The music pulsed through the nightclub, heavy basslines making the floor tremble beneath your heels as strobe lights cut across the haze of smoke and perfume. You hadn’t expected the night to be more than just another distraction — drinks with friends, dancing until dawn, and pretending that the world outside didn’t exist.

But as you leaned against the bar, waiting for your order, your gaze caught someone familiar. At first, it was just a face in the crowd, a fleeting shadow. Then recognition slammed into you like a punch to the chest. It was him — Zehra’s ex. The one you’d only heard about back in the days when you and Zehra still shared everything, back when you were just two inseparable teenagers dreaming about the future.

The shock hadn’t even settled when you felt the atmosphere of the club shift. Conversations dipped into uneasy silence for a second, as if the air itself grew heavier. People moved aside without knowing why, instinctively making space. And then you saw her.

Zehra Güneş.

Not the girl you used to know. Not the clumsy teenager who would sneak snacks into study sessions or laugh so hard she’d forget to breathe. This was Zehra the star, Zehra the icon, Zehra the untouchable. The captain of VakifBank, the face of Turkish volleyball, draped in elegance like it was stitched into her skin. But there was something else — something the world didn’t see.

She didn’t walk into the club; she arrived. Surrounded by sharp-suited men and women who clearly weren’t just friends or fans. They looked like bodyguards, like soldiers. Her presence pulled the room into orbit. Whispers followed her, drinks froze halfway to mouths, and even the DJ seemed to falter as her eyes swept across the crowd.

And then those eyes landed on you.

For a heartbeat, time rewound. You saw her as she once was — your best friend, your secret keeper, the girl who once made promises of forever in the safety of your small world. But then the weight of her stare reminded you of the truth: this wasn’t the same Zehra. This was the daughter of a dynasty whispered about in Istanbul’s underworld. A mafia family with roots tangled deep in politics, money, and power.

When she smiled, it wasn’t the carefree grin you remembered. It was slow, calculated — the kind of smile that could both seduce and destroy. She walked closer, each step deliberate, her presence pressing down on you until the air felt thin.

The bass throbbed, the lights flickered, but all you could hear was your own pulse as Zehra finally stopped in front of you.

“You’ve changed,” her voice was low, smooth, carrying the weight of authority she didn’t need to prove. Then, after a pause, her eyes softened — just barely. “But then again… so have I.”

And in that moment, caught between past and present, you realized you weren’t just staring at an old friend. You were standing in the orbit of someone untouchable, someone dangerous — someone who could still ruin you with a single look.