Narin seemed to get hold of herself, tearing her eyes from Yasmin’s face to look at her son. “Defne is resting and Zeynep is still at the office. Demir came home early to greet you. Everyone knows that you’re expected home today and plan on joining us for our evening meal.”

“Excellent,” Volkan said, seemingly content with her answer.

He led Yasmin through the door and they ascended the stairs to the second floor. The interior of the mansion was decorated in whites and golds with lots of mirrors and pictures of landscapes. Vases filled with fresh flowers decorated every corner and every surface.

The mansion was huge and posh but was decorated with warmth. It threw Yasmin off balance. She’d expected cold, reserved, aloof… like Volkan until his temper ignited. Instead, it looked and felt like a family home.

“Does your whole family live here?” she asked, glancing around as they ascended another flight of stairs to the third floor.

“Yes,” Volkan said, pulling her with him. “Each of us has our own suite. As the eldest son, mine is the largest and takes up the top floor.” He led her to a door where he pulled a key from his pocket and fitted it into the lock. She wondered why he kept his suite locked. Didn’t he trust his family?

Similar to the penthouse in London, Volkan’s suite was painted white and had only a few pieces of art decorating the walls. The furniture was white leather and the tables were glass with white column bases. The floor was light coloured wood with a large white area rug with a red poppy painted on it.

Yasmin hated everything about his suite… or she wanted to. It was too much like him. It even held the faint scent of his cologne.

He gave her a tour, opening doors and waving her through. Off the main living space was a modern kitchen with stainless steel appliances that looked largely unused. He confirmed her suspicion, saying, “I take most of my meals downstairs with my family, but now that you’re in my life, we’ll sometimes eat alone up here.”

That sounded a little too cozy for her liking. She wondered if he expected her to cook. Not that she minded cooking. In fact, she enjoyed a lazy afternoon spent baking with her mother in her family home, but she didn’t enjoy servitude.

Catching her expression, he reassured her. “Either you can cook our meals or we’ll have them ordered in until you can hire a chef.” He took her hands in his and pulled her against his chest. “I don’t want to share you with anyone more than I have to, including my family. I have no expectations that you cater to my culinary needs.”