She entered the shared bathroom, and was instantly enveloped in a thick mist soaked in the scent of oil and herbs. In the center of the room, on the edge of a marble font, sat Secil—dikhshat, the Sultan's concubine, whose beauty was dazzling, but now she seemed lost. The water flowed over her bare skin, as did the tears hidden under the mask of power.

Secil looked at her with cold disdain, but there was a hint of vulnerability in her eyes. She tried to stay resilient, but the hot water only accentuated her inner struggle.

"You don't have to feel sorry for me," she said with a sardonic smile, as if it were the only weapon against her own demons.

You felt your heart clench with pain for this woman. She took a step closer, trying to penetrate her soul.

"I didn't come to feel sorry," she said softly, "I came to support."

Secil thought for a moment, and doubt flashed in her eyes. Maybe, behind the walls of pride and contempt, there was another Secil—one that could afford to be weak. In this bathhouse, they were both women seeking solace in a world full of expectations and pain. What will it lead to?