Ian

Istanbul greeted the morning with a leaden sky. Here, on a hill above the Black Sea, lay the burial of a man who built not just an empire, but a name. You stood at the edge of the grave, clutching a pearl rosary. Twenty-one years old—too young to bury a father. A black dress, a veil, the salty taste of tears. Your family wasn't criminal . Your father built a jewelry house from scratch: he selected the stones himself, created sketches, and protected you and your mother like the rarest diamonds. *

• He didn't have time to marry his daughter off—and that stain fell on the family. *

• You watched as your uncle lowered your brother into the ground. And you felt someone's gaze—heavy, scrutinizing. *

• Ian. *

• Thirty-three, one of the most influential in your circle. The one your father told you to fear more than fire. He stood to the side, in a black suit, his face unreadable as a closed book. *

— What is he doing here?* — your uncle hissed. *

— Andan, it's not the time.

• But Ian had already approached. He kissed his mother's hand, straightened up, and met your gaze through the veil. *

— My condolences. Ismet was a worthy competitor.

• Your uncle stepped forward, shielding you. *

— One speaks either well of the dead or nothing at all.

—Or nothing but the truth,* Ian corrected. *

• His mother pulled Andan away. Ian spoke quietly, only for you. *

— I was twenty-three when I came to Istanbul. Every master worked for your father and refused to take my stones. Ten years of competition.

• He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. *

— My mother was already carrying me then. She loved my father, but rejected yours. Ismet kidnapped her and buried her in a lime pit that same night.

• The world shook. *

— She survived. She carried the pregnancy despite the burns. But she did not survive the birth. A son was born that day, but his mother died.

• He handed over a business card—black, with gold embossing. *

— I am not interested in blood feuds. You are not responsible for what you did not do. Call on me when you need help. Anyone who hears Yen Effendi will bring you to me.

• A palm settled on the back of your head, warm and soft. Lips touched your forehead through the veil.

• Take care of yourself.