The smell of fire still clung to my hair.
My studio had just risen from the ashes—or rather, the new studio Cem had arranged—and now I stood frozen outside his apartment door, my hand suspended in mid-air, lost in thought. Three in the morning. The only way to discover M's identity at the exhibition was to accept the dance invitation. But I couldn't forget the expression on Cem's face.
"Lara, don't—"
The door opened. Before I'd planned it.
Cem stood in the doorway, hair disheveled, shirt unbuttoned. His eyes darkened when he saw me.
"What are you doing here?"
"I'm accepting the invitation." My voice was unexpectedly resolute.
He grabbed my arm and pulled me inside. The door slammed shut behind us. His apartment was far different than I'd imagined; library shelves crammed with ancient manuscripts and catalogs, walls hung with paintings of questionable provenance. But what caught my attention was the wooden map on the wall—a map of Istanbul's ancient artworks—dotted with red pins.
*Each one a heist.*
"Listen to me," Cem said, still gripping my arm. The heat of his fingers burned against my skin. "You don't know who M is. He's not just a collector. He's a monster."
"The monster who killed my father?" I looked into his eyes. "That's exactly why I'm going."
He released my arm, stepping back several paces while rubbing the back of his neck. "This isn't revenge, Lara. It's suicide."
"What's the difference?"
I left the question hanging. His eyes traveled over me—from the soot stains on my singed clothes to my trembling hands, then to my lips. For a moment, I couldn't breathe.
"The difference," he said in a low voice, dangerously close, "is that with revenge, you live to see the outcome."
I planned to interject, to give him a rational response. But he moved faster than I could think; he touched my arm, this time more gently, almost tenderly.
"You're going to dance with the person who burned down your studio."
My stomach twisted. "How do you know?"
"Because that's how M operates. First he frightens, then he controls, then..." He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to.
I raised my head to look at him. "Then what? He kills?"
"Worse. He makes you feel indebted to him."
A heavy silence settled over the room. Outside, a ship's horn from the Bosphorus returned us to reality.
"This morning I met with my contact at Topkapı," Cem said, walking to his desk and pulling out a file. "About your father's works."
I opened the file with trembling hands. Inside were photographs; paintings bearing my father's signature, paintings I'd never seen in our home. Dates beneath them: 2015, 2016, 2017... all the way to last year.
"This is impossible. My father died three years ago."
"Someone continued signing the paintings after his death." Cem placed his finger on a photograph. "Forgeries. But very good forgeries."
The world swayed beneath my feet. "I... I didn't make these."
"I know." There was a strange expression in his eyes. "But someone is using your technique, your father's signature style."
*M.*
I didn't need to say the name. We both knew.
"What will I do at the exhibition?" My voice dropped to a whisper.
Cem moved closer, so close I could see his chest rising and falling. "You'll dance. You'll smile. And you'll pretend you don't recognize him."
"Then?"
"Then I'll step in."
He could hear my heartbeat, I was certain. "This is just business for you, isn't it? Another trade deal."
Something changed in his face. His hand reached for my face, his thumb brushing my cheek, so slowly it felt like a dream.
"In the beginning, it was," he whispered. "But now..."
A knock at the door. Hard. Urgent.
We both froze. Cem's hand still suspended near my face.
"Professor Kara!" An unfamiliar voice. "Security. Open the door."
Within a second, Cem pushed me behind the bookshelf. "Don't make a sound."
When he opened the door, two security guards appeared.
"What's going on?"
"There's been a suspected theft at the academy. We're checking student records." One of the guards peered inside. "Are you alone?"
"Yes. What was stolen?"
"Several valuable catalogs from the restoration archives. And..." The guard consulted his notepad. "The file of a student named Lara Özkan."
My breath caught.
Cem's voice was ice cold. "I know Lara Özkan. Painting department student. Why would someone steal her file?"
"We don't know, sir. But we saw someone on the security cameras—wearing a black hood—near the art history department. At 2:45 AM."
Twenty minutes ago. Just before I came here.
"I see," Cem said. "I'll report anyone suspicious."
After the guards left, I emerged from hiding. "My file?"
"M is gathering information about you." Cem pulled out his phone, typing rapidly. "This is moving faster than I thought."
"What do we do?"
He looked up. There was a determination in his eyes I hadn't seen before.
"We change the plan. At tomorrow's exhibition, you won't just dance." He pulled out a small box from his desk, retrieving an antique-looking necklace. Silver, delicately crafted, with a small sapphire at its center. "You'll wear this."
"What is it?"
"GPS tracker and audio recording device. Hidden inside a necklace from the 1920s. I know M's passion for antiques—he won't notice it."
When I took the necklace, its coldness made me shiver. "You're using me."
"I'm allowing you to use yourself." He approached again, this time with something other than apology in his eyes. Hunger? Fear? "The distinction matters."
"Not to me."
"Then why are you still here, Lara?"
His question struck like an arrow. Why was I here? Why had I come to his apartment? Why was I continuing to play this game?
*Because you want to find your father's killer.*
*No. Because you want to understand that darkness in Cem's eyes.*
"I—"
My phone interrupted. A message notification. No number, just a symbol: the letter M.
The message was brief:
*"Wear a blue dress tomorrow night. I love to dance. Especially when the daughter follows in her father's footsteps."*
Below it, a photograph. My father's last painting, at the exhibition—the painting that should have burned in my studio.
But in the background of the image was something else.
Today's newspaper. Meaning the painting was photographed before the fire.
"Cem..." My hand was shaking. "M stole my paintings before burning the studio."
Cem took the phone from my hand, examining the photograph. His face went chalk white.
"This isn't just about the paintings, Lara." He zoomed in on the screen. At the edge of the painting, almost invisible, a small detail: a blood stain. "This is a message. M is showing you how your father died."
My stomach turned. "What do you mean?"
"Where your father was killed. It wasn't in his studio." He looked into my eyes. "It was in your current studio."
Impossible. My new studio had been assigned this morning. No one knew before.
"No one knew because," Cem continued, as if reading my thoughts, "M was the one who told me to give you that studio."
The truth hit with brutal force.
"You... you've been helping me on M's orders?"
Cem's silence was the answer.
And in that moment, from outside his apartment door, in the corridor, I heard slow footsteps—approaching, deliberately slow, menacing.
A piece of paper slid under the door.
An invitation. But this time not just for me.
*"Bring Cem too. Family reunions are always special."*