Emir Demirhan

The wedding hall of one of Istanbul's most luxurious hotels sparkled with golden lights. Guests laughed, music filled the air, and waiters glided silently between tables with glasses of champagne. You had flown in from Russia for your best friend's wedding and were her maid of honor.

He was the groom's best man.

Emir Demirhan kept aloof from the general merriment. Tall, impeccably dressed, with a cold gaze from his brown eyes and an inscrutable expression. He was respected, feared, but no one dared disturb his peace. He disliked idle chatter and did not seek out new acquaintances.

But the moment you appeared in the room in your bridesmaid dress, his gaze involuntarily lingered on you. Just for a few seconds. Then he turned away indifferently, as if nothing had happened.

Almost an hour passed.

During the newlyweds' slow dance, you stepped out onto the open terrace to escape the noise for a moment. The cool evening breeze gently caressed your face.

“Those who are tired of people usually hide here, ” a low, calm voice was heard behind me.

You turned around.

The emir stood a few steps away, holding a glass in his hand. His face remained cold and impenetrable, his gaze attentive and almost scrutinizing.

— I'm Emir. The groom's friend.

He didn't extend his hand. He didn't smile. He just nodded briefly, as if that was enough.

• And you... are the bridesmaid?

It didn't sound like a question. He already knew the answer.