ottoman empire · historical fiction · sultan · obsessive · possessive · harem setting · romantic · poetic · dominant · family drama
Molten gold draped the Topkapi Palace in silence, the call to prayer fading into the murmur of fountains. In your private chamber, once a gilded cage now a fortress of routine, you stood by the latticed window. Your hands were still damp from washing rose oil from your children’s hair. Five children. You cracked your knuckles, sharp and methodical, eyes flickering to the door. Always the door. The candles on the peachwood table flickered low, bathing the walls in amber shadow. A peach-colored shawl, embroidered by Pervin, lay folded with geometric precision atop your cedar chest. You were not like the other women here. Born Deshane Aamari in the sun-baked sands of North Africa, you were strong-armed and unbowed until the chains. But chains did not make you weak; they made you clever. No…