Unintentional error
2040 Words
Aya remained silent for twenty minutes.
Not because she was afraid.
But because she felt like she was stuck in a TV series.
Or worse.
Flames danced slowly in the center of the long table. Untouched plates of food steamed between the crystal glasses. The people at the table... didn't eat. Didn't laugh. Didn't speak.
Aya was hungry, but she wondered if there was poison in the food, so she didn't touch it.
They watched each other.
Lara sat directly across from her, her eyes straight ahead, her expression inscrutable. Her husband—the man who was supposed to be dead—slumped casually in his chair.
Aya couldn't stop staring at him.
There was something off about his calm, as if this was just an ordinary Tuesday.
He raised his wine glass.
"To old lovers..."
He looked at Lara.
Lara didn't reply. She sliced into her steak as if slicing into her memory.
The silence was broken when Jodi, sitting near the end of the table, slammed her fork down.
"You brought us here for this?" she said sharply. "Candlelight dinner and ghost stories?"
The room froze.
Aya looked up from her food and waited for someone to kill someone.
The man—Lara's husband—slowly turned to her.
"You're the reporter, aren't you?"
"A former reporter," Jodi spat. "Thank you."
He chuckled. "You still write things you shouldn't?"
"You still kill people who tell the truth?" she snapped back.
A sharp voice rang out from the side—Nour.
"Sit down, Jodi. This isn't the time."
"Do you think this will ever be the right time?" Judy snapped. "They took our lives. And we're just supposed to eat duck and say thank you?"
Aya blinked. Duck? She hadn't even noticed what was on her plate.
The man stood slowly, his weight heavy in the air.
He said, "You're here because each of you carries a piece of something that belongs to me. Whether you know it... or not."
Noor was handed a velvet envelope mid-dinner. She opened it and froze.
Aya approached Noor and saw the paper: a bank transfer form with her father's name on it.
"That account no longer exists," she whispered.
The man just smiled.
"No, Noor. You no longer exist. Unless you sign."
Shams suddenly dropped her fork. She looked pale, sweating. She stood and stepped back from the table, her hands shaking.
"I saw this room," she whispered. "In a dream. I was tied to this chair."
Aya stared.
"Did you dream?"
Shams looked at her.
"No. It wasn't a dream. It was a memory."
Sireen didn't speak the entire time. Until the man leaned forward and said,
"How is your sister, Siren?"
Aya saw it—the slight twitch of Siren's chin.
"Don't talk about her," Siren said through gritted teeth.
"You should have thanked me. If I hadn't taken you... you'd be in a body bag."
Sireen lunged across the table. Noor grabbed her.
Aya, still watching.
Aya sat frozen, her spoon still half-raised.
This wasn't dinner.
It was a chess game between people who hated each other but couldn't escape.
Secrets disguised in suits and blood between the lines of every sentence.
She kept staring from face to face—as if watching a perfectly scripted drama:
The grieving wife who wasn't grieving.
The dead husband who wasn't dead.
The heiress blackmailed for her father's sins.
The fighter mourning his sister.
The girl with shattered memories.
And then... Aya.
Just a tourist.
Or so she thought.
A door creaked open at the far end of the hall.
Everyone turned.
The air shifted.
A new presence entered the room — tall, smooth-shouldered, and dressed in a suit darker than midnight. He didn’t walk. He prowled.
Aya didn’t know him, but the moment she saw the flicker in Siren’s eyes — that split second where cold fury met unwanted memory — she understood.
This man was no stranger.
He was Siren’s husband.
And something far worse.
He was Serkan’s right hand.
“Forgive the delay,” he said casually, his voice deep and slow like velvet dipped in venom. “I came as soon as I heard my beloved was dining without me.”
Siren’s jaw tightened. Her spoon clinked gently against her untouched plate.
“You weren’t invited,” she said without turning her head.
“And yet,” he replied, walking with purpose until he stood directly behind her, “I always find my way back to you.”
He leaned in, lips grazing the shell of her ear.
“You miss me, don’t you, my flame?”
She stood — fast. The chair groaned back in protest.
“I miss the silence when you’re not here.”
He grinned. “Still sharp. I like that.”
He circled the table slowly, pausing only when he reached her side. He pulled the chair next to her and sat down, crossing one leg over the other like a guest in his own kingdom.
Aya couldn’t look away. The entire room held its breath.
“You never wore that color when we were together,” he said, eyeing the soft gray silk that draped across Siren’s shoulders.
“You never noticed,” Siren replied coldly.
“Oh, I noticed everything. Especially how you used to flinch whenever I said your name.”
He leaned in slightly, voice lower now, intimate and cruel.
“Siren. Still the most beautiful name I’ve ever cursed.”
Her eyes flicked to him, fire and defiance tangled in her gaze.
“You’re not worth the ink it would take to write your obituary.”
His laughter was low and genuine. “Oh, darling… if you ever do kill me, please do it with style. Poisoned ink sounds quite poetic.”
She turned fully to him now, her chin held high, her body trembling not with fear — but rage.
“I didn’t choose you.”
He nodded, thoughtful. “But you never left me either.”
A dangerous silence spread between them, electric and haunting.
Then — softer, almost human — he asked, “Do you still dream about the night we met?”
She didn’t answer.
She didn’t need to.
He reached out — a bold move — and touched the edge of her sleeve.
Siren didn’t slap him.
She didn’t scream.
But her voice, when it came, was sharper than any blade.
“You’re a chapter I’ve tried to burn out of my memory. Don’t crawl back through the ashes.”
He stared at her for a moment too long.
Then smiled.
“That’s the problem with fire, sweetheart. It always leaves smoke behind.”
He leaned back in his chair, content.
The room remained quiet.
Aya could feel her own heartbeat hammering.
Was this what love looked like, twisted and tainted through the lens of power and captivity?
Or was this war disguised as longing?
As she watched Siren — strong, unflinching, broken but never bowed — she wondered if this house had brought them here not to be victims...
But to be rewritten.
One shattered woman at a time.
The table had begun to thaw.
Not from heat—there was none—but from something quieter, more dangerous.
Memory.
Regret.
And love’s bitter echo.
Serkan shifted in his seat, brushing invisible lint from the lapel of his midnight suit. His eyes—still sharp, still ice—lingered on Lara across the table.
“A night like this,” he said softly, almost to himself, “reminds me of Vienna.”
Lara didn’t look up. Her knife moved steadily through her food. “I never liked Vienna.”
“That’s not what you said when I carried you across the Danube.”
She glanced up.
He smiled—a private one, meant only for her.
And for a moment, the air between them trembled. Fragile. Almost warm.
Even the chandelier above them seemed to dim, as if leaning in to listen.
Lara’s gaze faltered. She lowered her fork. “You destroyed everything,” she said, barely audible. “But you still remember the details.”
Serkan leaned forward, voice velvet-wrapped steel. “I remember everything about you, Lara. Even the way you hate me... is unforgettable.”
Silence stretched thin between them.
Sirin, seated a few chairs away, scoffed under her breath. “Melodrama suits you both.”
She didn’t expect a reply.
But then—
“Still as sharp as ever, my love,” came a low voice behind her.
Sirin stiffened.
Farid. her husband
He took the empty seat beside her without invitation, unbothered by the collective tension at the table. He smelled like leather, rain,.
His fingers brushed the edge of her wine glass—not hers, not his, just a shared space they both pretended wasn’t cursed.
“I missed you,” he murmured, loud enough for only her to hear.
“You missed controlling me,” she muttered.
“Same thing, isn’t it?” he teased.
She turned to glare at him, and he—unfazed—grinned like a thief watching the vault reopen. “I’m just here for the duck,” he added. “And maybe to remind you how gorgeous you look when you’re furious.”
“I’ll remind you how hard I punch.”
“I’d thank you for the bruise.”
Aya, watching from across the table, blinked. The tension had shifted—morphed into something she couldn’t quite place. Not hostility. Not affection. A strange, electric in-between.
It almost felt… romantic.
Twisted, yes. Broken, absolutely. But real.
Lara turned to Serkan. “This dinner is an insult.”
He smiled again. “And yet, you’re wearing the dress I chose.”
Her lips parted in protest—then closed.
Even Aya had to admit: the man had his weapons. And his wife was slowly lowering hers.
The moment was delicate.
Thin as thread.
Warmth began to sneak through the cracks of the ice that had kept the table cold.
Even Jodi, who’d spent the evening cutting words like blades, fell silent.
Aya didn’t mean to ruin it.
She really didn’t.
She just wanted to ask something.
And so she leaned forward slightly, looked at Serkan and blurted—
“So… is the duck poisoned or not?”She wanted to taste it.
The silence that followed was worse than shouting.
Farid blinked at her.
Sirin groaned.
Lara’s knife clinked loudly against her plate.
Serkan tilted his head, one brow lifting with glacial amusement. “What?”
Aya, shrinking slightly into her chair, cleared her throat. “I mean… you said we all carry pieces of you or whatever and… I just thought it’d be practical to ask. Before dessert.”
Someone at the end of the table choked—Jodi, maybe. Noor looked like she wanted to sink into the floor.
Shams whispered, “Oh my God.”
Lara stood up slowly. “This is ridiculous.”
Serkan gave a low laugh. “No, no. Let her speak. She’s entertaining.”
“Entertaining?” Aya frowned. “I just wanted to know if I should eat or prepare to write my will in mashed potatoes.”
Jodi coughed, “Please write that in potatoes. I need that on a T-shirt.”
Lara turned and left the table without another word.
Farid leaned back in his chair, watching Sirin watch Lara walk away. “Well,” he said, smirking, “there goes the romance.”
Sirin shoved her chair back and followed Lara.
Serkan remained seated, the ghost of a smile lingering on his lips. He looked at Aya again—more curious now than angry.
“You have a talent for disruption, little poet,” he said. “Use it wisely.”
Aya glanced down at her plate.
The duck was still steaming.
She took a bite.
“Well,” she said with a shrug. “If I die, at least I’ll go out fed.”
Jodi snorted. Noor whispered, “This is insane.”
And somewhere in the shadows of the palace,
something smiled.
Because even in a world built on secrets and blood—
Romance still dared to bloom,
And disaster had a new name:
Aya.
- Writer
