"Nobody has ever measured, not even poets, how much the heart can hold."
ZELDA FITZGERALD
(Ayla)
The stack of books on my floor looked like a miniature tower of Pisa...leaning slightly, completely unbothered by the laws of physics. I was supposed to be organizing them, that was the plan for the evening...rearrange my shelves, maybe alphabetize them, maybe not. I wasn't in the mood to follow rules. I had my music low, the window cracked open, and the soft hum of the TV playing in the background (background noise, really help). Until a familiar voice cut through the air.
"...it's a democratic country. It has nothing to do with a dynasty. People have the right to choose."
I paused, one foot on the stool, a worn-out copy of The Great Gatsby in my hand as i glanced over my shoulder.
Oh, hello.
There he was...the subject of my very minor, absolutely manageable... fascination...?
Demian Demir.
The Demir, Demir!
Sharp suit. Sharper eyes. That easy confidence in the way he leaned forward into the mic, half arrogance, half charm.
I did a full 360, abandoning the books entirely, fully invested and low-key hoping for a scandal.
Look, I wasn't obsessed or anything. Just the normal, healthy amount of curiosity a girl is allowed to have when a man looks like trouble in a sharp suit with the body of a Greek god. He wasn't exactly my type, unless brooding charisma and sharp cheekbones counted as a type. (They totally do, but that's beside the point.)
"Sir, you are one of the major financiers of this campaign. Should we expect to see you in politics soon?"
I smirked to myself. Here we go.
Demian leaned in slightly, smile half-cocked. "Who knows? But I'm not planning to enter politics. I'm happy running Demir Corp. You should ask that question to my brother...he's more interested in politics."
A storm of camera flashes followed.
I swear the cameras loved him more than the girls of our nation.
I chuckled to myself, picking up another book, if he ever chose politics, half the female population would blindly follow him into war if he asked.
I turned my eyes away from the screen, trying to focus on my books, when one of the reports threw another question in his way
"Mr. Demir, should we assume we'll be hearing news of a patch-up soon with Princess Isa?"
Oof.
that's spicy. the type of gossip I lived for
I stopped, arms still cradling a stack of poetry books, and looked back at the screen.
Isa and Demian... the tabloid fairytale that never quite made it to the last page. On-again, off-again, and always dramatic enough to keep the media fed for weeks.
He didn't flinch. Just a momentary pause, a flicker in his eyes if you were looking closely.
"No," he said. "We parted ways a year ago. And now, as you all know, she's engaged. So please, have some respect and don't ask these types of questions."
I stood there for a second longer, watching him.
his face was stone cold as if he'd stopped feeling anything a long time ago And it makes me wonder about how something so loud could end so quietly.
Another reporter raised their hand, voice sharp and unapologetic, "So were you two ever actually serious, Mr. Demir? Or was it just another high-profile fling?"
I didn't even realize I'd stopped breathing until one slipped from my hands and landed on the floor with a soft thud.
That question... it wasn't meant to be cruel, I don't think. Just one of those things people ask when they've never really been in it...in the messy, complicated, quiet parts of love. When all they know are the versions that end in screaming or grand gestures, like that's the only way love can fall apart.
And maybe that's why it hit me the way it did.
People really do love to romanticize messy love stories as if the chaos makes it more real. As if yelling, slamming doors, and dramatic goodbyes somehow prove there was passion.
But truthfully, sometimes love doesn't explode.
Sometimes it fades.
Sometimes it just... stops showing up.
And maybe that's what hurts the most...not the fight, but the silence after it.
I lowered myself to pick up the book, brushing off the cover delicately as I murmured under my breath, "So... they're really done this time, Guess the crown's up for grabs now."
I rolled my eyes at myself right after.
Not that I'm volunteering or anything.
Anyway, it had nothing to do with me.
Well... maybe a little.
Okay... a lot. Not that he knows I exist. Yet.
I have a thing for him.
Well... I have a thing for pretty much every handsome man on this planet, but that's not the point.
This one's different.
I have a more-than-a-little thing for him...the kind that inspired me to write an entire fanfiction I swore I'd never admit to writing.
My dirty little secret.
To this day, I still can't believe I was the one who wrote all those... filthy scenes, the picture-perfect, innocent, respectful Ayla.
Me...the girl who blushes when someone says the word "thigh."
Certainly it wasn't me..
maybe i was possessed by a demon that time.
If anyone ever found out, my carefully crafted "good girl" image would crumble faster than my self-control at a bookstore sale.
And my father?
He would probably go into cardiac arrest.
I can already hear the butler screaming, "Sir, it's the fanfiction!" while my dad clutches his chest and I pack a bag to flee the country.
I can already picture the chaos:
The gasps. The disappointed look. The therapy bills.
But seriously...aside from the harmless crush...I really did love them as a couple.
They had this aura about them. Power and grace. The kind of magnetism that made people stop and watch....beautiful, untouchable, tragic. They looked like power and poetry in a single frame.
It's honestly a pity they broke up.
As I placed the last book back on the shelf, there was a gentle knock at my door. "Miss Ayla," the butler called gently, "your father is waiting for you in the dining room."
I paused.
Then grinned like a child who just heard the ice cream truck.
Dad's home.
I kicked on my flip-flops...mismatched, obviously...and turned off the TV without a second glance.
I flew down the stairs, nearly tripping on the last step but catching myself with all the grace of a startled cat.
I'm twenty-five.
A fully grown, rent-paying adult.
But to my father, I'll always be the little girl who used to crawl into his bed after a bad dream.
And if I'm being honest?
I don't mind that at all.
I never wanted to grow up in his eyes.
"Dad!" I called from the stairs, breathless. "dad! You're home!"
And there he was...standing in the doorway of the dining room, coat still on, smiling at me warmly like I was the best part of his entire day.
I didn't wait. I didn't need to.
I ran straight into his arms and let myself melt into him.
He still wore that same cologne... warm and woodsy, familiar.
It smelled like childhood. Like safety. Like every soft thing I thought I'd lost when Mom died.
After she passed, when I was just fifteen, Dad didn't just hold the house together...he held me together.
He became everything.
And I guess, in our own way, we became everything to each other.
My world began with him... and even now, a big part of it still revolves around him.
"Oh, I missed my little girl," my father murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of my head.
"You said it was a three-day trip, but it took five," I pouted, crossing my arms like I hadn't already forgiven him the second I saw him walk through the door.
"But it's okay... I forgive you. If you brought my favorite chocolates."
He chuckled...that deep, comforting sound I hadn't realized I missed until just now... and reached into his coat pocket.
A sleek, beautifully wrapped box appeared, tied with satin ribbon in my favorite color.
My eyes lit up. "You remembered."
"Of course I did."
We both laughed and made our way to the dining table, slipping into the kind of rhythm that felt like home.
"So, how was your trip, Dad?" I asked, settling into my seat.
"Busy. Boring. Hectic."
His answer came with a sigh, and a faint tiredness settled around his eyes.
I chuckled...but the sound caught in my throat halfway through.
That sudden wave of guilt hit me like a bullet train.
I wanted to help him. I did. I wanted to shoulder even a fraction of what he carried every day.
But God knows I couldn't.
I never wanted the business world. Never wanted to talk in boardrooms or read numbers like scripture.
All I ever wanted was to paint.
And he supported that...wholeheartedly. Never once made me feel like I was choosing wrong.
But still, sometimes...
I felt like I was disappointing him anyway.
"Ayla?"
His voice gently pulled me out of the spiral.
"What are you thinking about?"
I cleared my throat quickly, straightened my shoulders. "Nothing," I said with a smile that was hopefully more convincing than I felt. "Just spaced out."
He studied me for a second, but didn't push.
"What about your painting?" he asked. "Did you finish it? When do I get to see it?"
"Almost," I replied, brightening a little. "And like always, you'll be the first one to see it. Promise."
"Good. Good," he said, nodding, satisfied.
He reached for the glass of water in front of him, and something about the way he moved...a little slower than usual... tugged at my chest again.
"So what did you do while I was gone?" he asked.
"Nothing much," I said quickly, too quickly. "just Read a few books. Painted a bit."
And... wrote fanfiction. God, the fanfiction.
I silently
took a bite of chocolate and avoid the eye contact.
Let's just say, if my dad ever stumbled across those chapters, he'd never recover.
And neither would I.
⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆
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