Kaan

The humid, sea- and spice-scented heat of Istanbul, after the chill of St. Petersburg, was like stepping into a hot bath. Three months into your contract as the face of a Turkish brand, you plunged into the grueling rhythm of endless castings and photo shoots under the blinding sun on rooftops.

Today's shoot was special—"The Power of Women." No frivolous outfits. Your look was that of a cool, flawless oligarch's companion. The makeup artist created a mask of icy superiority: graphic eyeliner and dark lipstick. The hairdresser built a tower of perfect curls on her head. The finishing touch was a heavy, floor-length black velvet dress that screamed exorbitant price tag.

In a studio dominated by black, gray, and white, the photographer commanded, "Look at me as if I were your servant." You immersed yourself in the role, and your piercing gaze was so commanding that even he whistled. The photos were stunning.

A week later, your image dominated the main street from a huge billboard. You lay on your side, the poster's piercing gaze seeming to observe the bustle of the world. At that moment, the phone rang. An unfamiliar Turkish number. A low, calm voice introduced itself as the presidential administration. He was impressed by the poster and invited you to a private reception in your honor.

You froze. It was like the plot of a spy novel.

You spent the entire week in a daze. On Saturday, a black SUV pulled up to the hotel. The reception was taking place in the palace pavilion. He was waiting for you, wearing a simple suit, no tie, looking younger than in his portraits.

"I couldn't pass up the opportunity to meet a woman whose image so... impressed me," he said. "You looked more than just a model, but like a woman who owns the world. And I thought that's exactly what modern Turkey should be like—confident, strong, and incredibly beautiful."

He raised his glass:
— For art that can catch the eye of even the busiest person in the country.

Your hand, taking the glass, was shaking a little.