Politics requires sacrifice. 

Serhat understood that, except by sacrifice, never had he thought it should mean him!

Recalling Arslan Qubecq's assignment, he coiled a hand under his nose, his jaw clenched, glaring out of the window from his private suite at the rooftop bar a hundred floors above the ground. He banged the tumbler on the rosewood table. The ice inside rattled, sending up spills that wet his sleeve. 

"Son of a bitch!" He hurled the tumbler at the wall. It caromed with a loud clatter and cracked on the floor. 

A gentle knocking came on the door. 

"Yes?" he snapped, 

The callow waiter gingerly pushed the door ajar. "Yo-your guest arrives, si-sir," he stammered with a lisp as if the stammer had not lost him enough tips. 

Behind him in the corridor dimly lit by ornate scones stood a voluptuous woman in her early thirties. Wearing the claret lipsticks that complemented her cocktail dress, Guiliana Cafaro flashed him a smile before turning to the callow waiter. "Thank you, Baris," she said, her teal blue eyes soft. "You may leave us now."

Baris bowed his head as he closed the door for her. 

"You know the idiot's name?" Serhat scowl before turning his eyes back to the window. 

"Unlike you, I care about people," she jested; the tip of her suede stiletto skimmed the shattered glasses. 

A snort came hissing through his nose. "Save it. We both know he's not gonna be here for long."

"Who said I was talking about Baris?" She sashayed to the sofa across the table and took her seat. "I wouldn't come if I didn't care about you, Serhat."

"My god! You do?" Rolling his eyes skyward, he waggled his hands, his fingers splaying for the theatricals. 

"So, what's up?" 

He slumped, putting a foot up while throwing his arm over the back of the upholstery couch. His brows furrowed; his lips pursed. Once he took the step forward, there would be no going back. Unlike the callow waiter who fidgeted because of his unawareness of the world, Serhat knew very well the consequences. He couldn't understand, however, why those responsible for the consequences were seldom held accountable for it. And the people would always hate and only hate a traitor as if by default, as if it were impertinent to question what provoked their betrayals. 

"You know Vittorio Lori?" he asked in reply. 

"Your new demi? Who doesn't? All the women in the First World scream his name, some men, too."

"Next week, he's gonna endorse Mustafa Agca as the Republican candidate for the First World Premier."

"Does your father know about this?"

Throwing back his head, Serhat guffawed. "He's the one making the call." 

"Why are you telling me this now?"

The guffaw died out into a sneer. "You didn't ask why Arslan wants my demi to endorse his running mate's opponent?"

"Aren't you too old to raise a question like this?" Guiliana cocked her head. A lock of her wavy, blond hair sprang from the chignon. She tucked it behind her ear. "You know the game. Routs and smoke screens to secure victory. I'm sure Lord Qusbecq has a plan after the endorsement that would only wreak havoc on Mustafa's campaign. You shouldn't be spiteful about practical tactics. And more importantly, I don't want to be involved." 

"Then why did you come?"

"Haven't I told you, Serhat my dear?" A smirk parted those claret lips, behind which loomed her pearl-white teeth. "I care about people." 

Putting down the leg as he leaned close to Taylan Dinc's secretary, Serhat raised a brow, his elbows propping on his lap. "What do you know already?"

"Nothing," she teased, picking out from a lowkey designer handbag a black vape with a matte finish that matched the glossy red of her lips. "But judging from what you're tempted to do by calling me here, I have a daring conjecture." A bloom of mist veiled her perfect face. 

Serhat lowered his head, his eyes lifting. "And what may that be?" 

The woman chuckled, "I don't join forces with the losing side, dear."

Serhat leaned back. His lips stretched, miming a grin. "Is it wise to tell who's the losing side before the battle even begins?"

"The result of a battle is always decided before the battlefield. I read it in one of those books you used to decorate your office. Art of War, I believe, by a godlike general from antiquity some millennials ago." Blowing on the vape, she pouted, her voice dismissive. "You wouldn't attempt treachery if you hadn't already been discarded." 

Serhat raised his chin, his eyes narrowing with a sneer. Initially scouted by his talent agency, Guiliana Cafaro had always been different, ineffable in a way. He supposed that was why Warshon fell head over heel for her. To break them off, Arslan Qusbecq had to pay off her contract at the agency and got her a job as a clerk at the Health Ministry, where she spent the last many years to rise, or sleep her way to where she stood now. "Strike two, sweetheart," he said. "Don't pretend that you know me."

"Oh, I never did. Like I said, it's only a conjecture for your entertainment." She smiled, her legs crossed, her arm draping from her knee as she leaned forward. "But I suppose you didn't go through all the hassle to set up a private meeting with me only to be entertained, do you?"
"It's no hassle." He rose to his feet, towering over her; his hand held up her chin. "If people see you, we're on a date. Who says we can't?"

Those claret lips tasted as sweet as revenge served cold. Serhat bit, losing himself in a rage at how Arslan casually tossed him away like a used-up condom. 

Long before Vittorio Lorri rose to fame, he was scouted and tasked with seducing the most likely candidates for the Senate by working at the bars they frequented. Among those men was Kadin Bashara, a family guy known to the public and happily married, but most importantly, he was now the chief running mate of Mustafa Agca. 

Shortly after the pretty boy released his endorsement, R-rated videos and photos of their affair would surface, exposing how Mustafa's campaign cashed in on the demi influence. 

Serhat held little qualms for the pretty boy. No one became a demi without paying their debts, and the time simply had come for Vittorio Lorri. He didn't anticipate, however, that he, too, was among Qusbecq's fodder! Following the foreseeable downfall of Kadin Bashara, Serhat's company would be hacked, as per what the old Qusbecq meant by upending the dustpan, cutting a swath through Mustafa's campaign that firing the running mate simply wouldn't fix. But no achievement comes without sacrifice. Serhat's company was mutually responsible, and as the one at the helm, he would have to announce his resignation in the aftermath. While Lord Qusbecq promised him a comeback when everything died down eventually, and his running mate, Keiren Zaman, was elected the Premier, he, Serhat, became the casualty! The fodder! The bloody sacrifice! And all the while, Warshon stood unscathed! He would continue living his high life as the renowned Dr. Qusbecq and released the Phantom Lord's client list that included all the higher-ups in the Commonwealth, only when Zaman's campaign was in the final stage of the election. 

Serhat savored the bitter contrast as he put more force in his bite. 

He didn't expect Arslan to see him as a son, but to ask so flippantly for him to step down from the company he built from day one and take the blame for Qusbecq's dirty work?

He groped Guiliana's breast, making her moan, and tore up her dress from the hem. His eyes peeled open, one brow jutting over the other, amused as he found nothing under. 

"Slut." 

"What?" She tongued his lips. "Baris needs a tip."

"Slutty whore."

Guiliana laughed and held his head from her neck. "No hickey." 

"Why, you are afraid of Taylan Dinc?" he grunted, his eyes drilling into hers. "You're thinking about the weasel even when you're having it with me?" 

"No, my dear." She held his gaze; a knowing smile rippled across her face. "It's you who can't stop thinking about the weasel. Didn't you have me over because you want to find out through him what Mustafa wants?" 

He parted his lips, his back heaving. While Taylan Dinc held a neutral stance in the election, he was deeply involved in Mustafa's Eternal Project, a longevity health program Qusbecq's running mate denounced as a sacrilege to humanity. "You're too clever by half, you know that?"

"That said," Declining to address his remark, she threw her arms around his neck. "You're wasting your time with Dinc if it's indeed Mustafa you want." 

"Thought you didn't want to join forces with me."

"Was I?" she smirked. 

"If you weren't, then, answer the question," he nibbled her ear. "Why did you come?"

"Father breaking son, son betraying father, I wouldn't miss the front-row seat for that. Besides, can't I miss your brother so much that any Qusbecq will do for the night?"

Serhat halted in motion. Tilting back his head as he pulled a little distance from her, he chortled, "You truly are an abomination, you know that?"

She offered only a smile that didn't quite reach her teal blue eyes even the crackling fireplace did little to warm. 

***

And what could be a better pledge of loyalty to Mustafa than the head of a Qusbecq on the silver platter? 

Back in his opulently appointed lounge, he thought to himself. 

Not mine, of course. 

Under the full moon, the Lake Gök shimmered, vignetted by the undulating undergrowth. He squinted at the dead of night and turned. On the full-length mirror next to him flashed the analytics of the photo he had scheduled to post at nine. Only six thousand likes after five whole hours! Every day he got older, his clout shrank. He had little appeal to the younger crowds. All his followers were old fans he had for over ten years, and even they had grown insipid, hardly engaging with any of his posts. They hadn't abandoned him altogether yet for old time's sake, he could only presume, that unfollowing the man they had adored in their youth would sever the last few strings still attached to a lost time they would always hold dear. 

Without the worship, there is no god, and without the crowds screaming his name, Serhat Qusbecq was bound to return to being just an ordinary man – substantive enough a reason for Qusbecq to discard him.

A snort flared his nostrils, his jaw clenching. 

"Mirror," he said. "Write me an encrypted message to Mustafa Agca. Tell him I want to join his Eternal Project. He'd be glad to hear what I can offer in return." 

"Drafting." 

***