Chapter 2: The Painter's Confession
The scent of Hande’s perfume—citrus and sun-warmed earth—still clung to Amartya’s shirt as he stared out at the city’s electric bloom. That hug. It had been… different. Longer. Tighter. Like she was clinging to driftwood in a storm. He rubbed his sternum absently, where her heartbeat had hammered against his ribs. What was that? The question buzzed like a trapped fly against glass. Before he could dissect it further, the soft chime of the main entrance echoed through the atrium.
Tuba.
She drifted in like smoke, a stark contrast to Hande’s decisive click of heels. Barefoot, her toes dusty from her studio floor, she wore paint-splattered linen trousers and a loose, ink-stained tunic. A large canvas, wrapped in rough burlap, was tucked under her arm. Her dark eyes, usually dreamy and distant, sharpened as they found him on the terrace. A slow, warm smile spread across her face.
"You look lost in thought, aşkım," she murmured, joining him. Her voice was softer than Hande’s, a low hum. She leaned her hip against the cool glass railing, studying his profile. "Or just lost?"
"Neither," Amartya lied, forcing a grin. He gestured at the wrapped canvas. "Another masterpiece for the Agnihotri collection?"
"For you," she corrected gently, placing it carefully against the railing. "It’s the cityscape at dawn. From your eastern balcony. The light… it felt like you." Her fingers brushed the burlap covering. "Hungry? I brought mercimek köftesi. Fresh."
"You’re an angel," he sighed, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. Tuba’s quiet presence was a balm. "Hande brought gözleme earlier, but I could always eat yours."
A flicker, almost imperceptible, crossed Tuba’s face at Hande’s name. Her smile tightened at the corners. "Hande was here?" She kept her tone light, casual, as she unwrapped the lentil balls nestled in vine leaves. The sharp, clean scent of lemon and parsley filled the space between them.
"Yeah," Amartya said, accepting a köfte. He bit into it, savoring the earthy spice. "She came straight from a client meeting. Looked incredible. All sharp lines and storm-cloud silk." He chuckled, oblivious to the way Tuba’s knuckles whitened around the food wrapper. "She practically tackled me with a hug when Mum and Dad left. Held on like… like she was anchoring herself." He shook his head, a bemused smile playing on his lips. "Honestly, Tubs, it was… intense. Comfortable, though. Weirdly comfortable. Like I could just… fall asleep right there if she kept her arms wrapped around me." He took another bite, lost for a moment in the memory. "And her smell? God. It’s… addictive. Like sunshine after rain."
Silence. Thick and sudden. Amartya glanced up. Tuba wasn’t looking at him. Her gaze was fixed on the distant city lights, her jaw set. The air crackled, charged with something cold and sharp.
"Intense?" Tuba finally echoed, her voice unnaturally flat. She turned her head slowly. Her eyes, usually pools of calm, held a brittle hardness. "That sounds like Hande. Always… performing. Especially around you." She picked at a fleck of paint on her tunic. "Did she tell you about the zoning board chairman? The one she charmed into approving her waterfront design? Everyone at the Architects' Guild knows. They whisper. How she uses… certain assets… to get her way." Tuba’s lips curled into a thin, unpleasant line. "It’s practically her signature move. Flirt, flash a smile, get what she wants. Men are so easily… distracted."
Amartya froze, the köfte halfway to his mouth. He stared at Tuba. The words hung in the air, ugly and discordant. They didn’t fit. Not with the Hande who meticulously explained load-bearing structures, who argued passionately about sustainable materials, who’d smoothed his brow with such genuine concern hours ago. "Hande?" he asked, disbelief coloring his deep voice. "Flirting to get permits? Tuba, that’s… that’s ridiculous. She’s brilliant. She doesn’t need tricks."
Tuba flinched as if struck. The brittle mask slipped, revealing raw, seething jealousy beneath. "Brilliant? Or just clever?" she snapped, her voice rising. "You think you know her? The real her? She’s calculated, Amartya. Every move. That hug? That ‘addictive’ smell?" Her laugh was harsh, jagged. "Probably practiced. Designed to make you feel exactly what you’re feeling right now. She knows exactly what she’s doing with you!"
Amartya dropped the uneaten köfte onto the wrapper. He stood up straighter, his easy charm replaced by a cool, assessing stillness. He looked at Tuba – really looked – at the furious flush staining her cheeks, the way her chest rose and fell too quickly, the venom twisting her usually serene features. A slow, disbelieving laugh escaped him, low and humorless. "Wow," he breathed, shaking his head. "Okay. That’s… wow, Tubs. Where is this coming from? Hande’s our friend."
"Your friend!" The words burst from Tuba, raw and desperate. She instantly looked horrified, clapping a paint-stained hand over her mouth. Tears welled in her eyes, but anger still burned behind them. "I just… I don’t want you fooled. She’s not… she’s not worthy of you." The last words were a choked whisper.
Amartya didn’t believe the lies for a second. But the sheer, naked fury in Tuba’s eyes? That was undeniable. It was a glimpse into a storm he hadn't known existed beneath her calm surface. It unsettled him deeply. "Hande is kind, talented, and fiercely loyal," he stated quietly, his voice firm. "Whatever you think you know, Tuba, it sounds like gossip. Ugly gossip." He gestured towards the untouched food. "Thanks for the köfte. They’re delicious. As always."
The dismissal was gentle but absolute. Tuba stared at him, the fight draining out of her, replaced by a crushing wave of humiliation and defeat. Her shoulders slumped. She looked down at her paint-splattered clothes, then at the beautiful, rejected canvas leaning against the railing. Without a word, she snatched up the burlap-wrapped painting, clutching it to her chest like a shield. Her bare feet made no sound as she turned and fled back through the terrace doors, a silent, wounded ghost disappearing into the gleaming vastness of the mansion.
Amartya watched her go, the taste of lentils and lemon suddenly sour in his mouth. The terrace lights flickered on automatically, casting harsh shadows. The comfortable silence he’d shared with Hande earlier felt like a distant dream. Now, the air vibrated with the echo of Tuba’s venomous words and the chilling certainty of her jealousy. He ran a hand through his hair, staring at the spot where she’d stood. Two hugs. Two friends. One leaving warmth and confusion, the other leaving only cold anger and a trail of ugly lies. The intricate, easy harmony of his world felt abruptly, dangerously out of tune. He shivered, though the night air was warm.