༒ 𝑺𝒆𝒍𝒆𝒏𝒂 ༒
"Miss Demir, this way," One of our security men says, pointing to the side where my father disappeared into the crowd.
I break the eye contact with the man and start walking, but the feeling doesn't go away. It feels like a cold spot on my skin. I can feel him still staring at me as I walk. I've never met him, so why does it feel like I've seen him a thousand times before? It's frustrating and scary. My heart is beating too fast. I just want to get inside and be near my dad. There he is.
I catch up to my dad just as he stops and nods toward a man across the room.
"Look there." He says like whisper. "That is Mustafa Yilmaz. With his father gone, he is the head of the Yilmaz family now. Remember his face."
I look. The man is tall and broad-shouldered. His grey hair swept back from his forehead. He looks strong, like he's in good shape, but his face is lined with tiredness and real sadness. He is nodding slowly at something an old woman is saying, his hands clasped respectfully in front of him.
Then, he turns his head. His eyes land right on my dad. The polite sadness on his face hardens into something watchful. He says a final word to the woman, then excuses himself and walks straight toward us.
"Kadir." His voice is deep, with no warmth in it. "You are here. Good. It is... reassuring to see that the important rules are still remembered."
My father gives a nod. It's not a friendly gesture. "Mustafa. You should remember - I am always known for remembering the rules. You have my condolences for your father's death. I hope he rests easily now."
Mustafa's eyes flick over to me. They look me up and down in a quick, assessing way before returning to my father. "Rest," he repeats, "Yes. Thank you. He was old. Was suffering. Perhaps it is a mercy." He pauses, and his gaze comes back to me, slower this time. "And this must be your daughter."
"Yes," my father says. His hand presses lightly against my back. "This is Selena."
"I see," Mustafa says. "She looks like her mother." He turns his attention fully back to my father. "You will not leave without taking tea. It would be a deep insult to refuse. An insult to my father's memory, and to the traditions we both still pretend to respect."
Saying no would be a direct challenge. It would break the fragile peace between our families.
After a moment, my father speaks. "Of course. We will take tea with you, Mustafa. Out of respect."
"Good," Mustafa says. He looks at me directly again. For the third time. His brown eyes are nothing like the blue ones from the window, but they hold the same intense, "Welcome to my home, Selena Demir. I hope you find it... instructive."
Hold on. Did he just taunt me? 'Instructive' feels like a little jab. I look at my father, my eyebrows lifting just a bit. I don't know the right way to talk back to a man his age, especially here. Saying the wrong thing could start real trouble. But the heat in my chest is stronger than the fear. If this man weren't so much older, I wouldn't just stand here quietly.
Before anything else can happen, Mustafa Yilmaz turns his head. He looks past my shoulder. "Zayn. Come. There are people you must greet."
Curiosity gets the better of me. I follow his gaze, turning to see who he's calling.
And there he is. Again.
The man with Blue eyes. He is walking down the wide curved staircase. His black suit jacket is hooked over one finger and draped over his shoulder. And his eyes - are already fixed on ME. It's not a glance. It's a unblinking stare that feels like a physical touch. I almost roll my eyes. Is this how my day is going to go? Am I going to see this man in every corner today?
This man does not give good vibes at all. Not at all. He has a good looking face. Very sharp, very strong. I can see that. But most of the good-looking men I have met in this city are like fancy polished trash on the inside. I have a strong feeling he will fall into the same category.
I hold his stare for a defiant two seconds before I sharply turn back around. I lift my chin. I won't let him see me flinch.
Mustafa gestures with his hand, "This is Zayn," he says to my father, "My eldest son."
So, his name is Zayn. The eldest son. I wonder how many sons or daughters Mustafa has. My ignorance about my enemies feels like a weakness now. I make a mental note to find out.
My father studies Zayn as he approaches, "The last time our paths crossed, you were just a boy of ten. You've become a man. A lot of years have passed since then."
Zayn stands almost shoulder-to-shoulder with Mustafa, placing himself directly in front of me. Now I can see the clear similarities between father and son. They stand the same way - shoulders back, chin high. Zayn looks like a younger and taller version of his father.
I am tall for a woman, especially in my heels, but Zayn towers over me. He must be over six feet tall. For a long moment, his blue eyes are not on me. They are fixed on my father. In that look, I see the entire history of our families-the seventy-year cold war, the silent hatred. The difference between a Yilmaz and a Demir has never felt so real. We are like oil and water in the same glass.
"Time has a way of moving forward," Zayn extends his right hand toward my father for handshake. In any other situation, my father would never, ever shake hands with a Yilmaz. It would be a betrayal of our family's pride. But this is a funeral. The ancient rules of respect and tradition demand it. I see the brief conflict in my father's eyes before he accepts.
Then, Zayn turns. His hand is still extended, but now it is aimed at me.
Am I supposed to shake his hand too? Every instinct tells me to pull back. But I am not a coward. I am Selena Demir. I will not show weakness in the lion's den.
I lift my own hand and place it in his. His fingers close around mine immediately. The first thing I notice is that his hand is cold. Not freezing, but cool, like he's been holding a glass of ice water. And my next thought is: Oh.... His hand is huge.
He gives my hand a solid squeeze. The polite, "hello" part of the handshake. I brace myself for him to let go.
He doesn't.
He holds on.
One second passes. Then two. My polite smile starts to feel stiff on my face. Okay, that's long enough. You can let go now.
Three seconds. He's still holding my hand. My eyes dart from our joined hands up to his face. He's not looking at me anymore; he's looking down at our hands, studying them like they're a puzzle.
What the hell? My inner voice is now officially panicking. Is he trying to make me uncomfortable? Because it's working! I feel a hot flush creep up my neck. This isn't a handshake anymore; it's a hostage situation.
Four seconds. I'm acutely aware of every point of contact. The pressure of his thumb against my knuckles. The coolness of his skin is somehow seeping into mine. This is the most awkward, intense, and weirdly personal five seconds of my entire life.
My father whispers in my ear, "He is waiting for an introduction. Do it now."
Thank God. A way out. "I am Selena," I say, holding his gaze. "Selena Demir."
"Zayn," he says, just one word. And then, finally, he releases my hand.
The sudden freedom is a shock. My hand feels strangely tingling. I have to resist the urge to flex my fingers or wipe my palm on my coat. Get a grip, Selena. It was just a handshake.
Thankfully, I don't have to stand there awkwardly for long. The burial itself happens quickly after. After it is over, everyone walks back to the main hall for tea. People are sitting on chairs in small groups, talking in low voices. Servants move quietly through the crowd, carrying silver trays with small cups of Turkish tea.
My dad finds an old man to talk to. They sit in two chairs by the fireplace. People always say men don't like to gossip. That is a total lie. Just look at my father. He met this old man only one hour ago. Now they are talking like they have known each other for years.
And I am bored. So, so bored. I am just standing here near a big potted plant, holding my full cup of tea. I don't even like this kind of tea. Why did I have to come?
Without wanting to, my mind goes back to him. To Zayn. After that tight handshake, I only saw him one more time during the burial. Since then, he has disappeared. I have not seen him in this hall at all. But the question in my head will not go away. Why did his eyes match the ones from my dreams perfectly? It makes no sense. It has to be a coincidence. Maybe I saw a photo of him anywhere. And my mind remembered his eyes without me knowing.
I give my head a little shake. This is stupid. I am standing in my enemy's house, getting scared over a man's eye color because I'm bored.
Still, I can't stop my eyes from moving around the room. Just to see if he's looking back.
─────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───────
༒ 𝒁𝒂𝒚𝒏 ༒
This is it. Finally.
What I wanted. What I planned for. She is here. Selena Demir is standing in my home.
I watch her from the kitchen doorway. She can't see me, but I can see every part of her.
She stands near the large window, next to a green plant. She looks like a painting. A sad beautiful painting in a frame of black silk. She holds a tea cup but doesn't drink. She just stares out the window, looking lost in her own thoughts.
I look down at my right hand. I turn it over, studying my palm. This is the hand that held hers. For five perfect seconds, her skin was against mine. She felt my warmth. It was the first time I ever touched her while she was awake. While her heart was beating, and her mind was aware.
Soon, Selena, you will feel so much more than just my hand. You will feel my eyes on you and you will know it is me. You will feel my touch in the dark, and you will know my name. You will belong to me in every way.
A heavy hand lands on my shoulder, breaking the spell. My father steps into my view, his body blocking hers.
"Whatever you are doing, standing here in the dark, it will not take you anywhere good."
I don't look at him. My eyes find Selena again over his shoulder. "What are you talking about."
He moves, forcing me to look at him. He glances at a servant passing by, then steps closer, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper, "I am your father. I know the look in a man's eyes. I saw it today when you took her hand. I see it now. You are watching the Demir girl like she is water and you are dying of thirst. Stop it. She is the enemy's daughter. She is poison for our family. Do you want to be the one who destroys everything? Do you want to be like our ancestor - the monster who started this war because he could not control his desire?"
"Do not," he continues, his finger pointing subtly toward the hall, "repeat the sin of seventy years ago. Do not let your obsession shame this family again. Do not think you are smarter than history. That is not advice, Zayn. That is a warning."
He gives me one last, furious look full of disappointment, then he turns and walks away.
I am left standing alone in the kitchen's darkness. How dare he? How dare he compare what I feel to that ancient ugly violence?
What I feel for Selena is pure. It is worship. It is destiny. She is not poison; she is my medicine. The only thing that makes this cold and heavy life feel light.
He thinks his warning will stop me? It only makes me want her more. It makes the obsession sharper. My father can issue all the warnings he wants. He is afraid of history repeating.
But he's wrong.
I am not going to repeat history.
I am going to rewrite it. With her.
I turn and look at the servants. My eyes find the one I need. Bisma Aunty. She is arranging cups on a tray. My most trusted servant. She has worked for our family since before I was born.
I walk over to her. The other servants are busy, not paying attention to us. I lean close so only she can hear, "The tea. Remember, it must be completely cold. Not warm. Cold. I do not want her perfect skin to feel even a hint of heat. Do you understand?"
She gives a nod. "Cold. Yes, Son. It is already prepared that way."
"Good."
I leave the kitchen and find Zoya, my sister coming from the direction of the guest rooms. She is carrying a large tray piled high with delicate snacks - tiny baklava and cheese rolls. She is trying to look serious for the funeral, but her young, lively face always looks like she's about to giggle.
"Zoya," I say, stepping in front of her.
"Brother!" she gasps, jumping a little. The large tray in her hands wobbles dangerously. A few of the delicate cheese rolls slide to the edge. "You scared me! What is it? I have to take these to the guests in the blue room."
"Forget the snacks for a moment. Look," I nod my head toward the main hall. "See the woman by the big window? In the black coat, near the tall plant."
Zoya cranes her neck. Her eyebrows shoot up. "Oh! That's... that's the Demir girl, isn't it? Selena?"
"Now listen to me very carefully. In less than a minute, there is going to be an accident. Bisma Aunty will spill tea on her."
Zoya's mouth forms a perfect 'O' of shock, "What!!! Why???? That's so mean! And on a funeral day?!"
"It's not to hurt her," I say quickly, "The tea is cold. But it will make a big mess. Her father will be very angry. He will want to leave right away."
Zoya looks confused. "Then... then they'll leave. So what?"
"Before they can leave. You need to step in. You need to take Selena upstairs to wash and change. Take her to my room."
"YOUR room?" Zoya's eyes nearly pop out of her head. "Brother, have you lost your mind? She's a Demir! And a guest! Why your room?"
"Because I need her to be there." My voice drops even lower, She has a little thing about cleanliness - OCD. The mess will make her skin crawl. She'll want to wash up right away."
I watch Zoya's face, making sure she's following. "In my closet, on the left, there's a dress. Yellow one. Brand new. You'll give it to her. And the most important thing is this: do not let Selena see you take it from my closet. Do you understand? She cannot know it comes from me. It has to come from you."
Zoya stares at me like I've just told her the sky is green. "You... you bought a dress? For her? A dress is just... waiting in your closet? What on earth is going on? I need a proper explanation."
I need her to say yes. She's seventeen. Her mind doesn't work on loyalty or family duty. It works on wants, "Will tell you everything later. But right now, I need a partner. Someone clever. And my partners... they get rewarded. I know you've been begging Father for those Taylor Swift concert tickets in London for months. He said no. I can make it a yes. First - class flight, front-row tickets, backstage passes. But only if you help me right now. Be my partner in this and the world is yours. Just do exactly as I say."
"Really?" she breathes out, "You promise? Swear on Grandfather's grave?"
"I swear."
CRASH!
It's the sound of a silver tray hitting marble, and a dozen glass teacups shattering all at once. The noise is so violent that every conversation in the room dies instantly.
My head snaps up. I take a few quick steps toward the main hall to see.
Chaos.
People jump back. Everyone turns to look. In the center of it all stands Selena.
She is frozen, completely shocked. Her hands are held out in front of her, as if she doesn't know what to do. The front of her beautiful black coat and dress is soaked with a wet stain. The cold tea drips from the fabric onto the floor, mixing with the puddle of spilled tea and glittering shards of broken glass. Pieces of glass are scattered near her feet, catching the light.
Bisma Aunty is already bowing, "Forgive me, miss! Oh, please forgive me! I am so clumsy! My foot slipped! I am so sorry!" Her voice is loud with fake regret.
I feel a push at my arm. Zoya shoves her heavy snack tray into my hands. "I'm going!" she whispers and then she is gone, darting into the crowd toward Selena.
My eyes go back to the scene. Kadir Demir shoves through the crowd and reaches Selena and grabs her hand, pulling her sharply back from the glittering circle of broken glass.
"Get back from the glass! Are you hurt? Did any cut you? Are you hurt? Tell me!"
"Dad, please, I'm fine." Selena looks down at the huge dark stain spreading across the front of her dress and coat. Her nose wrinkles just a little. I can see it on her face - she feels wet, dirty, nasty.
She forces a polite look toward Bisma. "It's... it was an accident. No harm done."
But Kadir is not listening. His head snaps up, searching for the host. He finds him. "Mustafa! What is this? Is this your family's hospitality? First you drag us here with your old rules, and then your servants attack my daughter?"
My father is striding over, "Kadir. Control your voice. Do not make a mess that is bigger than the one on the floor."
He looks at Selena, "I am sorry you had to experience this. My servant's mistake. There was no plan to hurt a young girl under my roof."
Then he turns his head to Zoya.
"Take Selena upstairs. Find her something clean and dry to wear. Do not let her be uncomfortable."
"NO!" Kadir pulls Selena tighter against his side. "She is not going anywhere in this house! How do I know this was an accident? After all, everyone in this city knows what Yilmaz men are famous for - destroying the lives of women!"
These words are like a match thrown into my mind. My hand, which is holding the snack tray, tightens. The fine china digs into my palm, threatening to crack. I want to walk over and smash it over his head. How dare he? How dare he stand in my house and say that?
My father's voice drops into a low tone that makes even the bravest men quiet.
"Do not cross a line. You are a guest here under the banner of respect. Do not spit on that banner with your wild accusations. I would never allow harm to come to a guest. Now, your daughter is shivering and stained. Let Zoya help her. Or would you rather drive her home looking like a victim for all of Istanbul to see?"
Kadir Demir looks at Selena's soaked clothes, at the staring crowd and I see the conflict rage in his eyes. He is trapped by his own pride.
He has to let her go.
"Go and change. Quickly. But keep your phone in your hand. Call me the second you feel anything... odd. Anything at all. We are leaving the moment you come back down."
As Zoya leads Selena toward the staircase, I move. I quickly step back, melting into the shadow of a tall pillar near the stairs. I am hidden from the crowd in the hall.
Zoya leads her up. I wait, then follow.
The hunt is instinctive. Maintaining a careful distance, footsteps silent on the thick carpet. Close enough to hear the whisper of her wet clothes, far enough to remain unseen if she turns. She is walking through my house, completely unaware I am right behind her, WATCHING HER.
Stalking her here, in my own home, feels even more powerful. I don't know how far I will go for her. But watching her walk toward my room, I know whatever I do, it will never feel like enough. I will always need more of her.