Hearts of the Bosphorus

Chapter 17

Unraveled

Omer stared into the amber depths of his whiskey, the low hum of conversation filling the private room at the back of Istanbul's most exclusive bar. The space was shrouded in shadow, with dark wood paneling and plush leather chairs that offered a refuge from the noise and glitter of the city outside. A polished mahogany bar ran along one wall, and soft jazz drifted from hidden speakers, creating an atmosphere of hushed luxury.

He leaned back in his chair, his expression brooding as he nursed his drink. Around him, Hakan and a few of their old university friends bantered and laughed, but their chatter barely penetrated the haze of thoughts swirling in his mind. It had been days since that moment in the design room—since he had caught Isabella in his arms, felt her warmth against him, and almost—almost—given in to the urge to close the distance between them.

Damn it, he thought, scowling at the memory. He had spent years burying everything that had happened between them, convincing himself that the woman who had left him behind was a closed chapter. And yet, the moment she was back in his life, all the old feelings—the anger, the bitterness, and, worse, the desire—came rushing back like a tide.

"Hey, Omer, you're looking like you're about to start a fight with that glass," one of his friends, a fellow businessman named Emre, joked as he poured himself another drink from the decanter on the table. He cast a curious glance at Omer, who remained silent, his jaw clenched. "What's got you so worked up, huh?"

Omer shook his head, trying to brush it off. "It's nothing. Just business."

Emre snorted, taking a sip of his drink. "Come on, you've been staring into space for the past ten minutes. Must be more than just a deal gone wrong."

Hakan, who sat across from Omer, studied his friend with a more serious expression. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Let me guess... it's about her, isn't it?"

Omer's scowl deepened, but he didn't deny it. He ran a hand through his hair, letting out a frustrated sigh. "I don't know why I'm even thinking about her. It's been eight years, Hakan. I should be past this."

Hakan shrugged, his expression neutral. "Maybe it's because you never got closure. Or maybe because you're both being forced to work together now. That would mess with anyone's head."

Emre raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "Her? You mean the mysterious woman who broke your heart back in the day? I thought you swore her off for good."

Omer's jaw tightened, his grip on the glass tightening. "I did. But she's back, and we're... collaborating on a project." He spat the last words like they left a bitter taste in his mouth. "It's nothing but a business arrangement."

One of the others, a man named Kaan who often prided himself on his blunt advice, let out a low laugh. "Business arrangement, sure. But if she's still on your mind, then maybe you should stop fighting it."

Omer turned a sharp look on him, his eyes flashing. "What are you suggesting?"

Kaan shrugged, leaning back in his chair with a careless smile. "Look, sometimes the best way to deal with old feelings is to indulge them. You want her, right? Then go after her—just for fun. Get it out of your system. You're not looking for a relationship; you're just scratching an itch."

Hakan shot Kaan a warning look, his expression darkening. "That's not good advice, Kaan. Not if there's a real history there. And not if Omer isn't willing to deal with whatever happened between them."

Kaan waved a hand dismissively. "Oh, come on, Hakan. It's just physical. No harm in having a little fun."

Omer remained silent, his gaze drifting back to his glass. Kaan's suggestion shouldn't have made sense, and yet, the idea lodged itself in his mind, tempting him with its simplicity. Part of him wanted to believe that a night with Isabella could exorcise the ghosts that clung to him. But another part, deeper and more dangerous, knew it wasn't that simple. It had never been that simple with her.

Hakan leaned forward, his voice dropping so that only Omer could hear him clearly. "You're playing with fire if you try to ignore what's really going on. Don't go after her unless you're prepared for what might come up. Otherwise, you'll just end up getting hurt again—or hurting her."

Omer glared into his drink, his frustration simmering just beneath the surface. "I know, Hakan. But damn it, I can't think straight around her. Every time I see her, it's like—"

He stopped himself, unwilling to finish the thought, unwilling to admit how much she still affected him. He let out a bitter laugh, lifting his glass in a mock toast. "To leaving the past behind, huh?"

Hakan's expression softened, and he clinked his glass against Omer's. "To facing it, Omer. Even if it's the last thing you want to do."

Omer downed the rest of his whiskey, trying to drown the thoughts that kept tugging at him, but as the burn slid down his throat, he knew it would take more than a drink to banish the image of Isabella from his mind.

Meanwhile, across the city, Isabella sat at the dining table of her penthouse, twirling her fork through a plate of pasta as Marco chattered happily beside her. He had just finished telling her all about his day—how he'd played with his friends at the park, how he'd drawn a picture of the Bosphorus, how he thought his new nanny Fikriya made the best simit in all of Istanbul.

But now, as he picked at his own dinner, his bright, curious eyes turned toward his mother, a question forming on his lips. "Mamma, who was that man I met at your office today? The one who helped you when you almost fell?"

Isabella nearly dropped her fork, the question hitting her like a punch to the gut. She managed to keep her voice light, forcing a smile. "That was Mr. Balik, piccolo. He's one of the people I'm working with right now."

Marco wrinkled his nose thoughtfully. "He's tall. And he talks funny. Why does he work with you?"

She let out a shaky laugh, trying to ignore the way her pulse quickened at the mention of Omer's name. "Because sometimes, Mamma needs help to make the best jewelry. Mr. Balik's company is helping us with a new project."

Marco considered this, twirling a strand of pasta around his fork. "Do you like him, Mamma?"

Isabella's heart skipped a beat, and she looked down at her plate, the food suddenly tasteless in her mouth. "He's... very good at what he does, Marco. And it's important to be polite to people we work with."

But as she said the words, her mind flashed back to that moment in the design room—how Omer's hands had steadied her, the way his eyes had locked onto hers, the heat that had crackled between them. She pressed a hand to her chest, trying to steady her breathing. She couldn't let Marco see how unsteady she felt—how Omer's presence had shaken her more than she cared to admit.

Marco, oblivious to his mother's turmoil, continued to babble happily. "He seemed nice. He smiled at me. Do you think he likes me?"

Isabella managed a real smile this time, reaching over to ruffle her son's curls. "How could he not like you? You're the best kid in the world."

Marco grinned, but his next words brought her anxiety surging back to the surface. "I hope I see him again, Mamma. He seemed... like he'd be fun to play with."

Isabella forced herself to nod, swallowing the knot in her throat. "We'll see, Marco. But right now, it's bedtime. Go brush your teeth, okay?"

As he ran off, Isabella sank back into her chair, running a hand through her hair as she stared down at the remains of her dinner. The truth she had been trying to avoid was all too clear: she felt completely out of control whenever Omer was near, like he had become the center of a storm she couldn't escape. She couldn't afford to let her guard down, not when the stakes were so high—when she was balancing the future of her company, her secret, and the fragile truce they had managed to find.

And yet, as she thought of Omer's hands on her, the way his voice had softened when he spoke to Marco, she knew it wasn't just business or old memories making her heart race. It was something deeper, something she had tried to bury long ago, but that was now threatening to rise to the surface.

You can't let this happen, Isabella, she told herself fiercely. *You can't let him get close again. Not when you're this vulnerable