3rd person POV

The next morning, Hatice had moved swiftly through the halls of the harem, her head bowed, her hands folded before her like any other servant who didn't wanna die.

She had been careful and chill over the past three weeks, making sure that her presence within Hürrem's household was natural, unremarkable, and really nothing that could threaten Hürrem's own status. She had made sure never to draw attention to herself, never to act out of place, or make any mistakes, like how Hürrem once threw out a maid in rage who dropped a single plate that didn't even shatter. 

Hatice swept floors, carried trays, and listened like she was expected by Zevki. Always listening. 

It was not a difficult task, the harem was a place of all sorts of whispers and gossip, where every woman wanted an advantage and to get rid of others, and where secrets were practically worth more than gold.

Hürrem had barely taken notice of her, too preoccupied with greater threats, and of course her own selfish self. That was the woman's weakness, her attention was fixed on her rivals and the mirror, the ones she could see and fight directly. She underestimated the power of a well-placed pawn unless it was one of her own. 

And that was what Hatice was, a pawn of Zevki's, but one carefully positioned to strike at the heart of Hürrem's schemes.

The letter was simple to swap. The scribe, so certain of his secrecy, probably because Hürrem waved a bag of gold in his face every time, had grown careless. He had taken pains to disguise his work, but Hatice had been watching. 

She had followed his movements, learned his habits like she was his shadow. Hatice knew when he received his orders, when he wrote, when the parchment was delivered. And she knew that in the brief moments before the letters reached Hürrem, there was a window of time in when she could act.

She waited until the scribe left his small chamber by the doormen's quarters, stepping away to retrieve more ink, which was surprising because his job seemed to need it all hours of the day. 

Hatice, moving like a shadow, slipped inside. Her heart pounded, but her hands were steady. The bundle of letters lay upon the desk, tied with a thin strip of twine. She did not hesitate. 

With careful fingers, she loosened the knot, slid out the damning letter meant for the Sultan, and replaced it with one of her own. The wording was almost identical, the handwriting nearly perfect. But the meaning, oh, the meaning had changed indeed.

Then, as swiftly as she had come, she was gone. By the time the guy returned, nothing seemed out of place.

When the letter finally reached the Sultan's desk, it no longer spoke of Zevki's supposed treachery. Instead it contained words that suggested Hürrem's ambitions for power and self-advancement, and her so-called superiority over everyone, even the Valide Sultan herself. 

There were even the small notes that suggested that perhaps, one day, Hürrem would challenge even the Sultan himself, and she would totally "win". The language was subtle, carefully crafted, the kind that planted a seed of doubt rather than outright accusation.

Even the malicious actors in Europe working in the Medici, Borgia, and Tudor families would have been impressed by such an effort in their Eastern peers.

Would he, Sultan Süleyman that is, believe it? Perhaps not entirely. But doubt once planted, was difficult to remove.

...

Meanwhile, I waited. Patience had never been my greatest virtue, but I had learned to wield it as a weapon. I reclined in my chambers, my fingers idly stroking the lovely sky blue silk I had donned for today's occasion: The beginning of the end of Hürrem. 

Even though I didn't know how it would all turn out, or if the Sultan would believe it or not, I still felt satisfied in the moment. This was at least one step in the direction towards addressing the problems that threatened to harm myself and my children.

Later that evening, I held my son Murad in my arms, tracing the delicate features of his tiny face that have been developing quite nicely so far in the month since he was born. 

My daughter, his twin, the beautiful Raziye, slept peacefully beside us, and their existence a reminder of what I fought for. Not just survival, but dominance. This harem could only contain one Reina, and that would be me.

Hürrem had given birth to a prince too, sure, but she had made enemies of too many in a shorter time than me. She believed Süleyman's love would shield her forever, but love was a fickle thing, especially in the hands of a ruler. It was a lesson every woman in the harem learned in time.

I quickly took over that job she treasured as her own, the guardian of his love, and it was something I was determined to never return back to her.

Aysel Hatun entered quietly into my rooms with a tense expression on her face, as though she wasn't quite sure of what she had just done. She bowed her head. "It is done, my Sultana."

I nodded. "Good."

The waiting game had begun. I could imagine Hürrem at this very moment, feeling secure, unaware that the very trap she had set was now closing around her instead. Oh, how I longed to see her face when she realized it.

She always put on such an act for us all, now I wanted to watch this drama in the audience, knowing the imminent fate awaiting this ill-fated girl.

But it would take time. The Sultan was not a man who acted rashly, I knew that myself. He would read the letter, he would consider. He might counsel that man, Pargali Ibrahim, or Bali Bey, or some other close male confident. A pasha. Maybe even the Valide. 

Sultan Süleyman might simply dismiss it at first, but the thought would fester, nagging at him in quiet moments. He would look at Hürrem and wonder, was she truly as devoted as she claimed? Did she see him as his superior like she was supposed to, or simply her way to the top?

The Sultan would have to get rid of her for such treasonous ideas.