Hearts of the Bosphorus

Chapter 27

Unraveled Threads

The heat of their kiss lingered in the air, a desperate hunger that neither Omer nor Isabella could fully pull back from. They were still pressed against the door of his suite, the world around them fading into the periphery. Omer's hands framed her face, his touch both possessive and tender, as if he were afraid she might disappear at any moment.

Isabella's fingers clutched at his shirt, holding him close, but just as she thought she might drown in the intensity of the moment, her phone buzzed in her purse. At first, she ignored it, too lost in the feel of Omer's lips, the solid warmth of his body against hers. But then the thought of Marco pierced through the haze, pulling her back to reality.

She broke the kiss, breathless, her forehead resting against Omer's as she tried to catch her breath. "I—I have to check that," she whispered, her voice shaky. Omer reluctantly loosened his grip, letting her step back enough to fish her phone from her purse.

Her heart skipped a beat when she saw the nanny's name flashing on the screen. She answered quickly, her voice still unsteady. "Yes, Fikriya?"

"Madam, Marco had a bad dream," came the nanny's soft, concerned voice. "He's asking for you. I tried to settle him, but he keeps saying he wants his mother."

Isabella's heart clenched at the thought of her son's tear-streaked face, and she pressed a hand to her chest, willing herself to focus. "I'll be there in a few minutes,  Fikriya. Tell him I'm on my way."

She ended the call and looked up at Omer, who watched her with a mixture of concern and frustration, his chest still rising and falling quickly. "I have to go," she said, her voice barely more than a whisper. "Marco needs me."

Omer's jaw tightened, but he nodded, stepping back to give her space. "Of course," he said, his voice low and rough. "Go take care of him. We can talk later."

She hesitated, part of her aching to stay, to pick up where they had left off, but the other part—the part that had spent years building walls around her heart—urged her to put distance between them before she lost herself entirely. She managed a shaky smile before turning and hurrying down the hallway, her footsteps echoing in the silence.

In the sprawling Balik family mansion, Esma sat in her private study, surrounded by the shadows of the past. Her usual composure had slipped, her lips pressed into a tight line as she cradled a delicate porcelain teacup in her hands. The room was filled with the soft rustling of paper as her assistant, Ceren, shuffled through documents nearby, but Esma's mind was far from the mundane details of the day.

Her phone buzzed on the polished mahogany desk, and she glanced down to see Elif's name. Her annoyance flared, but she answered with a controlled voice. "Yes, Elif?"

"Madam Esma," Elif's voice came through the line, respectful yet firm. "I thought you should know... I spoke to Isabella Adorno earlier tonight."

Esma's grip on her teacup tightened, her expression turning cold. "What did you tell her?"

Elif took a breath before responding. "I told her the truth—that Mr. Balik and I have never been involved in any personal way. I respect him too much to cause problems for him and I won't play a part in whatever game you're trying to orchestrate, Madam Esma."

There was a stunned silence on the other end of the line, followed by a sharp intake of breath. "You foolish girl," Esma hissed, her voice icy with fury. "You think you can defy me, turn your back on everything I've done for you?"

Elif's voice remained steady. "With all due respect, Madam, I've always admired your strength. But I can't be a part of something that could hurt Mr. Balik, and I won't lie for you. Goodnight."