Sparks fly, or maybe it’s just the sheer wattage of Sarper’s narcissus complex. Despite the red flags flapping in a hurricane of insecurity, Shekinah dives headfirst into a long-distance relationship.

Fast forward to Turkey. Shekinah arrives, wide-eyed and optimistic, only to be greeted by a shrine to Sarper’s conquests – a shelf overflowing with empty bottles, each one a silent testament to a broken heart (or a quick hookup, depending on Sarper’s interpretation).

This, of course, is met with Shekinah’s patented brand of outrage. Not outrage at the blatant disrespect, mind you, but outrage that anyone would DARE question Sarper’s ability to be a faithful husband.

Here’s the beauty of the Shekinah situation: she wields the shield of feminism like a Chanel purse – a trendy accessory deployed only when convenient. Slut-shaming is wrong! Unless, of course, it’s directed at the unfortunate souls who dared to share a protein shake with her man.

Her possessiveness is Vesuvius erupting, spewing lava-hot jealousy while simultaneously demanding the world accept Sarper’s Casanova act as ancient history.

The hypocrisy is truly breathtaking. Shekinah wants the happily-ever-after complete with white picket fence, 2.5 kids, and a husband who wouldn’t recognize a Victoria’s Secret model unless she was hawking Botox. All this, while clinging to a man whose charm offensive resembles a frat party brochure.

But hey, let’s not forget the real villain here: Sarper’s past. Those 2,500 women are apparently a shadowy cabal conspiring to destroy Shekinah’s fragile fantasy. Never mind that Sarper actively brags about his conquests, the blame is conveniently shifted.

So, the next time you find yourself sucked into the vortex of 90 Day Fiancé, take a moment to appreciate Shekinah. She’s a walking, talking contradiction, a testament to the fact that sometimes, love truly is blind (and deaf, and probably has a few trust issues to work through).