The next days passed in a blur of preparations. Hatice Sultan supervised every step of the process. Valide, though more distant, had already made sure that everything was arranged. There would be no mistakes. No delays.

Finally, Wednesday arrived.

Hatice stood by the window of her chambers, watching sunset over the city. There was something distant in her gaze as she turned to Aysun, her delicate fingers adorned with rings that caught the dying light.

"It is time" she said.

Aysun lowered her eyes. She knew what that meant.
Tonight, she would stand before the Sultan.

"Everything will go as we planned," Hatice continued, her voice measured. "You have been trained well, you are beautiful, and what's more important, you are new— untouched by the games of the harem. You will charm him."

Aysun's breath was steady, though her heart pounded.

Hatice stepped closer, tilting Aysun's chin up with a gentle but firm touch. "This is not just about power. This is about justice. Hürrem has taken everything—my brother's love, my mother's favor, even my place in this palace." A shadow passed over her face, an old wound reopening. "She must be stopped before she takes more."

Aysun understood what they expected from her. She was to be a weapon, placed in the Sultan's path to take his eyes off Hürrem.

"I will do as you command, Sultanım," she said, her voice steady.

Hatice's lips curved into a small, satisfied smile. "Good."

She turned away, signaling to the waiting attendants.

"Prepare her."

____________________________

The bath was different this time. Not the routine cleansing of a servant but the careful preparation of a woman meant to be seen. Her skin was perfumed with amber and jasmine, her hair oiled until it gleamed like silk. Then dressed in a gown finer than any she had ever worn, adorned with delicate gold jewelry that shimmered against her skin. Yet, beneath the silks and perfume, her heart beat with quiet trepidation.

Three years ago, she had been a trembling girl dragged from a ship, stripped of her name and past.

And now, she was to be sent into the lion's den.

As she followed the guards through the dimly lit halls of the harem, every step felt heavier than the last. Whispers trailed behind her—jealous murmurs from concubines who had spent years waiting for the same opportunity that had been handed to her overnight. Some of them hated her already, but Aysun barely noticed.

The doors of Sultan's chamber loomed before her, protected by two guards. Aysun swallowed, there was no turning back now.

A guard stepped forward, bowing slightly. "His Majesty awaits you."

With a slow, measured breath, she took her final step forward and walked inside.

The doors shut behind her, sealing her in the grand chamber. A golden canopy draped over the enormous bed, and silk cushions lay scattered across the floor. Incense curled in the air like a lingering caress.

Then she saw him.

Sultan Suleiman.

She lowered her gaze, kneeling before him as custom demanded, but before she could kiss his robe, he reached out, gently lifting her chin.

Aysun's breath caught in her throat. The warmth of his fingers sent shivers down her spine. She had never been one to dream of seducing a ruler. But standing here, under his gaze, she felt something she couldn't name.

"You don't have to bow before me tonight." His voice was low, intimate.

He pulled her to stand up and as their eyes met he asked. "What's your name?"

"Aysun" she answered, looking deeply into his eyes.

His hands were careful, almost reverent as he brushed a strand of hair from her cheek.

"Are you afraid?" he asked, his breath warm against her skin.

Aysun swallowed, feeling the rapid beat of her own heart. "No," she whispered.

"You are beautiful," he murmured "I shouldn't keep you waiting."

"You are the Padishah," she whispered. "You don't need to explain yourself."

A small smile touched his lips. "And yet, I want to."

Aysun's heart raced as he guided her toward the bed. The weight of his presence, the way his hand lingered on her wrist—it was overwhelming.

His lips met hers in a slow, deep kiss, one that spoke more than words ever could. It was not hurried, not desperate—it was deliberate.

He shifted, rolling her beneath him, his weight pressing her into the soft cushions. The silk of her dress pooled at her hips, his hands sliding over her bare skin, exploring every curve with aching patience.

"Aysun," he murmured, his lips trailing down the column of her throat. "I want to know every inch of you."

Her breath hitched as his fingers traced lazy circles along her thigh, his touch sending fire through her veins.

"You already do," she whispered, her hands sliding over his shoulders, pulling him closer. "You've owned me from the moment you said my name."

Suleiman pulled back slightly, looking down at her, something fierce and almost possessive burning in his gaze.

"Then let me say it again."

The rest of the night was a blur.

____________________________

The first light of dawn crept through the arched windows, casting soft golden hues across the chamber. Aysun stirred as she remembered the night before. For a moment, she remained still, her eyes half-closed, simply listening to the slow, steady breathing of the man beside her.

The Sultan.

But here, in the intimacy of his bed, in the quiet moments before duty called him away—he was just Suleiman.

Aysun smiled faintly, allowing her fingers to trace over the scars on his arm—faint remnants of battles fought long before she had ever stepped foot in the palace. She had never imagined she would be here, in his arms, in his bed, and yet... she belonged nowhere else.

As if sensing her gaze, Suleiman stirred his grip on her tightening slightly. Without opening his eyes, he murmured, "Do not move."

Aysun chuckled softly. "Is that an order, Hunkarım?"

One of his eyes cracked open, amusement dancing in the dark depths. "It's a request." His hand slid up her back, warm against her skin. "Stay a little longer."

She exhaled slowly, allowing herself to relax against him, letting the world outside the chamber fade away.

"Just a little," she whispered.

But they both knew neither of them wanted to leave.

They spent the day sharing fruits on the terrace while talking for hours.

Suleiman studied her carefully, fingers lazily tracing the rim of his golden goblet. "You do not speak as other women in the harem do."

Aysun tilted her head, her dark curls shifting against her bare shoulders. "And how do they speak?"

He smirked slightly, amused by her boldness. "With caution, flattery, rarely with meaning."

Aysun let her fingers glide over the silk of her gown, choosing her next words carefully. "Perhaps they fear that if they show too much intelligence, they will be seen as a threat rather than an adornment."

His smirk faded, replaced by something more thoughtful. "And you do not fear this?"

Aysun met his gaze, steady and unafraid. "Should a man not desire a woman who is both beautiful and intelligent? Or does a brilliant mind in a woman unsettle even the greatest ruler?"

Suleiman leaned forward slightly, resting his elbow on the low table between them. His eyes darkened, intrigued. "Tell me, then, what else do you know that should unsettle me?"

Aysun smiled, reaching for a pomegranate and breaking it open carefully. "I know that your empire stands at a crossroads," she began, her voice smooth yet measured. "You have conquered Belgrade and Rhodes, but the road to Vienna remains uncertain. The Austrians strengthen their defenses, and their alliance with the Holy Roman Empire poses a challenge. Even your greatest viziers are divided on whether to press forward or consolidate your rule over Hungary first."

Suleiman's fingers tightened around his goblet. It was rare for any concubine—any woman at all—to speak so openly about politics in his presence. He should have been offended or at the very least amused.

And yet, he was neither. He was intrigued.
"And how do you know politics so well?"

Aysun took a delicate bite of the fruit, letting the taste linger on her tongue before responding. "Let's say that when you're a daughter of a diplomat it's not a distant topic and I just listen to what people in the palace say." She placed the half-eaten pomegranate down. "War is not just fought on the battlefield. It is fought in words, diplomacy and alliances. Even here, within these walls, battles are won and lost every day."

Suleiman chuckled, shaking his head slightly. "You speak as if you were born to rule."

Aysun arched a brow. "And yet, I am only a woman in your harem."

His smile faded, replaced by something unreadable. "For now."

The conversation drifted as the night deepened. The heavy topics of war and empire softened into something more intimate, more revealing.

Suleiman ran his fingers over the edge of a parchment lying beside him. "Do you like poetry, Aysun?"

She smiled. "I love. I used to read it all day, mainly in French and Italian, but now I don't have much time."

He raised a brow. "A woman of many tongues."

Aysun picked up the goblet of wine and swirled it lightly before taking a sip. "And yet words are the same in every language. They are merely shadows of what we truly wish to say."

Suleiman leaned back, intrigued by her answer. "Then tell me, if words are but shadows, how should a poet express what cannot be spoken?"

Aysun set the goblet down gently. "Through metaphors and sometimes through silence."

A pause stretched between them. A silence so full and heavy, that it became a poem itself.

Suleiman exhaled softly. "You understand poetry in a way few do." He picked up the parchment and unfolded it. "This is one of my own."

Aysun blinked in surprise. "You write?"

His lips quirked in amusement. "Does that surprise you?"

"No," she admitted. "but I wonder... does the Sultan write as a ruler or as a man?"

He held her gaze for a long moment before responding.

"Tonight, I am only a man."

Aysun reached for the parchment, her fingertips grazing his hand as she took it from him. She scanned the lines, her lips moving silently as she read his words. It was a love poem—one filled with longing, with fire and devotion.

She lifted her gaze to his, her heart pounding in her chest.

"Then let me answer you as a woman, not as a concubine."

And she began to recite—not his poem, but one of her own.

Suleiman listened, spellbound. This was no ordinary woman.

This was Aysun.

His Aysun.