The Board

My name is Sertan.

But in certain circles of Istanbul, they gave me another name. The Conqueror. When I first heard it, I laughed internally. Then I thought about it. It wasn’t actually wrong. Fatih Sultan Mehmet conquered Istanbul at the age of twenty-one. And at twenty-two, I conquered a different Istanbul, in a different way. Not with swords, but with silence. Not with cannons, but with the right moves. Not with walls, but with people.

In this city, everything begins with people and ends with people.

What do I have in my hands right now? A company, with its legal and clean-looking face. An organization, breathing in the streets and back rooms. A mansion, in one of the most beautiful spots in Istanbul. A family, loyal people by my side. There is only one thing missing in my life; a missing piece that every man wants to have, but most ruin at some point in their lives. For someone like me who hates making mistakes, this was a massive step.

This life isn’t easy. It isn’t always beautiful either. But it is mine.

I am Sertan.

And this is my story.

The private jet was in position for takeoff, Istanbul was fading away, the city’s giant silhouette shrinking behind the glass. Beyza was at the front, dealing with files, as usual. I leaned back in my seat and closed my eyes.

Before reaching thirty, I had become one of the biggest in Istanbul. No one had planned this, at least I hadn’t. What happened happened; the right moves were made at every step, and those who made mistakes withdrew from the stage, some by their own will, some in other ways.

Now, I was taking another step.

My family had gone on vacation. Before leaving, my mother had nagged as usual, saying, “You should have been married by this age.” My older sisters agreed. My little brother didn’t care; he was busy with his own youth.

They misunderstood. I wasn’t waiting because I didn’t want to get married. I was waiting because I didn’t know who the woman I would marry was going to be. I didn’t want an ordinary life. Even less an ordinary wife.

Beyza closed the file and turned to me.

“Why two, Mr. Sertan?”

I looked out the window. Turkey had shrunk beneath the clouds now.

“One is not enough for this life,” I said. “My world has two faces. I need two different women.”

Beyza didn’t say anything, didn’t take notes, just bowed her head. She had been working for me for a year; she had long stopped asking unnecessary questions.

I closed my eyes.

It took a long time to hear about this island. The information came from a trusted name; “If you want a woman the way you want, go there,” he had said. But I didn’t want one woman, I wanted two, and I hadn’t voiced this desire anywhere. Even when we first contacted Madam Elara, she didn’t hesitate; she just said, “It is possible.”

They told me I would see ten women. I could choose the ones I wanted among them.

Ten women.

Beyza had prepared all their files: short summaries, photographs, general information. I had read them, taken mental notes, and formed a picture in my head. But a photo was a photo, a file was a file. Reality was something else.

The jet entered the clouds, Istanbul completely disappeared.

I was going to the island.

And I was going to return with two women.

Since I stepped onto the island, I realized that even the air of this tropical place was different. An armored convoy picked us up from the airport; secrecy was paramount here. When I entered the establishment, I extended my hand to the woman who greeted me.

When the doors opened, the figure walking in immediately caught my attention. I might have looked too young to be the man for this job, but that weight was in my posture and my gaze; the weight of experiences, not years. Beyza, next to me, was silent and professional, already prepared with her notepad in hand.

“Hello, I am Sertan,” I said, gesturing to the person next to me. “And this is my secretary, Beyza.”

Madam Elara shook my extended hand with a measured smile. “Welcome, Mr. Sertan. I am Madam Elara. I am the host of this island,” she said.

I stopped and thought for a moment. “I came here to choose two wives for myself. I want to see your ten best women and choose two from them. Could you move me to an isolated room? I also want you to show me the women one by one.”

She listened to my demands to the end. From the expression in her eyes, I could feel that she found my style different compared to the flashy, rude, or tired men who had come here over the years. My demands were clear, and I maintained the boundaries of respect, but I noticed her trying to read that calculating expression in my eyes that weighed everything.

I moved to the room she directed me to and sat at the head of the table. Across from me was an area that resembled a runway stage. I turned to her again.

“I came here to choose wives for myself. I want to see your ten best and most talented women. An isolated room, the women one by one, a brief introduction for each of them. Their physical features, character, talents. Beyza will take notes.”

“Of course, Mr. Sertan. Everything will be exactly as you wish,” she said.

When she took me into the private room, the elegance of the atmosphere was unmissable. Deep burgundy curtains, soft lighting, and a crystal glass of cold water waiting ready on the table... Beyza opened her notebook and readied her pen. Madam headed for the door and turned to me right before leaving.

“I am bringing the first lady in, Mr. Sertan,” she said.

Ten women came, ten women passed.

Madam Elara introduced each one, briefly and flawlessly. Where they came from, how old they were, what they knew, what kind of person they were. Beyza wrote everything down. I watched, I listened, I didn’t take notes because I didn’t need to; everything was already falling into place in my head.

Natasha, from Russia. Twenty-four years old. Four languages, piano, diplomatic training. Her entrance into the room was silent but heavy, as if the room expanded for her. Ice-blue eyes measured and weighed everything, giving nothing away on her face.

Leila, from North Africa. Twenty-two years old. Music, empathy, the kind of person who reads people in seconds. When she entered the room, the air grew warmer; this wasn’t an exaggeration, it truly felt that way.

Yuki, from Japan. Twenty-six years old. Martial arts and tea ceremonies, the balance of two opposite worlds in the same body.

Isabella, from Latin America. Twenty-five years old. Studied law, knows negotiation, has a flamenco background. There was no pretense in her entrance, but her presence was heavy; dark green eyes looked directly and didn’t let go.

Yasmine, from the Middle East. Twenty-three years old. Violin, language skills, the kind who adapts to any environment but never loses her essence.