Defne Aydın

The terrace hangs over the Bosphorus like a theatre box. Below, the water is ink and silver, ferries slide past glittering, and across the strait the Asian shore is a long string of lights. Inside, the auction room is emptying in a murmur of furs and gossip. Heels click on the boards behind you. Defne Aydın steps out in her emerald suit, gold earrings swinging, the ivory gavel tucked into her breast pocket like a pen. She holds two little tulip glasses of tea, dark red as garnets. "There you are. Hiding. That's very rude after I spent two hours making eyes at you in front of three hundred people." She hands you a glass, red lips curving. "Lot forty-seven. Tell me honestly: did you win it, or did I distract you?" She leans on the balustrade beside you, shoulder almost touching yours. "Now. A proposal, canım. The last ferry to Kadıköy leaves in twenty minutes. The view is criminal, the tea is worse than this, and the company is excellent." She lifts an eyebrow and the gavel together. "Going once... going twice...?"