Page 33 of Scarlet Chains
The Vorobevs are generous with their money, I’ll give them that. They’ve never questioned an expense, never made me feel like hired help when it comes to Slava’s needs. The nursery overflows with toys he barely plays with. The pantry is stocked with organic baby food he won’t eat. They shower him with material love while remaining emotionally distant, as if affection were another luxury to be purchased rather than freely given.
Elena talks about their various homes during our video calls— the penthouse in Manhattan, the villa in Switzerland, the estate in the English countryside. Leonid discusses bonuses and business deals with the same passion other fathers reserve for their children’s first steps. They love Slava, I think, in their own complicated way. But they love him like they love their art collection— something precious to be protected and displayed, but not necessarily understood.
Slava will want for nothing material in his life. The best schools, the finest clothes, access to experiences most people can only imagine. But will he have what he really needs? Will he have parents who see him, who know his favorite bedtime story or remember what makes him laugh?
Will he have love that doesn’t come with conditions?
Exhaustion eventually drives me from the kitchen to the living room, where I collapse onto the vast leather sofa. It’s not the most dignified place for a nap, but I’m too emotionallydrained to care about appearances. The baby monitor sits on the coffee table beside me, its soft static the only sound in the cavernous space.
I close my eyes and let myself drift, carried away by the white noise of expensive silence.
When I wake, the world has transformed. The floor-to-ceiling windows show nothing but darkness punctured by city lights, and the digital clock on the entertainment center glows an accusatory 12:47 a.m. I’ve been asleep for hours, and the baby monitor hasn’t made a sound.
Panic flickers through me as I imagine all the things that could have gone wrong while I slept. I grab the monitor and tiptoe upstairs, my heart hammering against my ribs. But when I peer into Slava’s room, he’s exactly as I left him— curled under his blankets, breathing deep and steady, one small hand still clutching that corner of fabric like an anchor.
He’s safe. He’s sleeping peacefully.
But his parents…
Where are they?
The question pounds through my skull as I stand in the darkened hallway, staring at nothing. They were supposed to be home hours ago. Their flight should have landed before dinner. They should be here, taking their son back, releasing me from this beautiful torment.
But they’re not.
And for the first time since I took this job, I’m not sure if I want them to be.
Chapter Thirteen
Osip
I sink into my chair, the morning sun cutting sharp angles across the hardwood floor.
My coffee’s gone cold in the mug balanced on the armrest, but I don’t give a shit. The silence in this house presses against my skull like a migraine— too much space, too much quiet, too much time to think about what I’ve lost.
I flip through channels with the remote, the Perspex cool against my thumb. Some reality show bullshit— plastic women screaming at each other over champagne flutes. A cooking program where some chef pretends pasta is an art form. Financial news predicting market crashes that never come. The familiar CNN jingle cuts through my restlessness, and I pause.
The remote feels heavier in my hand than it should.
“Breaking News: Private Plane Crashes Into Ocean – Two Confirmed Dead.”
The screen fills with aerial footage— helicopters circling like vultures over a debris field scattered across dark water. Pieces of white fuselage bob among the waves, twisted metal and scattered cushions that were once a luxury cabin. The camera zooms in on what looks like part of a wing, the corporate logo still visible on the fractured surface. The reporter’s face is appropriately somber, her voice carrying that practiced gravity they use for tragedies.
I take a sip of coffee, bitter and strong, the way I like it.Another oligarch’s toy destroyed.These private jets cost millions, flying palaces with every luxury, but physics doesn’t give a fuck about your bank account when the weather turns. The irony isn’t lost on me— I own one of those death trapsmyself, parked at Ferenc Liszt Airport like a steel promise that could turn into a steel coffin.
I’m about to mute the TV and head to my office when my phone buzzes against the glass table. The vibration sends ripples through the cold coffee in my abandoned mug.
The name on the screen stops my blood cold: Cameron Simpson.
Chto za khuy?What the fuck?
My pulse jumps, making my breath catch in my throat. Simpson runs Beacon Hill Orphanage. The place where… where my son was. The place I haven’t heard from since those pretentioussvolochitook Slava away from me.
I reach for my phone and swipe to answer before it can ring again.
“Mr. Sidorov,” Simpson’s voice is strained, careful. There’s something different about his tone— usually he speaks with that practiced social worker calm, but now there’s an edge. Uncertainty. Maybe even fear. “It’s about Slava. I’m afraid I have some disturbing news.”
The world stops spinning. My chest constricts like someone’s wrapped steel cables around my ribs and pulled tight. The expensive Persian rug beneath my feet might as well be quicksand. I’m on my feet before I realize I’ve moved, pacing to the massive windows that overlook the city. Budapest spreads below me like a chessboard, all ancient spires and modern glass, but I see none of it.
