Smoke and silence
1011 Words
Chapter 11: Smoke and Silence
Zoya woke to a pale light creeping across the ceiling. The ocean breeze danced through the slightly open window, fluttering the sheer curtains. The room was calm — too calm.
But something lingered in the air. A feeling.
She sat up in bed, brushing her long hair over her shoulder. Her eyes darted toward the far wall. Her ears strained for it again — that sound — the same whisper that haunted her before. But today, there was only silence.
Still, something felt wrong. Off. As if something beneath these luxurious walls called to her.
Zoya stood and padded across the wooden floor barefoot, still in her nightdress. She stopped at the edge of the bed and murmured to herself:
"That room… That voice… There’s something down there. I know it. That’s the truth I need."
She changed into a soft, fitted top and jeans. Her hair fell in soft waves over her shoulders. She walked with determination — not like a guest, but like someone chasing shadows.
---
Downstairs, she crept past the corridor, past the quiet kitchen, and made her way to the door — the same thick wooden door she saw earlier. She reached for the handle again.
Still locked.
But this time…
A hand grabbed her wrist.
She gasped.
Burak Aslan.
His grip was tight, his eyes bloodshot and furious.
"Why are you making things more complicated for me, Zoya?" he growled, dragging her away from the door.
Zoya’s chest heaved. She yanked her hand free.
"I just want to know the truth!" she snapped. "I know something’s down there. I heard someone. I know you’re hiding something."
His jaw clenched, teeth grinding.
"You want the truth? Truth is dangerous. Truth kills."
"Then kill me," she whispered.
Burak exhaled sharply, stepped back. He stared at her, then turned and stormed away, his black jacket flaring like wings behind him.
---
The afternoon passed in cold silence.
Zoya changed into a flowy black dress with delicate floral embroidery. She pulled her hair into a high ponytail, soft makeup highlighting her innocent yet determined face.
Down in the kitchen, she was met with quiet stares. The atmosphere was different today — more tense.
She spotted Cemil Aslan, casually leaning against the marble counter, speaking to a maid.
Zoya approached the caretaker. "Where’s Burak? I want to go out. I need… some air."
The caretaker hesitated. "He is… away on business."
Before she could ask further, Cemil’s voice cut in smoothly.
"I’ll take you."
Zoya turned to him. His gaze was unreadable, but his offer was calm, even generous. She knew she shouldn’t trust him — but she needed a break.
She nodded slowly. “Okay.”
---
Outside, the city breathed. Cemil took her in a black luxury car to the coastline of Bebek, where old Istanbul blended with modern cafes. Zoya walked quietly along the waterside promenade, stealing glances at passing faces, lost in the idea of normalcy.
Cemil bought her tea from a street vendor, leaning on the rail beside her as seagulls circled overhead.
“You always look like you’re trying to run away,” he said.
“Maybe I am.”
He smirked. “Where would you go?”
Zoya didn’t answer.
Cemil leaned closer. “You’re not like the women here. There’s fire in your eyes. Even when you’re scared.”
Zoya stepped away slightly, sipping her tea. His words made her skin crawl, but she didn’t want to provoke him.
What she didn’t know was that, back in the mansion, Leyla Aslan stood by the window in a silk black robe, watching from the surveillance camera feed. Her wine glass trembled in her hand.
---
By midnight, the mansion was drenched in silence again.
At 12:15 AM, Burak Aslan returned.
His black coat was wet from light drizzle, his eyes darker than usual. He stepped inside, immediately greeted by Leyla standing in the hallway.
She was dressed in a black, body-hugging gown, revealing enough to stir desire in most men — but Burak was not most men.
“She’s not here,” Leyla said with venom in her voice.
Burak raised an eyebrow. “Who?”
“Zoya. She left with Cemil. At noon. And hasn’t returned."
Burak’s nostrils flared. His voice dropped low. “Where did they go?”
Leyla smiled like a cat. “City. Bebek. Walk. Tea. Laughs. Your princess is enjoying her freedom."
He turned sharply. His voice roared through the mansion.
"GUARDS!"
The walls shook. Guards came running.
“Where the hell were you?!” he barked. “She left with Cemil?”
Everyone stood frozen.
Burak stormed to the security room. Footage played. Zoya. The car. The laugh. Cemil.
A storm brewed in Burak Aslan’s chest.
---
1:05 AM.
Zoya entered the hallway, laughing softly, the night breeze tangled in her hair.
She didn’t expect to find Burak Aslan sitting in her room. Lights dim. Cigarette lit. Smoke spiraling in the dark.
His eyes locked on her. Red. Cold. Waiting.
She froze.
"Burak…?"
He stood slowly. Walked toward her. No words.
She stepped back.
He grabbed her wrist.
Tightly.
“Don’t make me do something I’ll regret,” he whispered in Turkish. “Don’t push me.”
Zoya’s chest rose sharply. “Let go of me.”
He didn’t. Instead, he leaned in. His other hand gripped her waist.
“I told you not to make things difficult. And what do you do? You disappear with him?”
She struggled. “I just needed air! You weren’t here!”
His grip tightened.
“You’re mine now.”
He moved in to kiss her — rough, unwanted.
Zoya’s hand shot up.
SLAP.
The sound echoed like thunder.
Silence.
Burak stepped back.
His cheek burned red. His eyes didn’t blink.
Zoya’s voice was ice. “I am not your property.”
He stared at her. A long, painful silence.
Then… he turned.
He walked to the chair.
Sat.
Lit another cigarette.
The smoke curled like the tension between them.
Neither spoke again that night.
- Writer
