Caterina spent her whole life being underlooked and misunderstood.
Hatice spent her whole teenage years chasing a man who loved another.
But Hüsniye became more than a pawn. She became a queen. She conquered the heart of the Ottoman Sultan, the hear...
Fakriye's cries echoed down the corridors, muffled but unmistakable. The rhythmic chanting of the midwives blended with the scent of burning incense, meant to ward off misfortune. I stood just outside her chambers, my hands pressed against my belly, feeling the soft kicks of my own unborn children. Soon, it would be my turn to endure the same pain, the same trial of bringing life into this world.
"Are you worried for her?" Gülbahar asked, standing beside me.
"No," I admitted. "Fakriye is strong. She will endure."
Before Gülbahar could reply, the sound of approaching footsteps reached us. The click of expensive shoes against polished marble. A slow, deliberate pace, meant to make an entrance rather than simply arrive.
Hümaşah. And trailing behind her like a loyal shadow, Mehmed.
I sighed before I even turned to face them.
The resemblance to their mother was unmistakable. The same sharp eyes, the same way they carried themselves with their heads held high as if the weight of the world had been placed upon them. But beneath that practised poise, I saw the truth: grief, festering like an open wound.
"How touching," Hümaşah drawled, folding her arms. "You stand here, waiting anxiously, playing the role of the noble, caring Haseki. How generous of you to concern yourself with yet another of my father's bastard children."
I turned to them, keeping my expression calm. "This child will be your sister."
"Not to us," Mehmed said, his voice quieter but just as sharp. "We do not claim the offspring of concubines. Not when our own mother was cast aside like filth."
I exhaled slowly, summoning patience. "Your mother's fate was of her own making."
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Hümaşah's eyes flashed with something wild and dangerous. "You dare speak of my mother with such ease? As if she was nothing? You had her executed! You sat back and watched while she begged for mercy—"
"She never begged," I cut in, my voice even. "Not once. She was too proud for that, even in her final moments."
The flicker in Hümaşah's eyes told me she had wondered the same. Had Safiye fought? Had she screamed? Or had she gone to her fate with the same icy pride that had defined her life?
Hümaşah's lips parted slightly, and for a brief moment, she looked so young. A girl who had lost her mother too soon.
Then her mask slipped back into place. "You may think you've won, Hüsniye," she whispered, stepping closer, "but you'll never be more than what you are—a lucky whore who happened to catch the sultan's eye."
I should have been angry. Once, I would have been. But now, I only pitied her.
I let her words settle before speaking again, my voice soft but firm. "I know you are angry. I know you are hurt. But lashing out at me will not bring her back. You carry the weight of your mother's sins, but it does not have to define you. You can choose to be better."
