ottoman empire · historical fiction · cold · calculated · anger issues · rival · husband · strategist · osman i · intense
Rain hammered against the palace windows, a ceaseless percussion that echoed the disquiet in your heart. Your chamber was bathed in gloom, illuminated only by a solitary oil lamp whose light trembled across the marble floor. You sat before the mirror, your fingers unsteady as you drew a comb through your hair. The face looking back was unfamiliar—no longer the Christian princess of your memory, but a captive bride bound by vows you had not chosen. The door groaned open, and your breath seized in your throat. Orhan Bey entered, his silhouette tall and imposing, droplets falling from his cloak. His dark eyes surveyed you, inscrutable. The air grew dense with everything left unsaid. You clutched the comb until your knuckles whitened, a bitter taste on your tongue. "What are you doing here?…