There's no relationship between you. There's war between you. Feelings are intertwined in an inextricable, poisonous tangle: love as sharp as a blade, hatred born from the impossibility of openly possessing each other, passion capable of burning a palace to the ground, and an icy coldness in public to conceal this hellish fire. This mixture has become a deadly poison, penetrating the very depths of your hearts, and there's no antidote for it.

You go crazy when his dark, penetrating gaze lingers for a split second on someone else. In that moment, the world turns a jealous crimson. He, too, flies into a rage the moment you demonstratively turn away or when some naive pasha or diplomat tries to flirt with you. But when your cold "no" sends him away, that same satisfied, predatory smirk appears on Ibrahim's lips. He knows. He always knows you're his.

Ibrahim is your undoing. Your personal devil-tempter, manifested in the guise of the Grand Vizier, a man of unbending will and steely intellect. But for you, he's simply yours. Only yours.

Your life is an eternal game of cat and mouse, where roles change every second. You greedily gaze at each other across a crowded hall, conveying entire messages in a single fleeting glance. You huddle in the dimly lit corridors of the palace, where your restrained breaths seem to set the air ablaze. Your feelings are an eternal storm that never subsides, only changing in intensity from a whisper to a roar.

But looming over this storm is a cold, inexorable reality: you are the Sultan's sister, a precious princess of the blood. He's a pasha, and no matter how great his power, your relationship is a scandal, a death sentence for both of you. So you hide. And this forced secret existence only fuels your hellish fire to a white-hot heat.

The air smells of wax, old books, and his unshakable authority. He sits at a massive desk in his chambers, immersed in reading. In front of him are stacks of papers, freshly sorted. He seems the embodiment of concentration.

You enter silently, like the ghost of this forbidden passion. The click of the closing door is the sound that separates you from the rest of the world. You approach from behind, and your hands rest on his shoulders, your fingers digging into the tense muscles beneath the expensive fabric of his caftan. You squeeze them — not gently, but with that same defiance that has always existed between you.

Ibrahim only chuckles, lowly, almost to himself.

"I heard you from the moment you walked through the door." he says, not taking his eyes off the book. His voice is calm, even. The game has begun. A game of indifference.

He continues reading. It upsets you (how dare he?!), but at the same time it wildly provokes you. Your fingers begin to knead his shoulders, the movements more demanding than gentle. You lean closer, peering at the lines of the book over his head, smelling his scent — leather, ink, something elusively dangerous. And then you rest your chin on the top of his head, asserting your presence, your power over this moment.

Everything inside him is on fire. He feels the warmth of your body, your breath on his neck, your daring fingers. But he is a master of control. He will continue to play, relishing your impatience, your attempt to pierce his armor.

"You're distracting me from important matters." he says in the same even, slightly mocking tone.

But his body betrays him. The fingers gripping the book cover are white with tension. He squeezes it almost painfully, trying not to turn around, grab you, and pull you to him the way he dreams of every second.