MARCUS’S STRANGE DISTANCE (Sydney’s POV)
1406 Words
If there’s one thing about December in Istanbul, it’s that the cold can’t decide whether it wants to kiss you or slap you. Tonight, as I step out of the cab in front of the Hamilton Empire State Hotel—the city’s glass-and-steel snow queen—it feels like both. A biting whisper brushes my neck while warm lights spill out of the towering entrance like a promise.
I hug my coat closer, the soft blue satin of my gown hidden underneath, and exhale the kind of shaky breath you only release when you want everything to go perfectly.
Tonight is supposed to be our night.
My night.
Marcus and me—seven years, and counting.
The thought puts a tiny smile on my lips, but it doesn’t fully settle. Something inside me twitches, a little off-beat thumping under my ribs, like a warning trying to form words.
Shake it off, Syd. Don’t start overthinking.
I tip the valet a thanks and walk up the illuminated steps, admiring the Winter Wonderland archway the hotel installs every December: white roses dipped in frost, twinkling icicle lights, and a soft artificial snowfall drifting down from hidden vents. Children would think it’s magic. Adults pretend they know better.
But I still believe in magic.
Maybe too much.
As I cross the threshold into the marble lobby, waves of warmth and holiday music greet me. A massive twelve-foot Christmas tree stands in the center, dressed in silver, sapphire, and snow-dusted branches. It’s breathtaking—Marcus oversaw the design with his team—but something ugly coils in my stomach at the thought of him right now.
Excited. That’s what I should feel.
Instead… something’s off.
My phone buzzes.
Marcus: On 17th floor. Prepping. Come up?
A quick text, no heart, no “love,” no little blue emoji he always uses.
Just… bland. Dry. Almost like texting a coworker.
I blink at the screen, then remind myself he’s stressed. This gala is the hotel’s biggest event of the year. He’s basically the backbone of the entire operation tonight.
Still.
It feels weird.
I take the elevator up, watching the floors tick by, my heart thumping a little too quickly for someone who’s supposed to be excited. The doors open to the gala prep hallway, where staff rush around like determined little elves with headsets and clipboards.
“Ms. Walters! Good evening!” one of the event assistants greets me with a bright smile.
“Hi, Maya.” I return the smile, though it feels a little stiff. “Is Marcus in the ballroom?”
“He’s in the VIP corridor,” she says, lowering her voice slightly. “Lot going on tonight.”
The way she says it…
Like she’s hiding something behind her professionalism.
No. Don’t start. Don’t go there.
I thank her and make my way down the hall. The tension hits me before I even push open the next door. There’s a charged energy—like static waiting to shock you.
I see Marcus leaning over a guest list table, scribbling notes with that familiar furrow in his brow. But something is wrong. His shoulders are tense, stiff in a way I’ve never seen before. Not stressed—cornered.
“Hey,” I say softly.
He jumps.
He actually jumps.
“S-Sydney.” He clears his throat, forcing a smile that tries way too hard. “You’re early.”
“Traffic was smooth.” I step closer. “You okay?”
“Yeah, yeah, just busy. You know how it is.” He waves his pen like a magician avoiding eye contact.
Busy? Yes.
But avoiding looking at me? Since when?
Marcus used to light up when he saw me. Now it feels like I’m a question he doesn’t want to answer.
I touch his arm gently. “You don’t seem like yourself.”
“I’m fine,” he insists, stepping slightly out of my reach.
The movement is so small, but it slices something fragile inside me.
Before I can say anything, a voice interrupts us—sharp, smooth, and coated in fake honey.
“Oh, Supervisor Thompson. There you are.”
Tyra Baynes steps forward, her heels clicking like she wants each step to be a headline.
Manager.
Marcus’s direct superior.
And the kind of woman who wears power like perfume.
She’s dressed in a blood-red satin gown with a slit up her thigh and a neckline that isn’t even pretending to be professional. Her lips curl into an icy smile when she sees me.
“Ms. Walters,” she says, voice polite but eyes glinting like she knows a secret and hopes it hurts me. “You look… festive.”
Festive.
The word lands like mild poison.
“Thank you,” I reply, trying to keep my voice steady. “You look… prepared.”
Marcus coughs, eyes darting between us like he wants to escape.
Or hide.
Or scream.
Tyra touches Marcus’s arm—too easily, too familiarly. “We still need to finalize the program alignment. And the wine pairing list.”
“I can help,” I offer.
But Marcus—my Marcus—shakes his head so fast it stings.
“No. No, you should get settled. Enjoy. I’ll join you soon.”
That twisting feeling in my gut deepens. “Are you sure? I don’t mind—”
“Yes, Syd.” The sharpness in his tone surprises both of us. He softens immediately, reaching for my hand but missing by an inch. “I just don’t want you stressed. Go on, okay?”
Tyra smirks like she’s watching a movie she already knows the ending of.
I give Marcus one last searching look.
He avoids my eyes.
Something in my chest caves in—and I hate that I feel it this early in the night.
“Okay,” I whisper. “I’ll be in the ballroom.”
I walk away before he can say anything else—before Tyra’s perfume suffocates me or my own doubt collapses my composure.
As I step back into the main hall, I hear staff whispering. Not loudly, but enough:
“Did you see how close they were?”
“Tyra’s always calling him for ‘private meetings.’”
“I heard they’ve been staying late together after closing—”
I stop breathing.
My heart stutters.
My throat dries.
No.
Marcus would never.
He’s loyal.
He loves me.
Seven years means something.
Doesn’t it?
I inhale slowly, pushing the whispers away like dust. People gossip out of boredom. Tyra flirts with furniture if she thinks it’ll be beneficial. Marcus is stressed—it’s the gala. He’s not himself tonight. That’s all.
I keep walking, forcing each step to be steady, confident, bright. Because that’s who I am. That’s who I’ve always been.
Sydney Walters doesn’t crumble over whispers.
But there’s a crack forming somewhere deep, and I’m terrified of how fast it’s spreading.
The ballroom doors open, revealing a breathtaking winter palace. Frosted branches drape from crystal chandeliers. The floor sparkles under thousands of tiny lights. A snowflake-shaped stage stands at the far end, ready for speakers and musicians. Christmas music floats through the air—soft, enchanting, innocent.
Innocent.
A word I suddenly don’t feel anymore.
I move to the window, ignoring the glamour around me, and press my palms against the cool glass. Istanbul stretches below, glowing with holiday warmth. Cars pass like fireflies. People laugh on the sidewalks. The world feels big and loud and oblivious to the storm brewing inside my chest.
“Everything okay, Ms. Walters?”
It’s one of the junior staff.
I smile at her. A practiced smile. A polite smile. A smile that feels like holding a broken ornament together so no one sees the crack.
“Just taking it all in,” I murmur.
She nods, unaware of the silent ache in my throat, and walks off.
I stand there longer than I should, hugging myself, trying to shake the cold feeling that Marcus’s distance planted in my chest.
He loves me.
He chose me.
Seven years of memories don’t just vanish like smoke.
Right?
A small, ugly whisper inside me asks:
Then why did he look like he didn’t want to be alone with you?
I close my eyes.
No. Stop. Not tonight.
Don’t ruin this. Don’t spiral.
Trust him.
Even if your heart is trembling like it knows something you don’t.
- Writer
