Page 25 of Scarlet Chains
“Slava is still sleeping, but I can see you’ll be perfectly fine with our son.” The words are thrown over her shoulder as she heads for the door, like an afterthought. Like reassuring herself more than me.
They don’t kiss him goodbye. They don’t even look toward the stairs where he’s sleeping. They just… leave.
And just like that, they’re gone. The limo pulls away with them inside— a sleek black beast with an engine that purrs— leaving me standing in their opulent foyer, surrounded by cold marble and the echoing silence of their absence.
Wow,I think, watching their car disappear down the tree-lined drive.They didn’t even wait for their son to wake up before leaving him for two weeks with a stranger.
The thought sits in my chest like a stone. I’ve barely met this baby, but my heart already breaks for him. What kind of parents are so eager to escape their own child?
The house feels different without them— larger somehow, and eerily quiet. Without Elena’s expensive heels and Leonid’s phone calls, the silence is almost oppressive. I find my way to the sitting room, where multiple baby monitors are positioned like security cameras. The screens show different angles of Slava’s nursery in crystal-clear high definition, and there he is— a tiny figure in a crib that looks enormous around him.
He’s sleeping peacefully, one small fist curled around a teddy bear that’s almost as big as he is. The bear is well-loved, I notice— not pristine like everything else in this house. Its fur is slightly matted in places, one ear more chewed than the other. But even in sleep, there’s something about his posture that breaks my heart. He’s clutching that bear like it’s his anchor, like it’s the only constant thing in his small world.
Is this what an unimaginable amount of money does to people?
The question echoes in my mind as I watch him on the monitor. I think about my own father— how he used to sing me to sleep every night, how he knew exactly which book would make me laugh, how he never missed a bedtime even when he was exhausted from surgery.
Does it make you forget that your child needs more than a schedule and a bottle?
On the screen, I see him stir, little legs kicking against his sleep sack. His eyes flutter open— eyes that seem too knowing for a baby— and he rubs them with tiny fists before looking around his room with the confused expression of someone trying to remember where they are. There’s something almost heartbreaking about the way he pauses, like he’s listening for voices that aren’t coming.
I don’t want him to feel alone when he fully wakes up. The thought propels me up the stairs, my footsteps muffled by carpet so thick it feels like walking on clouds. The hallway is lined with more art, more expensive furniture that no one ever uses. The second door on the right opens to reveal a nursery that looks like something from a magazine— perfectly coordinated colors, expensive furniture arranged with mathematical precision, toys that still have their tags.
It’s beautiful. It’s also sterile as a hospital room.
Slava is sitting up in his crib now, still clutching his teddy bear. When he sees me, his face lights up with a smile so immediate and genuine that it takes my breath away. It’s like sunrise breaking through clouds— pure, unfiltered joy at seeing another human being.
“Good morning, little one,” I whisper, approaching his crib slowly.
The feeling hits me again— that strange sense of recognition, like we’ve known each other longer than the brief meeting yesterday. My hand moves instinctively to my belly, where my own little secret is growing. The pregnancy hormones must be making me more emotional, more maternal. Making me see connections that aren’t really there.
That has to be it.
Slava pulls himself up to standing, wobbling slightly on unsteady legs. His dark hair is mussed from sleep, sticking up in adorable tufts that make him look like a tiny cartoon character. He falls back onto his diaper-padded bottom with a soft thump, then immediately tries again, this time reaching his small arms toward me and babbling something in his own private language.
“You want out of there, don’t you?” I ask, lifting him from the crib.
He feels so solid and warm in my arms, smelling like baby powder and innocence and something else I can’t identify—something that makes my chest ache with familiarity. His weight settles against me perfectly, like he belongs there.
“Ma-ma-ma,” he babbles, patting my cheek with one small hand.
“Oh, sweetie, I’m not mama. I’m Ilona. Can you say Ilona?” I sink onto the floor and sit cross-legged on the soft nursery rug, placing him in front of me.
“I-lo,” he responds, which is close enough to make me smile.
“That’s right, I-lo. I’ll be your I-lo for a while.”
He immediately begins his baby exploration routine— crawling a few steps away from me, then looking back to make sure I’m still there. It’s like he’s testing the boundaries, seeing if I’ll disappear like everyone else in his life apparently does. When he spots a colorful ring stacker, he makes a beeline for it, hisdetermination both hilarious and endearing. He grabs it, shakes it with surprising strength, then promptly tries to eat it.
“No, no, baby. Like this.” I show him how to stack the rings, but he’s more interested in banging them against the floor, delighting in the noise they make. Each thump echoes through the quiet room, and his laugh bubbles up from somewhere deep in his chest.
As we play, my mind drifts to dangerous territory— thoughts of the family I could have had. The baby growing inside me. The father who will never know about either of us. If things had been different. If he hadn’t—
What the fuck, girl?
What the hell are you thinking?
He killed your father!
