The tension in the hallway was palpable. Ozan took slow, controlled steps toward them, his gaze never leaving the guard who dared look at what belonged to him.
"She's mine," he said, voice sharp, eyes dark with fury. "Look at her again, and I'll take your eyes out myself."
Everyone nearby—guards, staff, even Leyla—went still.
The guard muttered an apology and scurried off, almost tripping over his own feet.
Leyla folded her arms, lifting a brow. "That was a bit dramatic, wasn't it?"
Ozan turned to her, his jaw clenched. "Dramatic? No, Leyla. Necessary. You walk around dressed like that, knowing damn well what you do to me—and to every man who sees you."
She stepped closer, now toe to toe with him. "So what? I should walk around in a burqa in your mansion now?"
He growled lowly, eyes scanning her from head to toe. "You don't get it, do you?"
Without warning, he turned to the rest of the staff nearby, voice booming.
"Listen closely—she's not just Mrs. Leyla. She's mine.
Show her anything less than complete respect, and you answer to me."
Everyone nodded quickly, retreating with bowed heads.
Leyla blinked, momentarily stunned by the possessive proclamation. When she looked back at Ozan, he was already watching her again—with heat, with warning, and something dangerous behind his eyes.
"You're playing with fire, Leyla," he murmured, voice low now as he leaned closer, "but so am I."