1
Turkey, 2005
“What a mess, fucking hell. I am gonna kill this motherfucker,” Emir slammed the pitchfork into the hay, the metal clinking dully against the wooden floor. Anger seethed beneath his skin, pouring out with each violent thrust as he mucked out the stable.
Sweat trickled down his brow, mingling with the dirt smudged across his face. His muscles tensed as he worked, every movement sharp and punishing. He was handsome, broad-shouldered, and hung like a damn stallion. Everyone in the village whispered about it. Even the horses seemed to glance at him with solemn respect as he moved among them, their ears twitching at his fury.
Then the stable door creaked open.
He spun, his glare sharp enough to kill.
Nadir, pale, staggered in, his face contorted with a mix of fatigue and something less convincing.
“So, you’ve decided to show up now, have you?” Emir’s voice cut through the stillness, harsh and laden with frustration.
“How convenient of you to recover just in time for the evening chores.”
Nadir’s gaze dropping to the ground. Everyone knew he always found ways to avoid work.
Nadir flinched under the weight of his gaze.
“I—I wasn’t feeling well...”
“Bullshit,” Emir snapped. “You’re never feeling well when there’s work”
Before he could throw the pitchfork at the boy’s scrawny head, soft footsteps echoed from outside.
Sofia stepped in, her scarf slipping slightly over her shoulder, the edges of her embroidered village dress dancing around her ankles. Her cheeks flushed with the faintest pink as she looked between the two men, pausing just a second longer on Emir.
She was beautiful in that quiet, earthy way like a sunrise over wheat fields. Her eyes never stayed on Emir for too long, always flickering away with nervous energy, as though embarrassed by her own heartbeat.
“Emir,” she said gently, “Farida needs a few things for dinner. Could you... please go to the market?” Her voice was soft, hesitant, but there was a thread of urgency laced into it.
Emir’s eyes narrowed, and his frustration flared.
“Where the hell is Shakhir?”
Shakhir was Mr. Yilmaz’s driver. He had been working for Mr. Yilmaz for a quite long time.
“His mother’s unwell. He left early.”
The muscle in Emir’s jaw twitched. Of course. Another goddamn excuse.
“I know you’re busy,” she added quickly, her hands wringing the corner of her scarf, “but Farida is overwhelmed. There are guests coming. Important ones.”
He stared at her. That soft, round face. The way she looked at him from under her lashes, like a deer trying not to be noticed.
He exhaled sharply, yanked the keys from his belt. “Fine,” he muttered. “But this” He nodded toward Nadir, who was already pretending to fade into the wall “this shit better be cleaned when I’m back.”
Sofia turned to Nadir, offering him a small smile and a kind nod, like she was trying to soften Emir’s wrath with her sweetness.
And left from there.
Emir straddled his motorbike, the engine growling like something untamed, and took off down the dirt path. The early evening sun was relentless, beating down with a heat that seemed to amplify his already simmering frustration.
Arriving at the market, He parked under the lone tree near the stalls, the shade barely enough to cool his skin. His boots hit the ground hard, every step brimming with heat and leftover anger.
Then he saw it.
A sleek, black car pulled up beside the stalls, too smooth, too expensive for this place. The windows were tinted, the body polished to a mirror shine. It didn’t belong.
It seemed an odd fit in the modest market, as though it belonged in a different world. Curiosity nudged at him.
Inside, a girl sat poised in the back seat. Sunlight caught her hair, tied back with a bow so precise it looked sculpted. Her skin was fair, untouched by labor, by wind, by dirt. Her hazel eyes scanned the street like a queen surveying a land she didn’t plan to touch.
She looked at Emir for a moment.
Long enough.
Her hazel eyes, catching the light in a way that made them shimmer. She looked like a porcelain doll, poised and untouched by the grime and struggle of his world.
Her glance was sharp, intelligent, and for a brief, unsettling moment, it felt as if time had stopped. Then her eyes flickered over him, his mud-caked boots, the sweat staining his shirt, and then she turned away, her expression unreadable, but her meaning loud and clear.
Her expression turned dismissive, a delicate frown forming as she turned her attention back to the shops. The window rolled up with another soft whirr, leaving Emir with a sense of being discarded, judged, and dismissed in one fleeting glance.
He looked down at himself, his plaid shirt, which was tucked into faded jeans, showing off his rippling muscles earned through years of hard work and had not so well groomed beard. His boots were caked with mud, his hair tousled by the relentless wind, and his skin tanned from the relentless sun.
He never liked people like her, who think very high of themselves. The rich brats. He disgusted at the thought.
The driver got out and bought blueberries.
Emir turned away and finished his errand, the car gone before he returned.
The trip back was filled with a brooding silence.
He couldn’t shake the feeling that the girl’s disdain had somehow added a layer of bitterness to his already sour mood. It was irrational, but it was there.
“What does she think of herself? Is she a princess from somewhere?” Emir thought bitterly. “She wasn’t even that pretty.”
Who he was kidding? She was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen.
But what irritated him was, if she had seen him not as a person but as a mere inconvenience, and unpleasant in her otherwise glamorous life.
The familiar sight of the grand farmhouse, with its sprawling lawns and meticulously manicured gardens. Emir parked his bike by the entrance.
He saw a familiar black sedan glided into the driveway of the farm’s grand farmhouse. His mood turned as dark as the clouds that were beginning to gather in the sky.
He slipped in through the kitchen door, his presence barely making a sound.
“Did you get everything?” Farida asked, not looking up from the pot she stirred.
Sofia and an another maid was helping her. Sofia looked at Emir but when he looked her way, she quickly looked away, her cheeks flushing slightly.
Emir handed over the groceries.
Farida began unpacking the items. “Is there something special today?”
“Oh, you don’t know? Today Mr. Yilmaz’s son and granddaughter had come from Istanbul.”
Emir’s mood soured further. “I think you should greet them,” Farida suggested gently.
“I don’t think so,” he tried to deny.
“Oh, come on, Mr. Yusuf Yilmaz will be happy.”
With a reluctant nod, Emir followed Farida toward the porch.
On the porch, Noor sat sipping juice like royalty. Her dress fluttered softly around her knees, her bow now tucked perfectly at the nape of her neck.
Her father, Yusuf, stood tall. Powerful. The type of man who bought land with one phone call.
Farida cleared her throat as they reached the group. “Mr. Yilmaz. may I introduce Emir? He’s one of our most dedicated workers.”
Yusuf turned his attention to Emir, his gaze assessing but not unkind. “Ah. So you’re the one keeping this place running. I’ve heard about you. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”
Noor’s eyes met his, and for a split second, he saw a flicker of recognition and something else-he couldn’t point out. He tried to hold her gaze, but just as quickly, she looked away, her lashes fluttering down like a curtain drawn in dismissal.
It bruised something in him. His pride, maybe. Or something more fragile beneath it.
Emir cleared his throat, his voice steady despite the awkwardness of the situation.
“Pleasure to meet you too, sir,” he replied, his voice steady despite the awkwardness of the situation.
Mr. Faris Yilmaz , the owner of the farmhouse, clapped Emir on the shoulder, a gesture, though meant to be warm, settled on him like a hand too heavy with authority. Friendly, but not equal. Never equal.
“Emir is a good man and like my son. The farm’s been in good hands.”
Emir stood tall at six feet, taller than the old man standing beside him.
“Noor, you could learn horse riding from him,” Faris suggested to his granddaughter.
“No, Grandpa, I’m scared of them,” Noor replied, still not meeting Emir’s eyes.
The dismissive tone in her voice stung, but Emir forced himself to remain composed.
Farida, ever the peacekeeper, smiled encouragingly at Emir. But even her warmth felt misplaced now, like a candle lit in the wrong room.
He gave a short nod and turned to go. But just before he stepped off the porch, he felt it—her eyes on him again. That same flicker of something. Not kindness. Not interest. Something colder. Sharper.
He didn’t look back.
His thoughts churned as he retreated back to his duties. The brief encounter with that stupid girl had left him feeling unsettled, but he tried to focus on the work at hand.
Emir decided to avoid the porch and the guests for the rest of the evening. He didn’t need another reminder of the divide between him and them. Instead, he sought out the quiet of the fields, walking along the edge of the property where the tall grass swayed gently in the evening breeze.
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