“Never speak to him unless he speaks first. And never, under any circumstances, touch any man within those walls.” “I understand,” the girl said.
“No, you don’t,” Nasir said, leaning forward. “The last seven personal attendants assigned to the sultan were dismissed in less than a month. Some cried all day. Others tried to flirt with him. One lost her mind.”
Azra frowned. “Why?” Nasir let out a heavy breath. “Because Sultan Selim is not like other men.”
“He’s cold as marble and demanding as a judge. People say his heart died years ago. The most beautiful women in the harem beg for a glance, and he looks through them as if they aren’t there.”
The carriage stopped. The gates of Topkapi Palace rose before them, huge, gilded, intimidating.
Azra took a deep breath. “Any advice?” she asked. Nasir looked at her with something close to sympathy. “Stay alive.”
The gates opened, and Azra stepped into the heart of the empire. She did not know she was also stepping into the heart of a man everyone believed incapable of love. Topkapi Palace was a world unto itself.
Azra followed Nasir through endless corridors, and every step took her deeper into a life she could never have imagined. The ceilings soared like cathedrals, covered in blue-and-gold mosaics that shimmered in the light of hundreds of candles. The white marble floors reflected her like glass.
The air smelled of amber incense, Damask roses, and power—beautiful and unsettling at the same time. “These are the harem quarters,” Nasir explained as they turned down another corridor. “The concubines, servants, and slave girls live here—four hundred women under one roof.”
Azra heard distant laughter, whispers, the faint clink of jewelry. Behind every door there were stories, schemes, and broken hopes. “And the sultan?” she asked quietly.
“His rooms are in the east wing, off-limits to almost everyone.” Nasir stopped in front of a carved wooden door. “This will be your room. Small, but yours.”
“Rest. Tomorrow you’ll be presented to the queen mother.” Azra felt a chill. She had heard stories about Sofia, the ruler’s mother.
She was the most powerful woman in the empire after her son. People said she ruined wives, poisoned rivals, and removed anyone who threatened her influence. “And the sultan,” Azra said again, “when will I see him?”
Nasir gave her a strange look. “Soon. Too soon.”
That “soon” came on the third day. Azra was kneeling in the kitchen peeling pomegranates when someone grabbed her by the arm. “You. Up,” a woman ordered.
It was an older woman, broad-shouldered, with eyes hard as stone, the head servant. “The sultan’s personal attendant was dismissed this morning,” she announced. “She cried too much, so the queen mother decided you’ll replace her.”
Azra felt her heart stop for a beat. “Me? But I’ve only been here three days.”
“Don’t argue.” The woman shoved her toward the hallway. “Change clothes, put on perfume. The sultan dines in an hour, and you’ll serve him.”
An hour later Azra stood outside the doors to the sultan’s chambers. She wore a simple dark blue silk dress they had given her. Her black hair was braided, and her bare feet trembled against the cold marble.
“Breathe,” she told herself. “Just breathe.” The guards opened the doors, and Azra stepped into the lion’s den. The room was enormous, with crimson velvet drapes hanging from impossibly high ceilings.
A fire crackled in the corner, throwing moving shadows across the walls. Persian rugs covered the floor like rivers of color. At the center stood a low dark-wood table set with gold dishes of fruit, meat, and sweets.
But Azra did not see the food. She saw only him. Sultan Selim reclined against silk cushions with a goblet of wine in his hand. He was larger than she had imagined—tall, broad-shouldered, with muscles visible beneath his half-open black tunic.
His skin was bronze from the Mediterranean sun. Dark hair fell to his shoulders in waves, and a neatly trimmed beard framed a face that looked carved from stone. But it was his eyes that stopped her cold.
They were black, deep, and empty. Eyes that had seen too much and felt nothing. “Come here,” he ordered in a low voice that rolled through the room like distant thunder.
Azra obeyed. She approached the table in measured steps, the tray trembling slightly in her hands. “Don’t look him in the eye,” she reminded herself.
She lowered herself before him and began to serve. Spiced lamb, saffron rice, figs in honey. The dishes were set in place one by one. The sultan did not eat. He only watched her.
The silence was unbearable. “What is your name?” he finally asked. “Azra, my sultan.”
“Do you know why you’re here, Azra?”
