The name Altay Holdings glowed against the monitor. Her fingers hovered over the glass. Revin Altay, her penniless spouse, shared a title with a multi-million-dinar shell firm funneling illicit funds. The connection was too precise to be mere coincidence. She stared at the screen, the glowing name a silent accusation. Was he a pawn? A unwitting front? Or something far more sinister? The thought felt like a physical blow, twisting her gut.
She closed the tablet, the device feeling suddenly heavy, dangerous. She had to get out. The Guild wardrobe felt like an iron cage. Slipping the tablet back onto Cengiz’s forgotten chair, Ozanira melted into the shadows of the costuming racks, her mind racing. This couldn't wait. She needed answers.
Back in their cramped apartment, the scent of sizzling onions and garlic filled the air, a domestic comfort that felt jarringly out of place. Revin hummed a tuneless melody from the tiny kitchenette, stirring a pot of what smelled like a lentil stew – a cheap, hearty meal, typical of his unassuming nature. Or was it an act? Ozanira leaned against the doorframe, watching him. His broad shoulders, the slight curve of his back as he bent over the stove, the way his dark hair fell across his forehead. He looked entirely ordinary, an anomaly against the massive corporate scheme she had uncovered.
He turned, a warm smile blooming on his face. “Ozanira! You’re early. Tough day?”
“Something like that,” she murmured, peeling off her coat. She moved to the small, chipped dining table, her movements deliberate. Her theatrical training had taught her to play every scene, every line, with conviction. This moment, however, felt like a performance where the stakes were terrifyingly real. “Revin.”
“Hmm?” He brought over two steaming bowls, placing one in front of her. The aroma was rich, grounding. For a split second, she almost forgot her mission.
“Your family,” she began, spooning a mouthful of stew. The salt and spice were perfectly balanced. “You’ve never spoken much about them.”
He settled into the chair opposite her, his expression unreadable. “Not much to speak of. My parents passed when I was young. I have… distant relatives. Mostly back in the rural provinces.” He shrugged, a casual gesture that nonetheless felt like a wall sliding into place. “It’s why I came to Karsan, for opportunities. Small town didn’t have much to offer.”
“Altay,” Ozanira said, letting the name hang in the air, testing it. “It’s a… common name, isn’t it? Around here?”
Revin lifted an eyebrow, a hint of amusement in his eyes. “Relatively. Like finding a Kadir. What brings this sudden interest in genealogy, my dearest wife?” His tone was light, playful, but his gaze was sharp, assessing.
*Dearest wife.* The words, in his low voice, were unexpected, intimate. She cleared her throat, forcing herself to maintain composure. “Just curious. When you marry someone, you get curious about their past. Part of the… arrangement.” She hated how the last word sounded, brittle and cold, even to her own ears. It was meant to reinforce her transactional view, to remind herself of the distance she needed to maintain, but it felt hollow.
“The arrangement, right.” He dipped his spoon back into the stew, but his eyes never left hers. His mouth curved without the hollow grease of Guild executives. “Well, if you ever want to know more, just ask. Though I warn you, my past is rather dull compared to the dramatic flair I’m sure you’re used to.”
His words, coupled with that quiet, earnest gaze, pricked at her defenses. She felt a strange warmth spread through her chest, entirely unwelcome. This wasn’t part of the script. This wasn’t a transactional interaction. This was lethal ground. An uncomfortable warmth settled under her ribs—a sudden fear that she might be susceptible to his quiet domesticity, lowering her guard for a stranger chosen in an act of petty defiance. Falling for him would be the ultimate betrayal of her own carefully constructed worldview, a weakness she couldn’t afford.
The apartment door burst open with a cheerful bang, shattering the fragile tension. Melis Torun, a whirlwind of glitter and vibrant energy, tumbled in, arms laden with boxes and bags. “Oza! Revin! Look what I ‘liberated’ from the Guild’s prop storage! Turns out they had an entire untouched shipment of Silk-Lux foundation. My girls are going to kill me if I don’t bring enough.” She dumped her haul onto the tiny sofa, a cascade of makeup palettes, brushes, and shimmering powders.
“Melis, you’ll get us both blacklisted for theft,” Ozanira said, a genuine smile touching her lips, grateful for the interruption.
“Nonsense. Think of it as… high-level reallocation of assets. Besides, who’s going to notice? Cengiz is too busy choking on his own ego to care about a few blush compacts.” Melis winked, then, with a practiced subtlety that Ozanira almost missed, she bumped into Revin as he stood to help her. Her hand brushed against his coat, a movement so swift and light it was nearly invisible. A flicker of something small, metallic, vanished into his pocket. Revin’s expression remained perfectly neutral. Ozanira, distracted by Melis’s boisterous explanation of contouring techniques, only registered the fleeting motion, not its intent.
The next morning, the lingering chill of her near-confession to Revin remained. She watched him move around the kitchen, packing her lunch. He carefully arranged sliced fruit, a small container of spiced rice, and a piece of grilled chicken into a bento box. The simple act, so tenderly executed, twisted her gut again. He was either an exceptional actor, or… something else. Something she hadn’t accounted for.
“You really don’t have to do this every day, Revin,” she said, her voice softer than she intended.
He looked up, that same quiet smile gracing his lips. “It’s no trouble. You work hard. Need your strength.” He closed the box, securing it with a small fabric tie, then pressed it into her hands. His fingers brushed hers, a warm, lingering touch that sent an uncomfortable tremor through her.
Ozanira pulled her hand away, the bento box feeling suddenly heavy. She wouldn’t be kept in the dark, not by Cengiz, and certainly not by her accidental husband. The ledger, Altay Holdings, the darts, the attempts on her life—it all coalesced into a terrifying picture. Revin was involved, one way or another. Was he a patsy? A tool Cengiz was using? Or was he a silent manipulator hidden in plain sight?
As she gathered her shoulder bag, her gaze dropped to Melis’s forgotten phone, half-buried under empty cosmetic tubes on the coffee table. Ozanira swept the device into her tote. If Revin was tangled in the accounts of Altay Holdings, she intended to peel away the falsehoods herself.
At the Guild, the day dragged. Ozanira’s mind was a maelstrom of possibilities, each one darker than the last. She found a quiet corner during a break, her fingers flying across Melis’s phone. It was locked, of course, but Ozanira had picked up enough tricks over the years. A few minutes of focused work, and the screen blinked open. She navigated the hidden directories, stopping on an outgoing transmission sent to a masked routing address. Cross-referencing the contact ID against the internal routing digits from the Altay Holdings balance sheet, she saw the matching string. The recipient number… it belonged to Revin. Encrypted messages. Between Melis, her closest confidante, and her supposedly poor, ordinary husband. The discovery left an acrid taste on her tongue.
Her mind raced. Melis, the darts, Revin’s convenient ‘accident’ with the spotlight, the Altay Holdings connection. It couldn't be a coincidence. Revin was a pawn, an unknowing accessory being used by Cengiz, perhaps even by Melis, to further their own agenda. And she, Ozanira, was caught in the middle. Anger crystallized inside her chest. Neither of them would slip away clean.
Ignoring the rest of her schedule, Ozanira hailed a cab, her destination fixed: home. She needed to confront him, to tear down the facade, to force him to confess. The anger simmered, a potent fuel. This wasn't just about Cengiz anymore. This was about personal betrayal, about the destruction of the last vestiges of her trust. She clutched Melis’s phone, the small device feeling like a weapon in her hand.
The cab pulled up to her building. Ozanira paid the driver in a blur, her steps urgent as she rushed through the lobby, up the stairs, and down the familiar hallway. Her hand fumbled with the key, then plunged it into the lock. She twisted the knob, shoved the door open, ready to unleash her fury, ready to demand answers. The apartment was strangely quiet. The air was thick, metallic. Her gaze locked on a figure in the center of the room.
Revin stood there, his back to her, silhouetted against the dim light from the window. And at his feet, sprawled unmoving, was the bloodied, unconscious body of a Guild enforcer.