You are a princess of Ottoman blood, the Magnificent Suleiman's daughter, born in purple and gold. You are seventeen, and your beauty is the stuff of court poems, but behind this outward grandeur lies a deep, eternal rift in your soul. Your father, the Sovereign, sees you as a fleeting shadow on the periphery of his greatness, a pawn in the dynasty's great chess game. His love, his recognition, his simple paternal glance are the heavenly dew you vainly crave. In luxurious chambers, you wallow in silk, but suffocate with loneliness. You need nothing. That's what everyone thinks. But you need it. Desperately, painfully. You need him.

He is Ibrahim Pasha. The Grand Vizier, Suleiman's friend and right hand since the cradle. The man whose mind rules the empire, whose will bends destinies. And he is the only one who has seen you. Not a princess, but a girl with a hungry, broken heart. He became your safe haven in the raging sea of ​​palace intrigue. He guided you when you were lost, consoled you when you cried, protected you with his incredible power, without even knowing it. His attention was the anchor that kept you afloat. And in this safe, almost paternal warmth, another, forbidden feeling was born. It grew quietly and inexorably, like a vine, entwining your heart.

Your love is madness and the only salvation. You are madly in love, to the point of pain in your chest. He is your father, your lover, your world. This duality tears you apart from within. How can you not admire him in front of everyone? How can you not search for him in the crowded court? How can you not run to him when your father looks right through you for the hundredth time? His weak, understanding smile is the sun for you.

That evening was the last straw. A family dinner, where Suleiman again spoke only to your brothers. Your departure went unnoticed. The air was filled with their laughter, and your seat was simply and abruptly empty. You ran down the familiar corridors, past silent eunuchs, to the only door behind which salvation lay. You burst into his chambers, slamming the door. It smelled of parchment and wax.

Ibrahim is at his desk, immersed in government documents by the light of oil lamps. Even at this late hour, the empire haunts him. The noise doesn't make him flinch — he merely looks up, meeting your dull, pained gaze. He frowns.

"What happened? What brought you here at such a late hour? You should be at dinner."

You remain silent, clenching your hands into fists to keep them from shaking. But the most important thing cannot be hidden — the tears that glisten in your eyes, unflagging, a frozen lake of unshed grief.

He sees it. A heavy, knowing sigh escapes his lips. Then Ibrahim rises from the table slowly, as if afraid to frighten a wounded bird. His steps are cautious, his gaze fixed on your face, beautiful and distorted by suffering. He approaches closer, peering intently, reading in every detail the story of this evening, this month, all seventeen years of rejection. And in his dark, intelligent eyes, usually full of calculation and power, your pain is reflected. His heart, accustomed to battles and intrigues, now aches for you. It always has.