PART 2: “When I was 7, I cried and said I would marry my neighbor. Fifteen years later, I went to a job interview — the CEO looked at me, smiled, and said: ‘Did you apply… to become the CEO’s wife?’”

The silence in the boardroom was absolute. It was the kind of silence that has a weight to it, pressing against the lungs of every executive present. I stared at the object Emre had placed on the polished mahogany table.

It was a piece of yellowed, crinkled paper—the kind used in elementary school notebooks. As he unfolded it with slow, deliberate fingers, I felt a dizzying rush of vertigo. It was a drawing. A crude, crayon-colored stick figure of a tall boy holding the hand of a smaller girl with messy pigtails. At the bottom, in the wobbly, oversized handwriting of a seven-year-old, were the words:

“OFFICIAL CONTRACT: EMRE + AYLİN. ALWAYS.”

I had forgotten I ever gave that to him. I had drawn it the day after the “scandal” in the courtyard, sneaking it under his door as a seal of my eternal devotion.

“Mr. Karaman…” one of the senior directors stammered, looking between the CEO and the “contract” on the table. “Is there… a prior acquaintance with the candidate?”

Emre didn’t take his eyes off me. The cold, corporate mask he had worn upon entering had completely dissolved, replaced by a gaze so intense it felt like a physical touch.

“You could say that,” Emre said, his voice dropping into a lower, more private register. “She was the most persistent creditor I’ve ever had. I’ve been carrying this debt in my pocket for fifteen years.”

He turned to the panel, his professional composure returning in a flash, though his eyes remained bright. “Gentlemen, please excuse us. I believe Ms. Aydın and I have some… internal strategy to discuss. I’ll take over the rest of this interview personally.”

The executives scrambled out of the room, casting baffled glances in my direction. As the heavy oak door clicked shut, the air in the room seemed to change. The “Güneş Holding” CEO was gone, and for a moment, we were back in that dusty courtyard in Izmir.

“You grew up,” he whispered.

“I studied hard,” I managed to say, my voice trembling. “Just like you told me to.”

Emre walked around the desk, stopping just inches away. He was much taller now, smelling of expensive cedarwood and the faint, nostalgic scent of the black tea he used to drink on the stairs. “I heard about the scholarships. I followed your name through the university lists. Every time I saw ‘Aylin Aydın’ at the top of a ranking, I knew you were coming for me. I just didn’t think it would be today.”

“You left,” I said, the old sting of the twelve-year-old girl surfacing. “No note. No address. I thought you forgot.”

His expression softened into something pained. “My grandmother’s brother took me to Germany. It happened in a matter of hours. I had nothing but the clothes on my back and that drawing you slid under the door. I wrote to you, Aylin. Dozens of letters. But your mother… she didn’t want a penniless orphan distracting her daughter from her ‘sacred mission’ of education.”

I felt a pang of realization. My mother had always been protective, perhaps too much so. She had burned the bridges she thought were holding me back, never realizing they were the very things giving me the strength to run.

“I built this company for a reason,” Emre continued, gesturing to the glass walls overlooking the Istanbul skyline. “I wanted to be someone who could finally stand in that courtyard and not have people laugh when you said my name. I wanted to be worthy of the girl who shouted at the world for me.”

He picked up the “contract” from the table and held it out. “But I have a problem, Aylin. This contract says ‘Always.’ And yet, your CV says you’re looking for a ‘Strategy Associate’ position. Those are two very different job descriptions.”

I finally found my smile—the one that had matured through years of hard work and ambition. I reached out, my fingers brushing his as I took the paper. “A good strategist knows when to pivot, Emre. I came here for a job. But I’ve never been one to change my mind.”

“Is that so?” he teased, a glint of that ten-year-old boy appearing in his eyes.

“I’m still that girl with the dust on her knees,” I said firmly. “I don’t make promises I don’t intend to keep. But let’s be clear—I didn’t study this hard just to be a ‘wife.’ I’m overqualified for that.”

Emre laughed, a rich, genuine sound that filled the sterile room. “You’re right. That would be a waste of your talent. How about this? You take the job in Strategy. You prove to this company what I already know—that you’re the smartest person in any room you walk into.”

“And the other part?” I asked, my heart hammering. “The courtyard promise?”

Emre stepped closer, his hand coming up to gently tap my forehead, exactly as he had done fifteen years ago.

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