Hearts of the Bosphorus

Chapter 18

Misunderstandings

The cool air of the Istanbul morning brushed against Isabella's skin as she walked with Marco along the cobbled streets. The city was waking up around them, a blend of early-morning vendors setting up stalls and the scent of freshly brewed Turkish coffee drifting from nearby cafés. Isabella had hoped that the walk would help clear her mind, easing the tension that had been building ever since she'd found herself working closely with Omer.

Marco trotted along beside her, happily munching on a simit from a bakery they had passed. He chattered on about a picture he wanted to draw that afternoon, his small hand tucked securely in hers. His energy was infectious, and she couldn't help but smile at his excitement, trying to focus on the present moment rather than the tangled mess of emotions that had been occupying her thoughts.

They turned a corner and came upon a cozy café nestled under the shade of an old plane tree, its outdoor tables scattered with early patrons sipping their morning coffee. Isabella's steps faltered when she recognized one of the figures seated at a corner table. Omer sat there, leaning back in his chair with a relaxed, rare smile on his face.

But it wasn't Omer's presence that made Isabella's stomach twist. Across from him sat that striking woman from the banquet, her dark hair pulled back into a sleek ponytail. She was dressed elegantly, with the kind of effortless chic that suggested high fashion and old money. As she spoke, she leaned forward, her hand briefly touching Omer's forearm in a gesture that seemed casual but intimate.

Isabella froze, her heart clenching unexpectedly in her chest. She watched as Omer's expression softened, his lips curving into a smile that she had never seen directed at her in the time since their reunion. The woman laughed at something he said, and the sound was light and musical, filling the air between them with an ease that felt like a punch to Isabella's gut.

He was already engaged back then, Isabella thought bitterly, her hands tightening around the strap of her purse. Of course he must have moved on. She took a shaky breath, feeling the old wounds sting as she forced herself to look away.

She had spent so long convincing herself that the man she had once loved was gone—that he had become nothing more than a memory, replaced by the cold, calculating CEO she now dealt with. And yet, the sight of him sitting there, relaxed and smiling with another woman, sent a wave of anger and jealousy washing through her before she could stop it.

You're being ridiculous, she chided herself. You're not that naive girl anymore, the one who thought he could love you. He's entitled to his own life, and you have yours. She turned her attention back to Marco, who was tugging at her hand with the impatience of a child who didn't understand the weight of adult emotions.

"Mamma, can we get some juice?" he asked, pointing to the café menu chalked on a board by the entrance.

Isabella forced a smile, nodding quickly as she steered him away from the sight of Omer and the woman. "Of course, sweetheart. Let's get some juice to go."

She could feel her pulse hammering as she waited for the order, her back turned resolutely toward the corner where Omer sat. This is good, she told herself. Let him stay in his perfect life. It just makes it easier for me to keep my distance. But even as she thought the words, the image of Omer and the woman lingered, gnawing at her resolve.

Just as she handed Marco his juice, he caught sight of Omer across the café and broke into an enthusiastic smile. "It's Omer! Mamma, can I go say hi?"

Before Isabella could stop him, Marco had already darted through the tables toward Omer, his small legs carrying him quickly across the cobblestones. She reached out instinctively, but the moment slipped away, and she found herself frozen, unable to move forward or call him back.

Omer glanced up in surprise as Marco came skidding to a halt beside his chair, his innocent grin lighting up his face. "Omer! Hi!"

For a moment, Omer's cool composure melted into a genuine smile, and he leaned down to greet the boy. "Marco, it's good to see you. What are you doing here?"

Marco's excitement bubbled over as he held up his juice. "Mamma got me this! Are you having coffee with your wife?"

Omer's smile faltered, and he cast a quick, puzzled glance toward Isabella, who hovered near the entrance, her expression tense as she watched the scene unfold. He could see the way she avoided looking directly at him, the way her shoulders stiffened at the child's words.

The woman seated across from Omer, his assistant Elif, glanced between Omer and Isabella, her confusion evident. She opened her mouth as if to correct the assumption, but Omer's hand on her arm stopped her. He shook his head subtly, his jaw tightening as he turned back to Marco, his expression smoothing into one of polite warmth.

"No, Marco. Elif is just my colleague. We're having a little meeting," Omer said lightly, though he could feel the weight of Isabella's eyes on him even from across the café. He forced himself to remain composed, unwilling to give away the turmoil he felt whenever she was near.

Marco nodded, seeming satisfied with the answer, though he barely seemed to understand the distinction. "Okay! Bye, Omer!"

He waved enthusiastically before turning back to rejoin his mother, who had managed to regain her composure enough to smile tightly as Marco reached her side. She kept her gaze averted from Omer as she took Marco's hand and guided him toward the exit, her heart a storm of emotions she refused to let show.

Omer watched them leave, a frown pulling at his brow as he noted the rigidity in Isabella's movements, the way she seemed to withdraw into herself. He thought of calling out to her, of explaining that she had misunderstood—but the old bitterness flared up again, stopping him.

Why should I correct her? he thought, his jaw clenching as he watched her retreating back. She's the one who left all those years ago. She's the one who never gave me a chance to explain anything.

As he turned back to Elif, who looked at him with questioning eyes, Omer forced a tight smile. "Let's get back to work," he said shortly, but the encounter with Isabella had left a sour taste in his mouth. And as he listened to Elif's voice droning on about logistics, he couldn't help but think of the way Isabella's face had tightened, the way she had looked at him as if he were a stranger who no longer mattered.

Yet, even as he tried to shove the encounter out of his mind, he couldn't quite shake the nagging sense that something important had just shifted between them—something that would come back to haunt them both.