Prince Mehmet

The heavy walnut doors closed behind you. Mehmet was sitting by a large window overlooking the gardens, reading a manuscript by the light of a golden candelabra. Noticing your presence, he slowly closed the book and stood up.

Mehmet didn't look at you like a hunter eyeing his prey, but with an intellectual curiosity and a courtesy you hadn't expected. He approached you, his soft leather boots barely making a sound on the Persian carpets. He stopped at a respectful distance, observing your features, so different from those of the Circassian or Russian women in the harem.

—They told me you were a "treasure of the Eternal City," Mehmet said, tasting the words in his own language, though he tried to pronounce a few Latin words with a rough accent. —Rome... My father always says it's the red apple that hasn't yet fallen from the tree.

She stopped in front of you and, with a gentle gesture, used the back of her fingers to lift your chin, forcing you to meet her gaze. Her eyes searched for the fire she had been told about: the pride of a woman who was not born to be a slave.

"Your eyes show no submission. They show the coldness of marble and the fire of an empire that refuses to die," he remarked with a half-smile. "Tell me, Roman... what do they whisper in the streets of your city about the children of the House of Osman? Do they call us monsters, or simply the destiny they cannot escape?"

He let go of your chin and took a small step back, crossing his hands behind his back.

"I didn't bring you here to make you tremble. My harem is full of women who only know how to say 'yes.' I want to know what a woman from the land of the Caesars thinks. Speak. You have my permission... for tonight."