Hearts of the Bosphorus

Chapter 20

Into the fire

The low lights of the cocktail lounge cast a glow across Omer's chiseled features as he nursed his third whiskey of the night. Omer paid no attention to the beautiful people vying for his notice. His mind was consumed by one face, one name that had haunted him for years.

Isabella.

He swirled the amber liquid in his glass, watching it catch the light like her eyes used to when she laughed. The memory sent a jolt of anger through him, his grip tightening on the tumbler until his knuckles turned white.

"Eight years," he muttered, downing the rest of his drink in one burning gulp. "Eight damn years, and she still gets to me."

A leggy blonde sidled up to him, her perfume a cloying cloud that made him wrinkle his nose. "You look like you could use some company," she purred, running a manicured finger along his arm.

Omer barely spared her a glance. "Not interested," he said curtly, signaling the waitress for another drink. The woman huffed and sauntered away, but Omer had already forgotten her existence. His mind raced, fueled by alcohol and the simmering rage that had been his constant companion since Isabella walked out of his life.

Hakan watched him with a mixture of amusement and concern. "So, let me get this straight," he said, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. "You've been working with Isabella for days now, and she's giving you the cold shoulder?"

Omer took a sip of his drink, savoring the burn. "It's more than that, Hakan. It's like she can barely stand to be in the same room as me. But that's not even the strangest part."

Hakan raised an eyebrow. "Oh? Do tell."

"It's Elif," Omer said, beginning to pace. "Every time she's around, Isabella gets even colder. The looks she gives her... if looks could kill, I'd be short an assistant."

A slow grin spread across Hakan's face. "Ah, I see where this is going. Our dear Isabella is jealous."

Omer stopped in his tracks, turning to face his friend. "Jealous? Why would she be jealous of Elif?"

Hakan rolled his eyes. "For a brilliant businessman, you can be incredibly dense sometimes, my friend. Think about it. You show up with a beautiful, efficient woman constantly by your side. What conclusion would you draw?"

Realization dawned on Omer's face, quickly followed by a mix of amusement and irritation. "She thinks Elif is my woman," he said, the words coming out as half statement, half question.

"Bingo!" Hakan exclaimed, snapping his fingers. "And knowing Isabella's pride, she'd rather die than ask about your marital status directly."

Omer drained his glass and set it down with a decisive clink. "Well, that explains a lot. But why should she care? She's the one who left me, remember?"

Hakan leaned forward to place a hand on Omer's shoulder. "Maybe she's not as over you as she'd like to believe. The question is, what are you going to do about it?"

The past few days of working with her on the designs had been exquisite torture. Isabella's cool professionalism was maddening, so different from the passionate woman he'd known eight years ago. And the way she looked at Elif, with barely concealed disdain... It was almost laughable. If only she knew.

The waitress appeared with a fresh whiskey, which Omer accepted with a distracted nod. As he raised the glass to his lips, he caught sight of his reflection in the mirrored wall behind the bar. His dark eyes were stormy, his jaw clenched tight enough to snap.

In that moment, something inside Omer shifted. The hurt and anger that had been festering for years crystallized into a cold, hard resolve. If Isabella still had this much power over him after all this time, there was only one way to break her spell.