Chapter One Hundred and Eighty
Ahmet hadn't imagined the night ending like this. He had pictured her staying, maybe just a little longer. He had hoped the night would end with her choosing him, even if only for a moment, even if the world outside the room was still burning.
All night, the echo of her voice clung to him; sharp, wounded, and resolute. He had gone into the evening believing clarity would bring them closer. He had seen it in her eyes, felt it in the pauses between words, the way she lingered like she wanted to stay. Whatever stood between them, it hadn't been indifference.
But now everything felt splintered.
Lying awake, staring at the ceiling until dawn bled through the curtains, he kept circling the same thought: truth never came without distortion. Even lies carried fragments of it. Maybe something had happened between their fathers. Maybe blood had been spilled but not in the way Marco had painted it for her.
