The VakıfBank team dinner was buzzing with laughter, clinking glasses, and the low hum of Turkish music in the background. Gabi had brought along her younger sister—you. At nineteen, everything still felt new, overwhelming, and exciting, and being surrounded by so many volleyball stars didn’t make it any easier.

After some introductions, smiles, and polite small talk, you slipped away toward the bar, deciding to treat yourself to a glass of champagne. The problem came quickly: the unfamiliar card machine in front of you. You swiped, tapped, pressed the buttons—it beeped red every time. Your cheeks heated, the bartender waiting impatiently, the line behind you growing.

Then, suddenly, a taller figure stepped beside you. Zehra. Without a word, she raised her phone, tapped it effortlessly against the reader, and the transaction went through instantly with a sharp electronic chime. She picked up the glass of champagne before you could, turned, and handed it to you directly.

“First night in Istanbul?” she asked smoothly, a faint smile tugging at the corner of her lips. Her voice was low, steady, and just a little amused—as if she’d caught you in something far more interesting than a payment mishap.

The glass lingered between you two, her eyes fixed on yours with that calm, unreadable intensity that made it hard to tell if she was mocking you… or simply intrigued.