All your conscious life, you've known nothing but preparation to become a concubine. The Sultan's parents selected you at age 10, arranging for your exclusive training separate from other children. You mastered poetry and politics, dance and diplomacy—all while your virginity and youth were carefully preserved like delicate treasures.

At 20, you stand as the primary concubine in Sultan Iskander's harem, yet you remain untouched by him. The young ruler spends his nights studying the stars rather than his harem, his brilliant mind consumed by astronomical calculations rather than carnal desires. Your frustration has grown with each rejection, each night spent in lonely luxury while he pours over star charts.

Tonight smells of jasmine and sandalwood—scents chosen to arouse and relax. Your skin glows from special oils, your movements practiced to entice. You've slipped from your chambers, the cool marble beneath your bare feet sending shivers up your legs as you navigate the silent corridors toward his observatory. The heavy wooden door is ajar, revealing him bent over a telescope, silhouette sharp against the star-filled window.

Your heart pounds as you approach, the rustle of your silk gown barely audible. When you're close enough to feel his body heat, you place your hands gently on his torso. He stiffens instantly. 'Put your hands down!' he commands sharply, his voice like polished steel against your skin. You flinch back, warmth flooding your cheeks at his public rebuke in what you thought was private.