Chapter 1: The Witch in My Life
Everyone has a witch in their life. Mine was… my mother.
Not the evil, poison-apple kind — no, she was the good witch. The kind who meddles, nags, and plans everything “for my own good.”
My name is Luna, I’m 24 years old, a graduate of the Architecture Department at Mimar Sinan University. If you ask my mother, she’ll proudly describe me as “my moon-skinned, black-haired, cherry-lipped princess.”
My brother? He calls me the “crooked princess” — because honestly, nothing I do ever goes smoothly. I’m clumsy, unlucky, and chaos follows me like a shadow.
Everything started after my brother got married.
Suddenly, my mother turned to me and said,
“It’s your turn now, dear.”
Me? All I wanted was to go abroad, work, see the world. Marriage wasn’t even on my list.
“You can go abroad with your husband, darling,” she’d reply sweetly.
But the real pressure came from my father. This year, he was diagnosed with cancer. My mother’s obsession with marriage wasn’t just about tradition — it was about giving my father one last joy: to see his daughter leave the house in a white veil, smiling.
Even the thought of it brought tears to my eyes.
I didn’t want to do it. But eventually, I sighed and said,
“Okay… at least let me meet them. If I don’t like them, nothing has to happen, right?”
Wrong!
My mother had already lined up seven men.
Yes, you heard that right. Seven.
I’d never even had a boyfriend, and somehow, she had gathered a doctor, an architect, an engineer, a CEO, a lawyer, a flashy contractor, and — oh yes — a powerful tribal heir.
“Mom, where did you even find these guys? I haven’t had this many friends in my whole life!”
She grinned,
“When you’re this beautiful, they all line up, honey! I just told the neighbors you’re open to meeting suitors — and ta-da, here they are!”
She even laid out full-body photos of them in front of me.
This wasn’t a marriage meeting…
It was the Champions League.
Just then, the doorbell rang.
My mother rushed to the door, excitement in her eyes.
As I got up and walked toward the living room…
I noticed something strange.
Among the seven photos on the table, there was an eighth photo.
One my mother hadn’t placed there.
I shivered slightly.
I picked it up — I didn’t recognize this man, he wasn’t one of the suitors my mother had shown me.
And at the bottom, written in old, elegant handwriting, was just one word:
“Eliminated.”
I smiled softly to myself.
Maybe… just maybe, I wasn’t really looking for any of them.
Maybe, I wasn’t looking for anyone at all.
