ꨄ

𝑁𝑂𝑇𝐻𝐼𝑁𝐺 𝑊𝐸 𝐷𝐸𝑆𝐼𝑅𝐸𝐷

𝑁𝑂𝑇𝐻𝐼𝑁𝐺 𝑊𝐸 𝐷𝐸𝑆𝐼𝑅𝐸𝐷
ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴇɢɪɴɴɪɴɢ

There are always people in your life, whether family or just a shop owner that's lived across the street, that would bring out random points of wisdom that never seemed to make sense. For me, it was always my family, written in our genetics that we must be mysterious in our words. My Aunt Mathilde was a woman of words that she often thought of great importance. I never once believed that anything would come of them.

I was born to Turkish parents but lived in Italy with a distant Aunt that I was almost sure had no living relation to me. We had a beautiful home in the countryside, always decorated with fresh flowers from the garden or the village florists. For the most part, life was easy.

On sunny mornings when the air was humid and sweating, we would sit outside, bathing in the golden light that would drift over from the hilltops that surrounded the villa. Midday was beautiful, with the glistening of the water in the garden pond and the buzzing of the bees by my Aunt's favourite flower patch, but it was the late hours that I loved. On fine evenings, Aunt Mathilde and I would sit by the fire on the patio, a bottle of wine opened on the table that separated us. I never wanted for anything. It was a never-ending cycle.

It was on one of these beautiful evenings, a colder one in June, that I remember something Aunt Mathilde had said. We were discussing my leaving, of the travelling I would do thanks to the money that my parents had left. At the time it had been nothing more than advice that I would forget after another glass of her favourite red wine, but I suppose it was far more valuable than I could have ever imagined.

"My darling, Dilara," she'd said, voice dripping with the dramatics that she'd pulled straight from her excess of books. "I'm sad to see you go, I truly am. But I am excited for you to learn to love the world. To see it just as the poets and the authors and the artists do, just as I know you will. And I want you to promise me two things."

At the time, she looked so inspired, as if envious of my position to be able to go to the far off places she could only dream about from between the pages of the books that kept her comfort against the conflicts of the world. Yet as I remember it, she was more wistful than anything, full of a certain kind of grief and sadness that I'd known too well. She must have been in remembrance of my own mother, of the dreams she'd escaped to and inevitably never come back from.

"I want you to promise to enjoy yourself and to never be afraid to live, my dear. You have a big heart hidden all the way underneath your sternness," she said, gaze pointed. "But I want you to promise not to lose yourself in the process. Always remember who you are."

I still remember the feeling of her hand placing itself over my chest, the beating of my heart suddenly becoming louder at her touch.

"A strong, opinionated young woman, with a mind of her own. A sharp tongue and an even sharper brain. Never let anything take that away. You promise me that!" Aunt Mathilde said.

I answered with an agreement to her promise, watching as a frown replaced her loving smile.

"Your dear mother..." Aunt Mathilde trailed off.

She never did manage to finish her sentence or trail of thought. To this day, I still wish she had. And more than that- I wish I'd remembered that promise to my Aunt and made it a promise to myself. But I am my mother's daughter after all, as Aunt Mathilde would most likely say. I have a habit of breaking promises, no matter the intention.

It was February 1920 when I finally got to the Italian coast, the beginning of an adventure of which would last for an unknown time length. It was a selfish thing to do. The war had ended, the entire world was repairing from unimaginable damage, and yet my life was just beginning. I was young then, which was my excuse.

I began my travels with my Aunt's friend Hülya along the Amalfi Coast and then onto Verona, catching my first glimpse of Italy outside of the small villages of the country. The first weeks were stiff between us, and Hülya felt more like a protective shadow clinging to my feet as we roamed the distrust streets. She probably felt the same way about me.

Hülya was an odd girl, and no more than that- she was not yet a woman despite being a year older than me. She was beautiful, her complexion stunning and eyes captivating, but the words that spilled from her plump lips were nothing more than babble. Her lack of knowledge of any other language but Turkish left us in a troubling situation on more than one occasion.

It wasn't until we parted in Milan, that I finally felt like myself, free to wander about the city at my own leisure, taking each day in its stride. With Hülya, everything was planned: each movement of the city, each room we would sleep in and each restaurant in which we would dine. It felt unnatural, in a way that was bound with restraints.

It was there in Milan that I met Amir, a young boy with wild dreams that pulled me in by the waist with his fantastical ideals and fanciful prospects. He spoke perfect Italian and claimed not to have a mother tongue, as he was son to all cultures and languages that he experienced and learned. It was the stories he'd told me the evening we'd first met, of the places he'd lived, travelling on all continents from a young age, that made my eyes widen and stomach flutter.

"I've never seen anything as beautiful as the sunrise over the Mediterranean. Like an old painting, swirls of every colour imaginable. I was so captivated, I almost fell off the end of my boat." He said, all the while intently staring at me with a pleasant smile across his lips.

We sat in a small cafe on the street where he'd bumped into me, right at the end of the bustling market. It was late in the day, the sun past midway in the sky. The lucky hour, where everyone would sleep or eat. I, instead, found myself entwined with the gaze of a boy.

"I'd truly never seen something so beautiful," he repeated, pausing to take a breath. "Until tonight."

The deepness of my blush was indescribable, a mess of bubbly pinks and dark reds. But I'd blushed, all the same, flourishing under the lightweight of his flattering and delightful words.

Amir leaned in first, his hand wrapping around to the small of my back and tugging me closer until I could smell the musky scent of his clothes, hinted with sea salt and the fresh bread we shared before. He embraced me, taking my first kiss effortlessly, his arms snaking around my waist- of which I was grateful for. I felt like I would fall at any moment.

"Tell me you'll come with me," he whispered, his lips brushing against the tip of my nose, faint breath fanning against my warm cheeks.

"Where?" I asked, my voice weakened by his touch.

I didn't need to ask where he was going. I knew that either way, with no destination in my own mind, I would follow Amir to his, uncaring of the fact I'd known him a day. I'd never felt like this before: the exhilarating feel of his hand reaching for my thigh, the quickness of my breath as his lips spoke beside my neck, even the admiration as he spoke about past travels with his unnamable accent. Not once had I been with a boy, and Amir had been so perfect in my clouded eyes. He was everything I craved.

"The beautiful city of Paris. Will you come with me?" He asked, fingertips edging at my chin, letting my gaze. I nodded.

My ice had been melted by his charming warmth. But I suppose it left nothing more than a hollow shell behind. My promise to Aunt Mathilde was already broken.

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To this day, Paris is still the most beautiful city I've ever visited. I can say that I don't remember much of it, other than the Eiffel tower, which I'd only seen once in my three-week stay. But it was the company that made it memorable, or more likely the feelings that sprinted in my heart for each moment.

Before we made our way to Paris, I didn't bother to write to my Aunt as she was expecting. I'd received one last letter from Hülya before she returned home, but decided not to open it until I was finally rested. It remained in my bag for more than a week.

At the time, I didn't care about anything but him. Amir. The boy I'd met only days before. The boy I was already drooling to follow. He took me everywhere I wanted, no matter the exclusivity or the price. Not once, did I think to ask how it was possible. My old self had disappeared in that short space of time, instead replaced by a girl I still can't come to recognise. A foolish girl, too love-struck to see through the alluring front and to the truth.

Not even when he slipped up, his most amiable characteristics snagging on a lie and erupting into a sporadic burst of anger, did I falter in my obsession. I'm ashamed to say I'd thought nothing of it, brushing it aside as fatigue and restless. How wrong I was...

It was midway through our third week together. Our room was messy, overflowing with dirty clothes that were strung across the red, floral carpets. I had no clean clothes, or at least nothing that I hadn't worn before. Amir and I were due to meet friends of his that I'd met in one of the art studios he'd taken me to on one occasion.

Though I was overwhelmed by the empty prestige it radiated, I'd never been overly bothered by the extra luxuries in life until I'd met Amir. I was happy enough wearing a dress I'd already been seen in.

"It's alright, darling. I'll re-wear the dress from last week. Do you know the blue one? You said I looked like that duchess..." I trailed off, seeing the look on his face.

He was scowling. Over the last few days, bags had formed under his eyes, dark, purplish shadows like appeared like bruises. I blinked, my voice and breath quieting as I stared back at him through the mirror. I would have thought the looking glass had distorted his gaze, as I'd never seen him look so disappointed, so angered by such a little thing. A blip in his elegant facade. A fault that I'd ignored.

I spun around on my chair after placing my brush on the desk, letting my half pinned hair fall from my hands. Amir looked as angry as I'd seen in the mirror.

"You can't wear that dress," he said, his jaw set as he moved around the bed to the wardrobe.

"Why not? It's my favourite. I thought you liked it?"

He flicked through the remainder of my clothes that hung on the rail. "You've worn it before- imagine what they will think. Parisians are different. They expect the best. And Mr Allard doesn't like blue. It reflects a colour worn by false women," he said, pulling out a new dress he'd bought. "Mr Allard likes red."

False women. I'd never heard the term before. I didn't know that he said it to insult me.

I forced my painted lips to hold up my smile. "But what does it matter if Mr Allard likes the colour of my dress or not?"

Amir's stern face faltered as he realised his mistake. His eyes widened, his face softening as he came to sit on the cushioned bench beside me. His hand reached toward my chin, taking it in between two slender fingers, turning my gaze toward the mirror.

"Look at yourself," he murmured, his nose brushing against the side of my face.

I let out a breath, brushing my hair away from my face. It was rare I wore my hair down. It was rare that any woman I'd grown up with wore her hair down. But I looked back at myself in the mirror, eyes directed by the line of his fingers on my chin. I looked back at my dark eyes and dropped brows. It was the only time I'd caught a glimpse of my own self, my true self, but I hid it immediately.

"So beautiful," he whispered, his breath tickling at my ear. "Is it such a crime to want to show you off?"

I smirked, feeling his lips press against the base of my neck. I'd never let myself think about how scandalous our actions were. The mere idea of us flaunting about cities across Europe, as we planned to, was unheard of. I dared not think of what my Aunt Mathilde would say. Sinful, at the very least. And worst of all, I'd forgotten myself on the pathway.

Amir stroked the side of my face, his dark hair brushing against my cheek. "So beautiful."

"Why did these friends of yours want to meet us again?" I asked softly, tilting my head so I could look back at him. His eyes were bare of any emotion.

"You charmed them, Dila. Just as you charmed me," he said. "Mr Allard and I have some business to attend to for a moment too."

I nodded, watching as he pulled away, the place where his fingers once touched now cold. I wore the red dress that evening, the fit far tighter than I could cope with, and more modern than anything I'd ever had.

I met more people from around the world than I ever had. There was Mr Allard and his wife, rich Parisians that were looking for a way to build their profits up again after taking a hit in the war. There was Mei Lein, more often not, the most beautiful woman in the room. Florence, an unmarried English woman who had a habit of sticking close to the drinks table. And Lorita, an Italian girl who had only been allowed to the party by promising to keep close to her brother, of which I hadn't caught a single eyeful.

As Amir had said, Mr Allard did like red. His wife and I wore similar dresses, and I did my best to keep within opposite sides of the room to her, even when Amir was talking to her husband. Instead, I spoke to Lorita about Italy, making me realise just how much I missed my Aunt Mathilde.

She talked animatedly, a grin always on her lips and eyes always sparkling. She could have only been about three years younger than me, and yet she spoke of the places she had been, and of the fact that she now lived in America with her brother, leaving her parents split between England and Sicily. The whole dynamic of her family, which I was close to knowing everything about by the end of the night, intrigued me wholly. I missed my own parents and our home by the beach, which I hadn't seen since I was five years old.

By our luck, at the end of the night, Amir introduced me to a business partner I'd already heard of. Mr Allard stuck close by the smaller man's side- a Mr Dickinson, the most English of names I'd ever heard, of whose face perfectly matched the stereotypes of his name. His face was pale, slightly reddened by an unsurprising temper, the line of his moustache stretching out to the darker hollows of his cheeks. I still remember the way his eyes had set upon me, like a lion stalking a deer. It was thanks to that look, that Amir could confirm his new venture in London, with other contacts I could vaguely recall being mentioned. That night, Amir had never loved me more.

𝑁𝑂𝑇𝐻𝐼𝑁𝐺 𝑊𝐸 𝐷𝐸𝑆𝐼𝑅𝐸𝐷

𝑁𝑂𝑇𝐻𝐼𝑁𝐺 𝑊𝐸 𝐷𝐸𝑆𝐼𝑅𝐸𝐷
ꨄ

I tried to keep the back story chapters short but I just love Dila and her story so much so no promises! Luca will come! Also, my writing style is a little different in this book so please tell me what you think! <3