Page 31 of Scarlet Chains
“Good. Now tell me more about this little boy. What makes him so special?”
And so I do. I tell her about Slava’s laughter, about the way he explores everything like a tiny scientist, about how he’s learned to say “I-lo” for my name. I tell her about our morning walks in the garden, how he gets excited every time he sees a bird, how he falls asleep holding my finger through the crib bars.
I don’t tell her about the hollow feeling in my chest when I think about leaving him. I don’t mention the way his parents talk about him like he’s a business expense. I don’t describe the growing certainty that this child— this beautiful, innocent child— deserves so much more than what he’s getting.
“He sounds like an angel,” she says when I finally run out of words.
“He is,” I murmur, glancing at a nearby baby monitor.
We talk for another few minutes— about her book club, about the weather, about small things that feel enormous when filtered through the distance between us. But underneath it all, I can hear something in her breathing that sets my nerves on edge.
There’s something wrong. The realization sits in my stomach like a stone, cold and heavy and impossible to ignore.
The grief over losing Dad.
Trying to pay his debts.
Working too hard…
“I should let you rest,” I finally say, though what I really want is to keep her on the phone all night, to hold onto her voice like a lifeline.
“Sleep well, sweetheart. And remember— I love you.”
“I love you too, Mom.”
The line goes dead, leaving me alone in the enormous kitchen with nothing but the hum of expensive appliances and the weight of my own thoughts.
I check the monitor yet again— Slava is sleeping peacefully, one arm thrown over his head in complete abandon. The sight should comfort me, but instead it makes my chest ache with something I can’t name.
Love,whispers a voice in my head.It’s love. And you’re already in too deep to climb out.
Standing there in the pristine kitchen of a house that isn’t mine, watching a child who isn’t mine on a monitor, I realize that Elena and Leonid were right about one thing— I will stay. Not for the money, not for the security, but because that little boy upstairs has claimed a piece of my soul, and I can’t imagine letting anyone else hold it.
Even if it breaks my heart in the process. Even if it means I’ll have to watch him grow up wondering why his parents’ love feels so conditional, so distant. Even if it means falling in love with a life that was never meant to be mine.
I press my hand against my stomach again, thinking about the child growing there— Osip’s child— and wondering if love is always this complicated, this sharp-edged and dangerous.
Outside, the garden sleeps under moonlight, beautiful and cold and perfectly maintained. Just like everything else in this world I’ve stumbled into.
Just like everything else except Slava,I think, and head upstairs to check on him one more time before bed.
Because some kinds of love, I’m learning, don’t ask for permission.
They just take root and grow, wild and stubborn and impossible to uproot.
Chapter Twelve
Ilona
The house feels different today.
Expectant. Like it’s holding its breath, waiting for the Vorobevs to fill its expensive silence with their voices, their presence, their particular brand of controlled chaos. I’ve been counting down to this moment for over two weeks— the day they return from their extended business trip. The day I hand Slava back to his parents and pray they’ll shower him with the love he deserves.
But something’s wrong.
I press my phone to my ear again, listening to Elena’s voicemail message in her crisp, accented English. The same message I’ve heard six times today. Leonid’s phone goes straight to an automated Russian recording that I don’t understand, but the tone is clear enough— unavailable.
“They’re probably flying,” I murmur to myself, setting the phone down on the marble kitchen counter. The sound echoes through the cavernous space, swallowed by vaulted ceilings and designer emptiness. But even as I say it, unease crawls up my spine.
