Page 2 of Scarlet Chains
The driver is waiting outside customs— a quiet man who takes one look at my face and doesn’t attempt conversation. Smart. I settle into the back seat of the Mercedes and watch Budapest’s late-night streets blur past. The city looks different through the tinted windows, more foreign somehow. Like I’ve been gone for months instead of days.
During the drive, I plan what I’ll say to Ilona. How I’ll explain about Galina without revealing too much about the life I used to live. How I’ll tell her about Slava without breaking down completely. She deserves to know why I’ve been carrying this grief around like a stone in my chest.
The thought of seeing her again creates a warmth in my chest that the vodka couldn’t manage. She’ll be sleeping when I get home, but maybe I’ll wake her. Maybe I’ll pull her into my arms and breathe in that vanilla scent of her hair until the world makes sense again.
The house greets me with silence.
Not the comfortable quiet of people sleeping, but something else. Something wrong. I drop my bag in the foyerand listen to the emptiness settle around me. No soft sounds from upstairs. No hum of the refrigerator or whisper of air through the vents. Even the regular outdoor night bird sounds have gone silent.
“Ilona?” My voice echoes off the marble floors, bouncing back from the high ceilings. “Melor?”
The echo mocks me with its emptiness.
I move through the ground floor first, checking the kitchen where I expected to find evidence of dinner— maybe a plate left in the sink or the lingering scent of whatever she’d cooked. Nothing. The granite counters are spotless, the dishwasher empty. It’s as if no one has lived here for days.
The living room is equally sterile. Cushions arranged perfectly on the sofa, not a single book or magazine out of place. This isn’t how Ilona leaves a room— she’s neat but lived-in, always leaving small traces of herself behind. A coffee mug on the side table. A throw blanket draped carelessly over a chair arm.
I take the stairs two at a time, my pulse beginning to quicken. Her bedroom door stands open— unusual for any time of day. She’s private about her space, always closes the door even when she’s not inside.
I flip on the light and my stomach plummets.
Empty. Not just empty— cleaned out. The dressing room door hangs open, revealing bare hangers. I pull open dresser drawers one by one, finding nothing but dust and old drawer liner. Even her toiletries are gone from the bathroom— the vanilla-scented lotion, the expensive perfumes I bought for her, the delicate bottles of “woman stuff” that used to crowd the marble counter.
This isn’t someone who stepped out for a walk. This is someone who packed everything they owned and disappeared.
Where the fuck is she?
I pace back to the hallway, running my hands through my hair as I try to make sense of this. Melor should still be here— I left him to watch over her, to make sure she was safe while I was gone.
Where the fuck is he?
I stride down the hall to the guest room he’s been using. The door is closed, which gives me a moment of hope until I push it open. His things are still here— clothes in the closet, toiletries in the bathroom, his laptop charging on the desk. But the bed hasn’t been slept in, and there’s no sign of him anywhere.
My phone feels heavy in my hand as I pull it out. Ilona’s number is at the top of my recent calls list. I press it and pace back toward her empty room while it rings.
Once. Twice. Then her voice, distant and professional:You’ve reached Ilona. Please leave a message.
Blyad.
I try again, wearing a path in the carpet between her bathroom and the window. Same result. On the third attempt, I don’t even get the rings— just straight to voicemail. Her phone is either dead or turned off.
The panic spreads through my chest. Ilona doesn’t turn off her phone. She’s too responsible, too careful. She checks it compulsively, always worried about missing something important.
Something has happened to her. Or someone made something happen.
I need to find Melor. Now.
I march back downstairs, taking them three at a time now. The missed calls from Melor suddenly make perfect sense— he was trying to tell me something went wrong. Something he couldn’t handle on his own.
I dial his number while pacing the length of the living room, from the fireplace to the windows overlooking the city.
“Melor,” I bark the moment he picks up.
“Bozhe moy, finally!” His voice is tight with stress. “I’ve been trying to reach you for hours.”
“I was flying.” I stop pacing and grip the phone tighter. “Where is Ilona?”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you,bratok. She’s…” He hesitates, and that pause sends cold dread racing down my spine.
