The morning came too soon for all of them. After breakfast, they gathered in the lobby with their luggage. Mehmet carried the clay pot in a safety package, and the pendant rested carefully in his bag, kept for someone he could wait a hundred years for.
Cappadocia's valleys stretched outside the window, silently witnessing their departure.
The ride to the airport was filled with chatter, Eric's camera clicks, and an unspoken strangeness that none of them could name. On the plane, Sarah sat by the window with Aniya beside her. Mehmet's eyes lingered for a moment when he saw Sarah resting her head on Aniya's shoulder. He sighed softly and shook his head.
"I can do that better than Aniya, Miss Sarah," he thought.
The flight passed without any extra drama from Tayyep or Abdullah.
Soon they were back in Istanbul. The city greeted them with noise and motion, the rush of traffic, the smell of kehwa and roasted chestnuts from the street vendors. The Bosphorus glimmered faintly in the distance, alive as ever.
"Finally home," Abdullah sighed in relief.
They split after a quick farewell. Sarah returned to her apartment with Aniya. As she unpacked her bag, her eyes fell on the rose lipstick. She smiled faintly.
"What did you bring from Cappadocia?" Aniya asked meaningfully.
"These things," Sarah replied, pointing at her open bag.
"And except these?" Aniya smirked.
"You know I can throw this mirror at you," Sarah snapped.
"Yes, I know. Those who speak truth, the world is against them," Aniya said dramatically, making Sarah laugh.
Only two months and then…
She had to go back.
A stranger was waiting for her.
At Mehmet's house
"How was Sarah?" Anne asked with a soft smile.
"Perfect," he replied faintly.
"Was Cappadocia fruitful?" she teased.
"I guess now I have what I wanted." Mehmet's lips curved gently.
"She said she'll come to you soon. I bought this but she didn't take it. Give this to her—it will suit her." Mehmet handed Anne the pendant.
"Did you get any call from them?" Anne asked. Mehmet shook his head.
"What if—" Anne began, but Mehmet cut her off politely.
"'If' isn't in my vocabulary for her, Anne. She's the air I breathe." He exhaled deeply.
"Kerman called. The Izmir house is almost ready," Anne changed the topic, though Sarah was woven into every conversation.
"I'll visit it with Sarah. He sent you pictures?" Mehmet asked, resting his head back on the couch.
"He sent them to you."
"Oh, I didn't notice." Mehmet straightened and checked his phone.
The house appeared: an old haveli-style mansion, square in shape, with weathered stone walls and carved wooden windows. At its center was the angan—a courtyard where a gentle fountain murmured on one side and a wooden swing swayed lightly. Sunlight spilled across the stone floor, while potted plants lined the edges. Balconies wrapped around the upper level, opening into airy rooms that looked down onto the quiet, peaceful heart of the house.
Mehmet smiled.
"This is exactly what I wanted," he whispered.
Anne opened her arms. "Come here."
He set his head in her lap, closing his eyes. She kissed his forehead.
"I've never seen you this relaxed," she whispered.
"Anne… am I… do I deserve her now?" he asked with closed eyes.
"You've adapted so much for her, and you'll learn more. Yes, you deserve her now. And… you both look perfect together."
Mehmet smiled faintly.
"She doesn't like being controlled. Don't do that to her, Mehmet. Safety and suffocation are two different things. Don't confuse them.
Every relationship needs space to grow. Give her space. Let her make her own choices."
She paused for a moment.
" Women are made of concrete, but in love, we act like fragile butterflies. If someone treats us harshly, we die. We need care, assurance, love, and support—with space.
So don't suffocate her."
"Don't worry, Anne. She taught me how to love." He smiled under his breath.
"Izmir… it's for her?"
"Yes. She loves houses with an angan and swing, with a small fountain, old wooden doors and windows, flowery tiles, and a walk-in library," Mehmet explained.
"And Eric?"
"I'm selfish in love. I could destroy his future, but he's too young. I arranged a good future for him—without Sarah." His voice carried fire. "She's mine to love, mine to care, mine to breathe."
_______________________________________
The night was silent, except for the hum of a single lamppost flickering over a deserted street in Fatih. A body lay sprawled across the cobblestones—face battered beyond recognition, nails ripped out, arms carved with cruel, shallow lines. Like someone had played tic-tac-toe on his flesh and then left him as a warning. Edem's right hand was gone.
News spread before sunrise. Istanbul whispered, but no one dared to speak too loudly.
In Mehmet's library, smoke curled upward as Kerman sat across from him, a glass of raki steady in his hand. His old eyes burned with the kind of satisfaction only wolves understood.
"It's done," Kerman said, voice calm, almost too soft for the weight of his words. "Edem has no right hand anymore. His roots are cut, his branches snapped. He won't raise his head for ten years, maybe more."
"I don't want blood, Kerman bey. I never did. This city has drowned in it for generations." His fist tightened at his side. "But they touched her. If it's for Sarah, I'd tear their souls apart."
Behind him, Kerman exhaled a thin stream of smoke. His cane rested against his chair. He looked at Mehmet not like a servant, but like a man who had once stood shoulder to shoulder with his father.
"What was done was mine to do," Kerman said calmly. "Not yours. Your hands are clean, Mehmet. Mine have been bloody since the day your father built this empire."
Mehmet turned, eyes hard. "You've carried too much already."
Kerman's lips curved faintly, though his gaze was sharp. "Don't mistake me for tired, oğlum. I'm still here because Ibrahim's blood runs in you. You're my Mehmet. And now… there is Sarah." He said her name with respect, almost reverence. "She softens the fire in you. Without her, you burn too bright. With her, you'll last."
The words sank deep. Mehmet's jaw worked, his breath tight. For a long moment, he said nothing—then he stepped forward suddenly and pulled Kerman into a rare, firm embrace.
"With you," Mehmet muttered against his shoulder, "I never have to fear anything."
Kerman's hand pressed briefly to Mehmet's back. "Then don't. Fear weakens men. But love…" He smirked faintly, eyes glinting with old wisdom. "Love makes them dangerous."