Historic grounds, coffee grounds, all grounds for a wager

“Walk with me, Elena. See what the city will show a newcomer—if it chooses. But for now, finish your coffee. Old Istanbul weighs a guest’s worth in patience.”

He rises, coat brushing velvet, profile softened by latticework shadow. He lets me watch him leave: uncertain, provisional. Will he return? Istanbul and its ghosts will decide.

I sip, feeling the grounds rasp at the cup’s lip, and think: every story is a question disguised as risk, every alliance a wager on the unknown. In places like this, history sits down at your table and waits for an answer.

The coffee’s cooled between my hands. I don’t call for another—waiting has its own current in Istanbul, and the Pera Palace teaches patience in marble and shadow.

Dappled light from street plane trees flickers over the floor’s mosaic, and the distant call to prayer threads faintly through the revolving doors, echoing between domed ceilings and stained glass.

Ekrem eases back into my orbit without commotion—simply a tilt of the room’s gravity. He folds into the gold-velvet chair, his presence concentrating the ambient intrigue of a hotel born for secrets and clandestine deals.

“You’ll want the truth first, before anyone else colours it,” he says, voice pitched so low the room absorbs the vowels. The lobby’s grand chandelier scatters sun across his face; behind him, the echo of countless negotiations lingers.

I tilt my head, an invitation and a challenge. Go on.

He leans in, lowering his voice even further.

“Your friend Sandi—she’s in trouble. The kind that never sees daylight fixed. She’s been mixed up with Tarmo Amellal. Trusted too easily, played by the rules he gave her.”

A calculated breath.

“She turned to the wrong people. Influence trafficking. Sometimes it’s not even illegal here—sometimes it’s feted—until the names carved on marble start catching the wrong sort of light.”

My spine stiffens, just as instinct warned it would.

“And Burçu?” I ask, watching the waitstaff’s practised dance in gilded mirrors.

“She knows. Wants distance. DEİK can weather many storms, but not the kind that drag their name through this hotel’s marble foyer. Intervention risks pulling the whole institution onto the stage—a public play, and the tickets are already paid.”

He glances around; another laconic nod to caution.

“What Amellal did: he sent Sandi in as a pawn, or bait, or both. She ran his play, ignoring your kind of nuance. Now she’s indebted to the wrong hands, and some of them don’t like to hear ‘no.’”

Light in the Pera lounge slides from daylight to burnished gold; outside, the Bosphorus gleams against dusk.

“You think she can be extracted quietly?”

A twitch at his lip: pity, irony.

“Maybe, if you speak the right dialects: official, personal, and the one for back rooms, cut fast before anyone knows the price.”

Silence deepens: chandeliers sway, marble sighs.

I glance down at the dark constellation left in my cup. The future is always hidden in bitter grains.

There’s no need to ask if Ekrem is volunteering. In places like this, men like him are never volunteers—they’re fixtures, called by necessity.

“Then let’s see the angles,” I say, nudging aside my cup.

He pushes back his chair, rising with the quiet assurance of one accustomed to dusk-bound bargains.

“We’ll walk,” he says. “I’ll show you where she stepped wrong. You can decide if she’s worth the risk—and who else you want walking out behind you.”

His words hang, distinct as birdsong in a city of bells. Worth the burn. Last time the question was different; this time, the city itself leans in, listening for the answer.

We emerge from the winding corridor, breathing out of gold-shadowed marble into the rhythm of the street. Cobblestones, still slick from the day’s heat, glisten beneath sodium arc lamps. The sky overhead is bruised and restless, blue-black crowding to the west.

Istanbul thrums—vendors sling simit from battered carts, tea boys whirl with trays gleaming, the alleys pulsing with transaction and sidelong glances.

Old city veins: stories whispered, debts tallied, trust as fragile as glass.

I.Ph.

Epilogue poem of Book I

In five days, I’ll meet him again –
the one I’ve seen just twice,
sharing nine days that felt like seven weeks,
and could stretch into five years.
Even if it doesn’t last,
I wish to hold these feelings for fifty years.
The universe presents its magical gifts
for us to grasp and cherish in the moment,
each day ripe for the taking.
The keys to our mystical realm –
so often hidden by our world’s misplaced values –
appear in unexpected forms,
waiting to be discovered.
His eyes speak louder
than his sensual yet secretive lips,
awakening unknown parts of my being.
Such epic sensations swept me away
after our first dance and kiss…
The journey flows on,
as the balance between heart and mind
mirrors the perfect equilibrium
of having him inside me…
drawing me fully into the realm of the living.
A decade spent in my head
was suddenly transformed
by this blessed collision of possibilities.
Your intense, sensitive nature –
hidden behind an almost serene tranquillity –
melts into sweet gestures that make me shiver.
In this limbo between fear and ecstasy,
I float gratefully,
wondering if this moment can be captured in time…
Time will reveal whether we are human or dancer…
May harmony find and stay with us.

I.Ph.

When AI needs to spell! I can write, the problem for the AI is to understand.

As you were.

I.Ph.