A week has passed since Serkan's world was turned upside down. Thankfully—Mashallah—the photos were blurry enough that I remained anonymous to the general public. My name wasn't on the official guest list, and Serkan has kept a stony silence. I've also continued to ignore Ozan's existence. Today, like every Friday, I'm working at the trendiest bar in Istanbul. It's famous, the tips are high, and it's the only thing keeping my tuition and the house afloat.
After I laid out the truth about Ozan, the girls finally understood. Defne even apologized; being a friend of Ozan's as well, she had feared I was the one who cheated. Now, she's just reeling from his betrayal.
I'm working with my colleague, Katherina Cavalli, an Italian girl fascinated by Turkey. We'd be closer if I spoke better Italian, but I help her navigate the local chaos whenever I can.
"Hande, could you take that VIP table? You know the drill—important people, big egos."
"On it," I smile, balancing my tray. I'm weaving through the crowd when a voice cuts through the music, loud and deliberate.
"Of course, Engin! In case you haven't noticed, I'm a total lady-killer—" Suddenly, a hand grips the back of my neck. I'm spun around and crushed against a solid chest. Before I can gasp, he kisses me. It's a whirlwind of passion, force, and pure desperation. I struggle, my heart hammering against my ribs, and when I finally break free, I see those green eyes.
Serkan.
"You," I hiss, wiping my mouth.
"You. It's impossible." Serkan lets out a dry, breathless laugh. I see a camera flash in the corner of my eye. We've been caught again. "I think you're going to have to accept that contract now, madam."
"Only in your wildest dreams." Serkan steps closer, the scent of his expensive cologne mixing with the bar's smoke. I whisper, lethal and low: "Why on earth did you do that?"
"You gave me the idea," he mutters, his jaw tight. "You suggested a 'whirlwind romance.' I was going to follow that strategy—kiss a beautiful stranger to keep the press busy. It didn't exactly go to plan when I realized it was you."
"Clearly. Your 'plans' are as faulty as your personality."
"Ever since you crashed into my life, nothing works according to my logic. Be aware of that," he says, looking genuinely haunted.
"You are a despicable robot," I snap, turning my back on him to serve the next drink.
"I didn't know you worked here," Serkan says, trailing behind me like a shadow.
"You wouldn't. You know nothing about me, and I intend to keep it that way."
"Hande, you ran away last week and the world almost forgot you. But tonight? They saw your face. They'll link you to this place, to your family, to everything." I shake my head, but he persists. "It's best for both of us. My office. Tomorrow. Don't make me come looking for you again."
I wait a full week before showing up. I only went because he was right—they found out my name, my lineage, the whole Yildiz history. When I see the document on his desk, I realize just how deep I've fallen. He has drafted a formal contract. Pure, unadulterated robot behavior.
"What is this nonsense?"
"A contract."
"I can see that, Sherlock. Summarize the fine print."
"Simple. You cannot tell your loved ones the truth—that we despise each other. You must be present, affectionate, and convincing at every event I deem necessary."
"Anything else? Shall I iron your silk ties? Polish your ego?" I ask, dripping with sarcasm.
"I have staff for that," he says, looking me up and down with that cold, judgmental gaze. "And I highly doubt you'd meet my standards of precision anyway, madam."
"That's it." I stand up, slamming my hands on his mahogany desk. "No. Absolutely not. You are rude, arrogant, spoiled, and a manipulative egomaniac. No one who actually knows me would believe I'd fall for a machine like you."
"You started this with those handcuffs, remember?"
"You kissed me!"
"And who kissed whom first at the gala? Let's stick to the facts."
I roll my eyes. He is maddening. "Fine," I say, leaning in until we're inches apart. "But I want leverage. You hire me as a trainee here until this farce ends."
"Don't you have a father for that?"
"I don't work for my father. This will give me financial independence." Serkan looks momentarily confused by the concept of someone not wanting their billionaire father's help. "It'll pay my bills and help my aunt's flower shop. I won't owe him a dime."
"Fine. As my personal assistant. You'll be under my direct supervision."
"Deal. But I'm giving my architectural input on every project," I smile. "Now, why the obsession with this lie?"
"My ex is jealous. The contract lasts until she realizes she made a mistake and breaks up with her fiancé."
"Wow. Wouldn't it be easier to just use your words and tell her you're still in love with her?"
"I do not 'express' feelings, madam," Serkan says, his chin lifting with a pride that borders on the absurd. "Others declare themselves to me."
"Of course. Robots don't have hearts, they have processors. I can't wait for this to be over so I never have to see your face again."
"The feeling is entirely mutual, madam."
"I haven't signed yet," I tease, spinning the pen. "Add a clause: you won't fall for me, and you won't touch me without my express permission."
"The falling in love part will be the easiest commitment of my life. As for touching... we are supposed to be engaged."
"I was very clear. And you have to be romantic. And spontaneous. Can you handle 'spontaneous' without a spreadsheet, Serkan?"
"Hande..." He takes a deep, ragged breath.
"Do you want to win or not? These are my terms." He nods sharply, looking like he's swallowing glass.
We're interrupted by a man leaning against the doorframe. "Merhaba, Serkan! I needed a signature—oh! You must be Hande. The 'Bar Girl' the papers are obsessed with." He laughs warmly. "Serkan wanted to show he was 'detached' from his ex, yet he's kissed the same woman twice. The irony is delicious."
"I didn't—" Serkan starts, then stops, looking at me. "Aşkım, this is Engin, my partner. Engin, this is Hande Yildiz."
"Yildiz? From Sanat Architecture?" Engin looks impressed.
"It's my father's name, not mine," I say, my voice cooling. "In fact, Serkan is joining me for dinner with my father and brother tonight."
Engin's jaw drops. Serkan looks like he's about to have a system failure.
"I didn't know, Aşkım... we hadn't discussed this," Serkan says, his hand landing on the small of my back, fingers digging in slightly. "For our... private schedule."
"How could you forget, Aşkım? I mentioned it three times," I coo, tilting my head. "I missed last week, so he rescheduled for tonight. You wouldn't want to disappoint my father, would you?"
"I'll leave you lovers to it. Pleasure, Hande!" Engin retreats, laughing.
The second the door closes, Serkan spins me around. "I am not going."
"Oh, you are. If you want me to sign this ridiculous paper, you follow my lead. My father expects a fiancé. You're going to play the part."
"No."
"You aren't in a position to negotiate, Serkan Bolat," I cross my arms. "There is no groom without a bride. Take it or leave it."
"Fine, Hande Yildiz. Sign the damn paper." He slams the pen down. We are inches apart, the air between us crackling with a tension that feels dangerously like a fuse about to blow.
Serkan lets out a sharp, cold laugh. "One condition of my own: no more of your endless questions."
"I thought robots loved data," I retort, scrawling my signature across the page. Serkan gives a dry smirk.
"I'll drop you at uni and pick you up at 8 PM. In my car."
"We aren't taking your car."
"Excuse me?"
"We're taking my motorcycle. Obviously."
"No. Absolutely not. I am not risking my life on some ancient, two-wheeled deathtrap, madam."
"First of all, Serendip is a masterpiece. I restored her myself. She's got more soul than your entire fleet of BMWs."
"You named your motorcycle Serendip?"
"Yes. Now, I'll pick you up at the office at 7:30 PM. Don't be late, Robot."
I walk down the hall, my boots clicking defiantly against the marble.
"I did not agree to the motorcycle!" Serkan bellows after me.
"I wasn't asking, it's an order!" I yell back, not even looking over my shoulder. In the reception area, Deren is actually muffled-clapping.
"Good luck, Robot," I whisper to myself, stepping out into the Istanbul sun.