The flight to Cappadocia was quiet. Sarah sat by the window beside Aniya, watching the clouds drift like silent continents below. Mehmet was across the aisle, buried in a file, his expression unreadable. Abdullah and Tayyep argued animatedly about a football match, while Eric looked at them with disappointment, shaking his head.
By the time they landed, twilight had painted the sky in soft purples and golds. The air was thinner, colder, scented with stone and dust. Sarah pulled her jacket tighter around herself, her heart heavier than the luggage she carried.
The stone-walled dining room glowed with candlelight, laughter bouncing off the arched ceilings. Clay pots steamed on the table, plates of meze passed from hand to hand. Abdullah and Aniya were bickering over who could handle spicier food, while Tayyep's dramatic commentary made everyone laugh.
Sarah smiled faintly, but her gaze kept drifting. Mehmet sat at the far end, silent, answering questions with clipped politeness. Not once had he looked her way since the flight.
Midway through dinner, a woman approached Mehmet—elegant, poised, her hand brushing the back of his chair as she leaned down. She explained the details of their sunrise balloon ride, her smile smooth, lingering.
"Inform me if the ladies are joining as well," she said.
"Thank you. I'll review it," Mehmet replied, voice even, eyes blank.
She lingered a heartbeat longer, then left, her gaze trailing over him.
Sarah's eyes followed until the woman vanished into the hallway. It was nothing but business, yet the sight of her leaning in, smiling at him—it unsettled her. She couldn't name the feeling, only that it gnawed quietly.
Aniya leaned in, whispering, "Don't worry. I'll find her with Tayyep and report back."
Sarah tried to brush it off with a laugh. "It doesn't bother me." But her fork clinked harder against the plate than she intended.
When she looked up, Mehmet's gaze was already on her. She forgot to breathe. His eyes weren't soft—not tonight. There was something else there. Something raw. Something she couldn't read.
The conversation carried on, but for Sarah the night was already ruined. That single look weighed on her chest long after the plates were cleared.
Istanbul
The warehouse smelled of old wood and smoke. Kerman sat at the head of the table, his silver hair glowing faintly under the light, cigar resting between his fingers. His eyes—usually warm, patient—were colder tonight. He was not looking like a man in Mehmet's office and drafting files; He was sitting there like he own the Istanbul.
One of the younger men shifted nervously.
"She shouldn't be in Istanbul, Kerman Bey. Not now. Edem's men…."
Kerman raised a hand gently, the way a teacher silences a child. His voice carried that same softness it always did.
"She isn't in Istanbul," he said, almost smiling. "She's with him. Where she should be."
The men exchanged looks. For the first time, his tone felt heavier, final.
Kerman tapped his cigar, the ash falling soundlessly into the tray.
"Sarah…" he said with quiet respect. "She softens Mehmet. And I have prayed for years to see that boy carry something other than fire in his blood."
His smile lingered, but then it faded. The warmth slipped, and for a moment the room felt colder. His voice dropped, rougher now, like gravel underfoot.
"Istanbul has always been a city of hunters. But old wolves don't retire. We watch longer. We bite deeper."
The younger man straightened, throat dry.
Kerman leaned forward, his eyes sharper than the years on his face.
"Don't waste bullets on branches. Cut the roots. His men, his dogs. One by one. Quiet. Clean. No mercy."
Silence followed, thick as smoke.
Then he lifted his glass of raki, hand steady despite his age.
"I stood by Ibrahim. I'll stand by his son. And for what he has now—" his lips curved into the faintest smile, proud and deadly at once,
"I'll die, or I'll kill."
Capadocia
The night air was cool, carrying the scent of stone and valleys. Sarah stepped onto the terrace, pressing her palms against the cold railing, staring at the horizon. Something stung behind her eyes, though she refused to let it fall.
"You didn't go with them?" His voice came from behind.
She stiffened but didn't turn. "I… wanted some time alone."
Mehmet stepped closer, his hands resting on the railing beside hers. "I thought maybe you were busy."
"No, I'm not busy. Not like you—with other things," she said before she could stop herself.
"If you're talking about that woman," he replied evenly, "she was only giving details about the balloon ride. Nothing else."
"I wasn't talking about it. I don't care," she said too quickly.
"Oh?" He tilted his head, lowering it slightly, lips curving.
Silence stretched. Then his voice cut through, sharp and quiet.
"Don't compare me to Eric again, Sarah. Not even in your thoughts."
She turned to him, startled by the raw intensity in his gaze. "Why? Because he makes me feel safe instead of controlling me? Because he gives me space—"
Mehmet leaned in, his cologne surrounding her. His words came like a blade.
"Because he will never see you the way I do. He doesn't notice how you look at something you admire, the way you inhale before you argue, the way you bite your lip when you lie. He doesn't read your eyes, or your silences. He doesn't study you, Sarah. I do."
Her pulse hammered. His nearness, his words, her defenses collapsed in silence.
He straightened, his voice dropping to a dangerous softness.
"So don't test me with his name. I won't forgive it again."
And then he walked away, leaving her against the railing, shaken and speechless.
________________________________________
Morning came too early. Sarah dressed in a long brown skirt and beige sweater, her eyes tired but lethal, carrying a weight unnamed. She wasn't the frightened girl from the warehouse anymore. Mehmet's gaze caught her more than once, longer than it should have.
The sky blushed in rose and amber as balloons rose into the dawn, their colors glowing against the light. Sarah stepped into the basket, wind tugging at her hair. She looked otherworldly.
"It feels unreal," she whispered, gripping the edge.
Mehmet leaned closer, his voice low. "Some things are real, even when they feel impossible."
She turned, startled, but before she could reply, the balloon tilted. She laughed softly. Mehmet didn't. He only watched her, steady, as though nothing in the view compared to her.
After landing, they gathered at a rustic table overlooking valleys. Tea steamed in clay cups; fresh bread and olives filled the air with warmth. The group laughed at Tayyep's jokes while Eric handed Sarah Polaroids—her, in the balloon, the valley behind her, hair in the wind.
"These are yours," he smiled.
"Thanks, Eric. You're wonderful," Sarah said, touched.
"I captured the masterpiece," he whispered, low enough only she heard.
Later, when Eric left to photograph the valley, Sarah sat alone at the table. Mehmet set his napkin down, stood, and said simply, "Walk with me."
She arched her brow. "Was that an order?"
"No," he said calmly, taking the pictures from her hands. He glanced through them, lips twitching, then slid one quietly into his pocket before returning the rest.
They walked a narrow trail, silence wrapping them. At one point, Sarah bent to fix her laces, but Mehmet was already crouched, tying them.
"I can do it," she muttered.
"I know. But not when I'm here," he said softly. He brushed his fingers against hers, then held her hand.
"You're cold," he murmured, thumb grazing her skin. "Shivering."
Her lips parted. "I'm fine."
"No," he whispered. "You're not. And I won't let go until you are."
The world seemed to collapse to that single moment—his hand around hers, his warmth defying the chill.
Then Aniya's voice cut through the air, calling Sarah's name. Mehmet's jaw tightened. He didn't release her hand until they were back at the hotel.
That evening, laughter spilled across the lounge. Sarah was trying to tell a childhood story from Pakistan, but every attempt dissolved into helpless giggles.
"Wait, listen—I was—" She broke down laughing again.
"Tell us the story first, then we'll laugh," Tayyep teased, laughing with her.
"I want to finish—okay, listen—" More laughter overtook her.
The group laughed with her, the room brighter for it.
From outside, Mehmet stood by the window, phone pressed loosely to his ear. He wasn't listening to the call. He was watching her.
He had never seen anything more beautiful than her laughter. Never heard anything more soothing. He lowered his head, smiling faintly to himself.
Inside, Aniya nudged Sarah, laughing. "She's always like this. She never finishes."
The story went untold, but her laughter lingered, echoing long after.
Istanbul
Kerman had been watching the man for days, not hours. Days before Mehmet's trip to Cappadocia. No sudden ambush, no lucky chance. Every move of Edem's right-hand was tracked: which café he sat in, which woman he met, how long he lingered in a mosque courtyard after prayers.
The younger guards grew restless. "We could've taken him three nights ago," one muttered.
Kerman only puffed smoke from his cigar, his tone flat.
"You don't hunt a snake by stepping on its tail. You cut the head clean."
On the fifth night, when Mehmet finally reached Cappadocia, the right-hand slipped—drunk, stumbling out of a backroom deal. His guards argued over money, distracted. Mehmet's young men moved first, forcing him into a dead-end alley.
The man fought like a wolf cornered, slashing one of them with a knife. But when Kerman stepped forward, cane tapping against the stone, the fight left his eyes.
"You?" he whispered.
Kerman's mouth curved into a faint, deadly smile.
"Young men chase shadows. I follow footsteps. And yours, oğlum… always led back to me."
It wasn't easy—blood spilled, steel flashed but in the end, the man was dragged to the cellar.
The bulb swung overhead, the air thick with damp and blood. The right-hand sat bound, chest heaving.
Kerman entered slowly, cane tapping, a glass of red wine in hand. He looked less like an interrogator, more like an old man in his ritual. He sat opposite, calm, unhurried.
"You bled one of my boys," Kerman said quietly, swirling the wine. "For that, I should let him cut you open."
The man spat blood. "Edem will kill you all. This city belongs to him."
Kerman chuckled, soft as smoke. "Istanbul never belongs to one man. Your boss makes too much noise. And noise…" He leaned in, eyes like flint. "…attracts wolves."
He sipped, then set the glass down.
"Do you know what Mehmet Bey is to me? He is Ibrahim's son. Blood of the man I swore to protect. And now… there is Sarah." He said her name with quiet respect, as if it were prayer. "I prayed for such a girl for Mehmet. For her, I'd kill a thousand men."
The prisoner sneered. "She'll drown in this city, just like the rest of you."
Kerman's smile faded. A soft tap of his finger on the glass.
"Young men think fear is a weapon. But fear is only useful when it's remembered."
A guard slammed the man's hand to the table. With one sharp strike of his cane, Kerman snapped two fingers. The scream rattled the cellar.
Nails were clipped off, one by one. His howls shook the walls. His screams were echoing everywhere.
"Okay! I'll tell you!" he sobbed. "Edem… he's going to attack Mehmet."
"When and where?" Kerman smirked.
"I don't know... I swear I don't..." He screamed and another nail clipped off.
"When he returns. At the library!" His body trembled. "And....he has men in Cappadocia. For that lady."
At Sarah's mention, Kerman's veins stiffened, his jaw tightening.
"So," Kerman murmured, his voice carrying both amusement and venom, "your Edem wants me to show up at his house this time." He laughed, but the laugh was twisted, half wine, half blood.
Capadocia
At night, the rooftop air was sharp again. Sarah froze when she saw him—Mehmet, cigarette glowing between his fingers. Smoke curled around him, cutting into the stars.
"I didn't know you smoked," she said, her voice steadier than her heart.
He looked over, lips curving lazily. "Not often. Only when the silence is louder than I am."
"Don't."
He tilted his head.
"You look better without it," she said softly.
He crushed the cigarette beneath his shoe, straightening. A smirk ghosted his lips. "Do I look good now?"
Her throat tightened. She should have teased, but the words came raw. "Mehmet…"
Her hands fisted against her sweater. "I was harsh that night with the visa. I said things I shouldn't have—called you controlling, compared you to Eric, threw the slap and the paperweight back at you. But all you've done is hold me up when I couldn't stand." Her voice wavered, but she stood tall. "When I'm scared, I push. And it's always you who takes the blow. I'm sorry."
He stepped closer, deliberate, until only a breath separated them.
"Apology accepted, Miss Sarah," he said, calm but edged. His gaze burned through her. "But don't apologize like this again. You're allowed to fight me, test me."
She blinked, stunned.
His voice dropped lower. "But don't confuse me with Eric. Don't use my care as a weapon. That…", his jaw flexed, "I won't forgive twice."
Sarah's breath caught, her words lost.
He opened the rooftop door. "It's cold. Come."
She followed silently.
At her door, fumbling with the key, she finally looked at him.
"Goodnight, Sarah," he said softly, eyes still on fire.
Her lips curved faintly. "Goodnight."
When the door closed, she leaned back against it, restless, alive.
I want to be with Mehmet.... She whispered.
Later that night, Mehmet's phone buzzed where it rested on his desk in the hotel. He picked it up, the message short, coded in Kerman's old style:
"The snake's fangs are gone, but it still coils. Watch the library. Guard the lady."
Mehmet stared at the screen, jaw tightening. He closed the phone without replying, slipped it into his coat pocket, and walked to the balcony. The Cappadocian night stretched vast and silent, but his mind was still in Istanbul, in smoke and blood.