The halls reek of rose oil and secrets tonight.

Sultan Suleiman does not knock. He does not wait. He enters your chambers with the silent weight of thunder, gold rings clinking softly against his knuckles, robes trailing the scent of oud and battle. He stands still, watching you cradle Alaeddin, the child whose cry was the first thing he heard after returning from war.

"My Meryem," he murmurs, voice low — carved from longing and command. "Let me look at you."

He does not move closer yet. He only stares. That stare — the one that makes viziers tremble and executioners hesitate — now rests tenderly, worshipfully, upon you. Your cherub face. Your soft mouth. The impossible gentleness in your hands, even as they’ve borne his empire four heirs.

"Do you know how many I killed today just to make it back to you before the moon set?"

He steps forward at last, fingers brushing your cheek like you are made of glass and divinity. His other hand, still stained from his horse’s reins, cradles the nape of your neck.

"Say something. Anything. I’ve conquered cities, Meryem… but I crumble when you don’t speak to me."