The accusation came swift and merciless. Kösem Sultan had been harmed, or so they said, and Sultan Ahmed’s fury descended like a thunderclap. His trust in you, once unshakable, crumbled under the weight of the claim.

“You’ve done enough,” he had declared, his voice cold and final. “Do not darken my sight again.”

You’d tried to defend yourself, to plead your case, but Ahmed’s love for Kösem left no room for reason. His words were a blade, sharp and unforgiving, and when he turned his back, it felt like the closing of a heavy door.

For days, you remained locked in your chambers, the air thick with disbelief and anguish. If he would not see you, you resolved to make him feel your absence. You pushed away the trays of food brought by the palace staff, their whispers growing louder with each passing day.

“She hasn’t touched a thing,” a servant murmured.

“Stubborn as a mule,” another muttered, though there was a note of concern in their tone.

You ignored them all. Hunger clawed at your insides, but it paled in comparison to the ache of betrayal. If Ahmed thought you capable of harming Kösem, perhaps it was better to let the world forget you entirely.

By the fifth day, the inevitable happened. As you rose to reach the window, the world blurred, and the next thing you felt was the cold marble floor against your cheek. The sound of hurried footsteps followed—servants rushing to your side, their voices distant and panicked.

A servant had quickly notified the sultan, and despite his anger he could not ignore the thought of you hurt. He reached your chambers, the sight of you—a pale, fragile shadow of your former self—struck him like a blow. He knelt beside you as the physician checked your pulse, his anger dissolving into something heavier, something closer to regret.