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1548 Words
When Agha Ashir roared, "Everyone out! Now!" no one dared to hesitate. The room cleared in a heartbeat. He marched toward our table, gripped my arm, and hauled me to my feet. His voice was a jagged blade of fury.
"Didn’t I tell you, boy?" he growled. "I told you if you left, I’d burn you and that place to the ground."
Fire met fire. I glared back, my voice dripping with defiance. "And didn't I tell you to stay out of my business?"
Ashir’s grip tightened, his fingers bruising my skin. "Listen to me, girl. I will get into your business so deep your head will spin."
Before I could snap back, Bedirhan’s voice cut through the tension from behind us. "Let go of her arm!"
Ashir shifted his lethal gaze to Bedirhan. "Watch yourself, Bedirhan. I swear on my life, I don’t care about tribal ties—I’ll bury you right here."
I’d had enough of the posturing. Before Bedirhan could escalate the situation, I silenced him with a look, grabbed Ashir by the arm, and hauled him outside.
He yanked his arm back the moment we cleared the doors. "What’s this? Now you’re protecting him?"
"Ashir, get lost," I snapped, turning my back on him. "I don’t have the energy for you."
I tried to walk away, but he caught my arm again. "Where do you think you’re going?"
"None of your business! Let go!" I wrenched myself free.
Of course, Ashir didn’t listen. He never did. "Don’t test my patience, girl," he warned, his voice low and dangerous.
I took a deep breath, trying to de-escalate the absurdity of the moment. "To the hotel, Agha Ashir. To the hotel."
He looked genuinely stunned. "What hotel? Weren't you staying with Mizgin?"
"I'm at a hotel now," I said shortly, wanting the conversation to end.
Before I could even blink, the world blurred. Suddenly, I was being shoved into his car.
"Are you insane? Where are you taking me?"
Ashir didn’t look at me as he fired up the engine. "To my house. You’re staying with us until the wedding. I’ve already had your bags picked up."
My eyes nearly popped out of my head. "Stop this car! I’m getting out! You’ve completely lost it if you think I’m staying at your estate!" I kicked at the floorboards in a fit of pure rage. "You’ve gone too far this time!"
"Hicran Miray!" he barked, his voice thick with a threat. "Do not make me lose my mind. Don't talk back, don't argue, and don't resist. You’ll only get hurt."
I narrowed my eyes. "Who do you think you are to hurt m—"
The car screeched to a halt. In one fluid, aggressive motion, Ashir’s hand clamped onto my arm again.
"I told you: don't talk back. Now get out. We’re here."
I bolted out of the car, but I didn't head for the mansion. I started marching down the road, fuming. "Unbelievable! 'Do as I say,' he says. Who does he think he is? What’s next? Royal decrees?"
A hand caught my arm. Again. Seriously, what was his obsession with my arm?
"Hicran, stop being stubborn," Ashir said, his tone shifting. "You’re a guest in Mardin. I can’t let you stay in a hotel. Look, everyone is watching."
I glanced around. Several women were huddled nearby, whispering and watching us with keen interest. With a heavy groan of defeat, I turned and headed toward the mansion.
This man was destroying my equilibrium.
The Mansion
I stepped through the massive gates into the courtyard. Ashir led me up to a terrace where a group was gathered. An older man sat in the corner sipping coffee, flanked by a woman and Ashir’s sister, Rojda. A young man, maybe nineteen or twenty, sat nearby. All eyes landed on me. I felt the heat rise to my cheeks.
"Mother," Ashir announced. "Hicran Miray is our guest. She’ll be staying with us for a few days. Prepare a room."
The woman—Ashir’s mother—beamed at me with genuine warmth. "Oh, my son, why only a few days? Our daughter can stay as long as she likes. Come, dear, let me show you your room."
"I... I don't want to be a burden," I stammered.
"Nonsense, child! Come along."
I followed her to a sprawling, beautiful room. "You’ll stay here," she said. "The bath is through that door. I’m Ayşe, Ashir’s mother. That was Murat Agha on the terrace, and you know Haşim and Rojda. The youngest is Ahmet. Oh, and our patriarch, Grandfather Hamdi..."
I nodded, offering a small smile, and she left the room. There was something about her I liked instantly. A few moments later, there was a knock. A maid entered with my luggage.
"My Lady, Agha Ashir sent these."
"Thank you," I said as she set the bags down. "But please, don't call me 'My Lady.' Just Hicran is fine."
"But..." she started.
"Please," I insisted with a smile. She nodded and hurried out.
I didn't bother unpacking. I wasn't planning on staying long. I grabbed some pajamas, showered, and collapsed onto the bed. Exhaustion claimed me instantly.
The Dinner
When I woke, the world was bathed in moonlight. It was nearly 8:00 PM. I threw on jeans and a t-shirt and headed downstairs. The staff was setting the table, and Ayşe was helping them. Out on the terrace, the men were gathered.
"You're awake, dear!" Ayşe cried. "I was going to wake you, but my crazy son told me to let you sleep, that you were tired."
"Thank you," I said softly. "Let me help you with that."
"Oh, no, you're a guest!"
"Please," I pushed. "I want to."
She finally relented. I busied myself making the soup while Rojda helped with the table. As everyone took their seats, I felt a sudden, sharp pang of loneliness. I missed my parents.
"What is it, daughter?" Ayşe asked, noticing my fallen expression. "Why the long face?"
"I just miss my family," I admitted, taking my seat.
"But didn't you just arrive?"
I smiled sadly. "Yes, but I don't live with them. They live abroad. I moved to Istanbul for university." My voice trailed off. I really did miss them.
"Where are you from originally?" Murat Agha asked.
"My parents are from Aydın. But truthfully? I’ve never even been there. I’ve lived in France for as long as I can remember."
Ayşe reached out, her eyes full of sympathy. "Oh, you poor thing. But listen, you can look at me as a mother. If you have any trouble, you just tell me."
"Thank you," I whispered.
The meal continued in a comfortable silence. When I finished, I excused myself and went out to the terrace. The rest of the family joined me shortly after.
"Wife," Murat Agha said. "Tell Zelal to make coffee."
Zelal, the woman who had brought my bags, appeared. "Yes, my Lady?"
"Make us some frothy Mardin coffee," Ayşe ordered. She turned to me. "How do you take yours, my Lady?"
The title stung again. "I asked you not to call me that," I said, perhaps a bit too sharply.
"But..."
"Please. Just don't." Zelal nodded, looking a bit shaken. "With sugar, please."
I felt bad for snapping, but being called "My Lady" made me feel like an outsider, a doll in a gilded cage. I didn't even let the staff at home use titles.
"So," Murat Agha said, leaning back. "Tell us about yourself. Who are you? What do you do?"
Just as I started to answer, the coffee arrived—impossibly fast. I took a sip and began.
"There isn't much to tell. My family is in France. My parents moved there right after they married. I have an older brother, he’s married and lives there too. I came to Turkey for my studies. I’m in my final year of law school."
Murat Agha nodded in approval.
"Well," Ayşe teased. "Your brother is married, and you’re at that age... is there someone in your life?"
I felt myself blush. "No, Ayşe Hanım. And I'm still young. I'm not thinking about that yet."
Ashir looked like he was about to say something—his mouth opened, his brow furrowed—but Zelal interrupted him, hurrying toward me with my phone.
"Hicran, dear, your phone is ringing. The screen says 'My Handsome' is calling."
I lunged for the phone, a grin breaking across my face. It was my brother. I always called him that to tease him.
"Excuse me," I said, standing up. "Hello, my handsome!"
As I walked toward the lounge to take the call, a massive crash echoed behind me. I spun around. Ashir had flipped the table in front of him.
He was staring at me with a look of pure, unadulterated rage.
- Writer
