Chapter 1
The gasp that escaped Meryem’s lips was sharp and involuntary, a reflex to the sudden, dizzying realignment of her world. For a moment, she simply stood in the middle of her sun-drenched Istanbul living room, the phone pressed to her ear, the chief editor’s voice still echoing. Best selling author. National Literary Academy. The words shimmered in the air, too grand, too impossible to fully grasp.
Then, the panic set in.
It was the day she had unconsciously been waiting for her entire life, and now it was upon her, a tidal wave of demands. She became a whirlwind of motion, rushing from the bedroom to the bathroom and back, her mind a frantic checklist of things to do, to remember, to be. In the kitchen, the persistent buzzing of her phone was a frantic counterpoint to her chaos, a sound that was finally silenced when her husband, Arda, answered it on her behalf.
“It’s Aisha again,” his calm, steady voice cut through her panic. He stood in the doorway, a solid, reassuring presence amidst the storm of her preparations. “She says you need to be quick. There’s a press conference in Ankara before you meet Cemal on air.”
Meryem emerged from the bathroom, the storm momentarily quelled. She had transformed. A subtle application of makeup highlighted her features, and the pretty yellow dress she wore seemed to capture the very sunlight pouring through the windows. Arda, however, was on the floor, engaged in the delicate negotiation of feeding a spoonful of mashed banana to their two-year-old son, Omar. He hadn’t seen her yet.
“How do I look?” she asked, her voice softer now, seeking an anchor.
Arda looked up. His eyes, the color of rich coffee, widened. The spoon hovered in mid-air. “ALLAH-ALLAH!” he breathed, a reverent smile spreading across his face. “You look… you look just like the day we met. All sunshine.”
A genuine laugh, the first of what she hoped would be many that day, bubbled out of her. “Oh, stop it, you fool!” she chided, swatting him playfully on the head with her clutch purse.
“I mean it,” he insisted, catching her hand and giving it a quick squeeze before turning back to Omar’s determined, messy face. “You’re going to dazzle them all.”
“I’ll probably be late,” she said, her tone shifting back to practical. “There’s food in the fridge. Just heat it up.”
“And DON’T,” Arda said, rising to his feet and holding up a jangling keyring, his expression mock-stern, “forget these again.”
Meryem took the keys, their cold metal a tangible weight in her palm. She leaned in, pressing a kiss to Omar’s sticky cheek, then another, longer one, on Arda’s lips. “Wish me luck.”
“You don’t need it,” he whispered against her lips.
Then, she was out the door, the click of the lock behind her sounding like the starter’s pistol for the day ahead. The drive from Istanbul to the capital was a mammoth four-hour-and-fifty-one-minute journey. She pushed her car as fast as she dared, the familiar urban sprawl of home giving way to the open, rolling highways leading to Ankara. Each kilometer marker she passed felt like a step closer to a new, shimmering version of her life.
When she finally arrived at the opulent hotel hosting the ceremony, she found Chief Editor Aisha waiting in the lobby, her arms crossed, a tablet clutched in her hand.
“You’re cutting it fine, Meryem,” Aisha said, her voice a blend of reprimand and excitement.
“I just crossed 444 kilometers of tarmac to get here,” Meryem replied, slightly breathless. “A little leeway, please.”
“Granted. But the press will be here in fifteen minutes. I hope you’re ready to be brilliant.”
“I’ll do my best, ma’am.”
A whirl of excited energy materialized at her elbow. “Hiiii!” It was Deniz, her editor, her face alight with an almost maternal pride. She was clutching a copy of The Call of Paradise as if it were a sacred text.
“You made it!” Meryem exclaimed, pulling her into a quick, tight hug.
“I told you this novel would go supernova!” Deniz gushed, stepping back but keeping a hand on Meryem’s arm. “I knew it the moment I read the first chapter.”
“I know,” Meryem said, the reality of it all washing over her again. “It’s mind-blowing. It makes me want to blow my own mind!”
Deniz’s face scrunched in affectionate confusion. “…what?”
Before Meryem could explain, the distinctive ringtone of her phone sliced through the moment. Arda. A video call. She felt a flutter of warmth and exasperation.
“Hey,” she answered, smiling at the sight of his face on the screen.
“Hey,” his voice was warm. “Just a husbandly check-in. Making sure you made it to Ankara alive.”
“Are you implying I’m a reckless driver?” she asked, feigning offense.
A second face, grinning, leaned into the frame. “Matter of fact, yes, you are!”
Meryem rolled her eyes. “Not you, Altan.”
“You can’t argue with a cop, though,” Arda said, chuckling.
“Exactly!” Altan chimed in, his police officer’s confidence radiating through the screen. “Remember our first meeting? I was pulling you over for doing ninety in a sixty zone.”
“She was the one driving,” Arda clarified, his eyes twinkling.
“Exactly!” The two men burst into shared laughter, a comfortable, years-old camaraderie that was as familiar to Meryem as her own reflection.
“Shut up, Altan,” she shot back, but her smile betrayed her affection for her husband’s best friend.
“Anyway,” Arda said, his tone shifting to one of proud announcement, “I decided my wife’s success shouldn’t be celebrated alone.” He panned his phone across a lively, atmospheric bar. “I’m with the guys, making a toast to the newest literary sensation!”
“Cheers!” Altan’s voice boomed, and a chorus of other voices echoed the sentiment through the phone.
The sight, the sound—it was too much. Tears pricked at the corners of Meryem’s eyes. This man, this life… it was all so profoundly perfect.
“Don’t you dare drink too much,” she managed to say, her voice thick with emotion. “You have to pick up Omar from daycare.”
“I think I can handle that, Miss Author of the Year,” Altan said, his tone shifting to one of genuine support. “Consider it done.”
“Thank you, Altan. Really.”
“Hey, Meryem…” Arda’s face was close to the screen again, his expression soft.
“What is it?”
“When you’re on that stage… don’t forget to mention your number one fan.”
She chuckled, a soft, loving sound. “Bye, silly.”
“Love you.”
“Love you, too.” She ended the call, the ghost of his smile lingering in her mind, a talisman against the nerves.
“Meryem,” Aisha’s voice was firm but kind. “The press is ready.”
Meryem took a deep, steadying breath, squaring her shoulders. “Alright.”
Deniz linked her arm with Meryem’s. “Let’s go.”
MEANWHILE
The buzz of his phone was an intrusion. Arda pulled it from his pocket, his body still thrumming with the happy energy from the call. The smile was still etched on his face as he glanced at the screen.
It was not a number he recognized. Just a text.
He opened it.
The message was brief, no more than a line or two. But as his eyes scanned the words, the vibrant, warm light in them guttered and died. The easy smile on his face melted away, replaced by a slack-jawed, bloodless pallor. He stared at the screen, his knuckles bleaching white around the device.
Altan, who had been shrugging on his leather jacket, ready to leave the bar, froze. He had seen Arda in every conceivable mood, but he had never seen this. It was as if a switch had been flipped, draining the very life from his friend.
“You okay, brother?” Altan asked, his voice low and cautious.
Arda flinched, as if startled from a trance. He blinked rapidly, forcing a new, brittle expression onto his face. “Uh, um—yeah. Yeah, I’m fine,” he stammered, shoving the phone back into his pocket as if it had burned him. “Just… an urgent job offer. High-profile. You know how it is.”
Altan’s cop eyes, trained to notice the micro-expressions people tried to hide, didn’t miss the tremor in Arda’s hand or the way his gaze darted around, unable to settle. “…Should we get going, then?” he asked, his tone neutral.
“Of course,” Arda said, too quickly. “Why not?”
They walked out of the warm, noisy bar into the cool evening air, the silence between them suddenly heavy and unfamiliar. In the parking lot, the normalcy felt forced.
“So, heading back to the precinct?” Arda asked, opening the passenger door of Altan’s unmarked car.
“Same as always,” Altan replied, sliding into the driver’s seat. “Where to? Home?”
“I, uh… I need to drop Omar at his grandma’s first. This new case… might take a while.”
Altan started the engine. “Damn your family. A lawyer and an author. Power couple. Must be exhausting.”
“Pretty rough, I know,” Arda said, staring out the window. “Not as bad as being a cop, though. You see the worst of people. You have it ten times worse.”
They drove to the daycare in a silence that was no longer comfortable, collected a sleepy Omar, and dropped him at Meryem’s mother’s house with a rushed explanation. As they pulled back into traffic, Arda took out his phone again, his thumbs flying over the screen.
Just got a big case. Had to drop Omar at mom’s. So proud of you. Love you.
Altan, focused on the road, still caught the gist of the message in his periphery. He said nothing.
“What’s with this sudden, urgent job?” Altan finally asked, the question hanging in the confined space of the car.
“Nothing, really,” Arda deflected, his voice tight. “Just another messy divorce. You know, assets, secrets, the usual ugliness.”
Altan let the silence stretch, a tool of his trade.
“You know,” Arda said abruptly, “I think you should just drop me off right here. I’ll grab a cab.”
“Here?” Altan glanced at him, his brow furrowed. “You’re serious?”
“Yeah—yeah. It’s fine. Really.” Arda’s hand was already on the door handle.
Altan pulled over to the curb. He studied his friend’s profile, the tense line of his jaw. “You know, I can help if you want. My caseload is light. I could look into something for you.”
“Nah,” Arda said, shaking his head as he pushed the door open. “Don’t sweat it, man. I’ll be just fine alone.” He got out, leaning down to look through the open door. “Thanks for the ride.”
Altan held his gaze for a beat too long. “…OK. See you, then.” He pulled away, watching in the rearview mirror as Arda stood on the sidewalk, not yet hailing a cab, but simply standing there, a solitary figure swallowed by the city’s shadows.
The moment the car was out of sight, Arda’s composure shattered. His face, illuminated by the cold glow of his phone screen, was a mask of pure dread. He dialed a number, his voice dropping to a frantic, hushed whisper as soon as it was answered.
“I’m on my way. I’m coming to pick it up.” A pause as he listened, his free hand running through his hair. “Okay, but are you absolutely sure about him? His involvement in this… this mess…” He listened again, his eyes closing in a brief, pained grimace. “You have to be.” He stepped to the curb, arm raised. “Alright, listen. I need you to back it all up. Everything. And keep it exactly where I tell you.” A yellow cab slid to a halt in front of him. “Yeah, I’ll tell you how and where. This stays between us. Just the two of us.” He yanked the cab door open and slid inside. “Yeah, I’m on my way right now…”
LATER THAT NIGHT
The lights in the television studio had been blinding, the applause thunderous, but now, in the soft, golden haze of the after-party, Meryem floated on a cloud of pure, unadulterated euphoria. She had done it. The award, a heavy, beautiful crystal obelisk, sat on a nearby table. She had just extricated herself from a circle of fawning publishers and was making her way towards Deniz, who was guarding a plate of canapés near the back of the room.
“Meryem, I swear,” Deniz said, her eyes shining, “you were absolutely amazing! Your voice didn’t shake once!”
“Don’t get me started on how nervous I was,” Meryem confessed, accepting a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. “I thought I was going to drop the award live on national television.”
“Nonsense. You were perfect. Poised, intelligent, witty. You were perfect.”
“You really think so?”
“Yeah, I—”
For the third time that day, the sound of her phone ringing severed the moment. This time, it was a jarring, unwelcome intrusion.
Deniz groaned. “You know what? I officially curse that phone! It has a supernatural talent for interrupting me!”
Meryem laughed. “Oh, please. It’s probably just Arda, wanting every last detail.” She pulled the phone from her clutch, but the name on the screen was not her husband’s.
It was Altan.
A faint, inexplicable prickle of unease traced a path down her spine. Deniz peered over her shoulder.
“That’s weird,” Deniz murmured. “Altan never calls you.”
Those four words gave form to the formless anxiety in Meryem’s chest. Her heart, so light moments before, now felt like a heavy, cold stone. She took a deep breath and swiped to answer, pressing the phone to her ear.
“Hello?” Her voice was cautious.
There was a pause on the other end, a beat of silence that felt profoundly wrong. Then, Altan’s voice, stripped of its usual confidence and warmth. It was hollow, gravelly, as if weighed down by an immense burden.
“…Meryem?” Another pause. “Meryem… I have bad news.”
The ambient noise of the party—the laughter, the clinking glasses, the jazz quartet—seemed to recede, muffled by a sudden, intense pressure in her ears. Her grip on the champagne flute loosened, and she hastily set it down before she dropped it.
“What? Altan, what is it?” Her own voice sounded distant to her.
“It’s Arda…” The name was a sigh, a breath of pure agony. “Meryem… he’s been shot.”
The words were simple. A subject, a verb. But their meaning was so monstrous, so alien, that her brain refused to process them. They hung in the air, nonsensical.
“What?” she whispered.
“He’s… he’s gone, Meryem. I’m so sorry.”
Gone. The word was a key, finally turning the lock. The sentence clicked into place with a finality that was physical, a sucker punch to her soul. Her knees buckled. She stumbled back a step, her hand flailing out to brace herself against the wall. The phone slipped from her numb fingers, clattering onto the polished floor, the sound like a gunshot in the newfound silence of her mind.
A wave of nausea, violent and immediate, twisted her stomach. Her vision tunneled, the edges blurring into a swirling darkness, until the only thing she could see was Deniz’s face, a mask of dawning horror, swimming before her.
Arda. Shot. Gone. Altan. The cop. His best friend.
The connections were just sparks in the overwhelming void of her shock.
Then, the sparks, the void, the room, the world—everything fractured into a billion glittering shards of nothingness.
And then, there was nothing at all.
