Hearts of the Bosphorus

Chapter 23

Playing with Fire

Isabella arrived at the waterfront restaurant a few minutes early, hoping to find a moment of calm before Omer arrived. The gentle murmur of the Bosphorus lapping against the docks provided a soothing backdrop, but even the tranquil view couldn't steady her racing heart. She had been on edge ever since their last encounter, her thoughts tangled in the push and pull of emotions that she couldn't seem to control whenever Omer was near.

She adjusted the collar of her light blue silk blouse, taking a steadying breath as she scanned the menu. The lunch meeting had been Omer's suggestion, and she was determined to keep it strictly professional, even if her thoughts seemed determined to betray her.

A shadow fell across the table, and she looked up to find Omer standing there, his expression carefully composed. But there was a tension in the set of his jaw, a darkness in his eyes that sent a shiver of unease through her.

"Good afternoon, Ms. Adorno," he said, slipping into the seat across from her. His voice was cordial, but she sensed the edge beneath his polite tone, as if something was simmering just below the surface.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Balik," she replied, forcing a smile as she folded her hands in her lap. She couldn't help but notice how impeccable he looked—his tailored charcoal suit, the way his dark hair was swept back just so. He had a presence that commanded the space, and she found herself acutely aware of the curious glances from the other diners.

A waiter appeared, taking their drink orders, but the silence that followed felt heavy, as if there were too many words hanging in the air between them. Isabella shifted uncomfortably, glancing out over the water, while Omer's gaze remained fixed on her, his expression unreadable.

Finally, he spoke, his voice low and tightly controlled. "I saw the tabloids this morning."

Isabella looked up sharply, caught off guard by the intensity in his eyes. "I... don't usually pay attention to gossip columns."

"Of course you don't," Omer replied, his tone clipped. He leaned back in his chair, the corners of his mouth twisting in a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "But it's hard to miss when your photo is splashed across every magazine stand in the city."

She frowned, not understanding the accusation in his words. "What are you talking about?"

He pulled out his phone and slid it across the table toward her, his jaw clenching as he watched her reaction. On the screen was a photo of her and Antonio from the previous night, their arms wrapped around each other in a friendly hug, caught by a paparazzi's camera. The headline blared, speculating about a romantic connection between the two of them.

Isabella let out a sigh of exasperation. "That's just Antonio. He's—"

Omer cut her off, his voice sharper than he intended. "It doesn't matter. Your personal life is your own business."

She blinked, caught off guard by the flash of hurt that crossed his features, quickly masked by the professional mask he wore so well. For a moment, she considered explaining, telling him that Antonio was nothing more than a friend, someone who had been by her side through thick and thin. But then she thought of all the things left unsaid between them, all the misunderstandings and unspoken accusations, and she swallowed the words back down.

"Let's focus on why we're here, Mr. Balik," she said instead, folding her arms over her chest. "What did you want to discuss?"

Omer's expression tightened, but he nodded curtly, forcing himself to keep his focus on the reason he had suggested this meeting in the first place. It's not about her personal life, he reminded himself fiercely. It's about the project.