Hearts of the Bosphorus

Chapter 11

Faces from the Past

The screen flickered once more, and then, with a final hum of static, the image cleared completely. Isabella's breath caught in her throat as the face on the other side of the call came into focus, sharper now, undeniable. It was a face she had once known better than her own, a face that haunted her dreams and her most hidden regrets.

Omer.

For a moment, time seemed to freeze. She couldn't look away, couldn't stop the flood of memories that surged through her mind—memories of late nights spent wandering Istanbul's winding streets, of whispered promises under the moonlit sky, of the crushing heartbreak when she had left it all behind. Her pulse pounded in her ears, drowning out the polite greetings from the Delvecchio team, the formalities that had once seemed so important but now felt like distant echoes.

Across the screen, Omer's eyes widened ever so slightly, the mask of composure slipping for a fraction of a second before it snapped back into place. His jaw clenched, and Isabella could see the same shock mirrored in his expression—an echo of the disbelief and pain that twisted like a knife inside her. But he recovered quickly, his features hardening into the professional demeanor of the CEO she had never imagined him to become.

"Ms. Adorno," he said, his voice smooth and controlled, though it seemed to carry an edge, a tightness that betrayed the storm beneath. "It's been a long time."

She swallowed hard, struggling to find her voice, her mind spinning as she tried to process the impossible reality in front of her. This was the man behind Balik International? The one who had been systematically dismantling everything she had fought to preserve? It was unthinkable, yet there he was, looking every bit as devastatingly composed as she remembered, his dark eyes sharp with a scrutiny that made her skin prickle.

"It has," she managed to reply, forcing a tight smile. Her voice wavered slightly, but she caught herself, regaining her footing with an effort. "I look forward to discussing how we can move forward together on this project."

She could almost hear the disbelief in her own words, the absurdity of speaking so casually when everything inside her was crumbling. But she had no choice. Delvecchio's representatives were watching, and the future of Adorno Industries hinged on this moment. If she faltered, if she let her emotions bleed through, she could lose everything.

The call proceeded, a strange, dissonant dance of professionalism and unspoken tension. Delvecchio's representatives laid out their expectations for the joint venture, their words washing over Isabella like white noise as she struggled to keep her breathing steady. Omer's voice, calm and measured, cut through the discussion like a blade, countering each point with the precision of a man who knew exactly what he wanted.

Isabella found herself matching his tone, forcing her mind to focus on the technicalities of the proposal, on the logistics that needed to be settled before the collaboration could proceed. It was as if they were back in those old debates, arguing over the finer points of art and design, though now the stakes were infinitely higher, and the warmth of their past was replaced with a chilling distance.

She kept her gaze fixed just above the camera, refusing to meet his eyes, knowing that if she did, the memories would overwhelm her. But she could feel his attention on her, sharp and relentless, a scrutiny that made her skin crawl. How had she not seen it sooner? How had she not known that the man behind Balik's calculated maneuvers was the very person she had once loved?

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the Delvecchio representative leaned back, offering a measured smile. "Well, it seems we have a potential path forward. Adorno Industries and Balik International clearly bring complementary strengths to the table. We're willing to continue with Adorno as our primary partner, but only if this collaboration proves successful. The future of our relationship will depend on how well you two can work together."

The words hung in the air like a sentence, the weight of them settling over Isabella's shoulders. She forced a nod, maintaining her strained smile. "We understand, Mr. Delvecchio. We're committed to making this project a success."

Omer's voice cut in smoothly, his expression as unreadable as ever. "As are we. We look forward to a productive partnership."

With that, the call ended, the screen going black as the connection severed. The silence that followed felt like a gaping wound, raw and exposed, and for a moment, Isabella couldn't move. Her mind spun with the reality of what had just happened, of what lay ahead. The shock of seeing Omer again, the realization that he had been her rival all along, left her breathless, reeling.

She barely made it to the restroom down the hall before the nausea overtook her. She gripped the edge of the sink, fighting to control her shuddering breaths, but the panic clawed at her throat, relentless. She heaved, her body rebelling against the emotional turmoil that roiled inside her, and she leaned over the sink, retching into the basin.

When she finally straightened, her hands were trembling, her face pale as she stared at her reflection in the mirror. The woman looking back at her seemed like a stranger—eyes wide with fear, cheeks flushed with the remnants of shock. She had thought she'd left the past behind when she left Istanbul all those years ago, but it had found her again, in the most painful and unexpected way.

She wiped her mouth, taking deep, unsteady breaths, forcing herself to regain control. She couldn't afford to fall apart now. There was too much at stake, and Omer—Balik—was too dangerous to face with anything less than her full strength. She splashed cold water on her face, feeling the chill cut through the haze of her panic, grounding her, and straightened her shoulders.

Focus, Isabella. This isn't over yet.

Across the city, Omer sat in his office, staring at the empty screen where Isabella's face had been just moments ago. The room was dark, the only light coming from the skyline beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows. He poured himself another drink, the sharp scent of whiskey mingling with the crisp evening air that seeped through the cracks of the window frame.

He tipped the glass to his lips, feeling the burn as the liquid slid down his throat, but it did nothing to numb the chaos that had erupted inside him. He had spent years convincing himself that he'd moved on, that he no longer cared about the woman who had left him without a word. But seeing Isabella's face again—her face—on the screen, in the midst of a business deal that held the future of his company in its balance, had shattered the lie he'd told himself.

His hand tightened around the glass, his knuckles whitening. She had looked just as he remembered—beautiful, poised, but with a new edge to her, a steeliness that hadn't been there before. And yet, beneath her professionalism, he had seen the same flash of recognition, the same old wound reopening in her eyes.

He cursed under his breath, knocking back the rest of the whiskey and pouring another, even as his thoughts spiraled. What did she think of him now? Did she know how much he had changed—how he had fought to build a life for himself, a life that didn't include the pain she'd left him with? Or was he still just a reminder of a time she'd left behind?

As the minutes ticked into hours, the whiskey bottle grew lighter, and the sharp edges of his thoughts dulled into a haze. But the image of Isabella's face lingered, stubborn and unyielding, refusing to be drowned out.

Finally, a sharp buzz from his phone interrupted the silence. He glanced at the screen through bleary eyes, seeing the name of his assistant flash across it. With a sigh, he picked up, slurring slightly as he spoke. "Yes?"

"Mr. Balik, I've reached out to Ms. Balik as you requested," the assistant's voice came through, professional and unflinching. "She's on her way. Please wait for her before... before you continue drinking."

Omer let out a bitter laugh, knowing that even now, his sister remained his tether to some semblance of balance. He hung up without replying, leaning back in his chair, the weight of the evening pressing down on him. He knew that he should have stopped drinking, should have gotten a grip on himself, but for now, all he could do was wait for Layla to arrive.

As he stared out at the dark waters of the Bosphorus, Omer couldn't help but think that fate had a twisted sense of humor. It had brought Isabella back into his life at the very moment when he thought he'd left her behind for good. And now, he had no idea what to do with the storm she'd unleashed inside him.