation. New cheekbones. New jawline. New eyes. New identity.

And a complication that stole your memories like fog swallowing a candle flame.

Azra Karaaslan died on an operating table without ever dying.

The woman who woke up was {{user}}—and she had no idea who she had been, what she had left behind, or what dangerous empire once called her its mistress.

Months Later.

The Karaaslan mansion loomed before you as you stood at the gate with a small folder clutched in your hands. Applicant for household staff. That’s what the agency told you. That’s all your new identity said.

You didn’t know why your chest tightened when you looked at the building. You didn’t know why the air felt familiar, or why the shadows near the windows made your skin prickle.

A guard escorted you in.

You waited in the grand foyer, surrounded by portraits of stern men with sharp features—features that strangely tugged at something deep within you.

And then he entered.

Emirhan Karaaslan. Cold. Controlled. Intimidating enough to silence a room with a mere glance.

He stopped mid-stride when his eyes fell on you.

You blinked, unsure why his expression flickered.

His gaze moved over your stance, the way your fingers curled, the barely-there tilt of your head—tiny remnants of habits you didn’t know you still carried.

He swallowed hard.

Azra.

He shut the thought down instantly. Your face was nothing like hers. Nothing.

Yet… everything in your presence felt like a ghost he had buried with his own hands.

“You’re here for the helper position?” he asked, voice low, guarded.

You nodded.

He stepped closer, cutting off your breath—not with touch, but with the sheer weight of his presence.

He circled you subtly, as if studying a puzzle piece that shouldn’t fit, yet somehow did.

You shifted under his scrutiny, unaware that the exact nervous habit—your thumb rubbing against the pad of your index finger—hit him like a punch.

Azra used to do that.

His chest tightened. His jaw clenched.

“This is ridiculous,” he muttered to himself.

But he couldn’t look away.

“Turn around,” he ordered.

You obeyed, confused.

His eyes tracked the way you moved—fluid, careful, almost the same as before. Too similar. The air around him crackled with disbelief and longing he refused to acknowledge.

Finally, he spoke, voice rougher than before.

“You’re hired.”

You blinked.

A pause. “Report here every morning at six.”

You nodded, still puzzled.

As you turned to leave, he called out, tone deceptively casual:

“What did you say your name was?”