Page 50 of Scarlet Chains
Chapter Twenty
Ilona
I’ve done the wrong thing. I’m sure of it. I handled that all wrong.
Shit!
Maybe I should have told him. The thought gnaws at me like a parasite, burrowing beneath my skin. Why didn’t I say it? Why didn’t I look him in the eye and tell him I know exactly what he did to my father?
But another voice in my head— the one that sounds suspiciously like my mother when she used to warn me about walking alone after dark— whispers:Maybe it’s better this way. Maybe it’s safer not to confront him.God knows what he’s capable of. I’ve no doubt that those lips that whispered sweet nothings are capable of ordering death with the same casual tone he would use to order coffee.
You need to forget about him, Ilona.
Except it’s not that easy to forget about Osip Sidorov. Not when his scent still clings to my clothes, when my body still remembers the weight of his touch. Not when his child is growing inside me like a constant reminder of everything I should be running from.
The city blurs past the taxi window— a smear of concrete and glass that could be anywhere, anyplace, any life but mine. My reflection stares back from the glass, pale and hollow-eyed, and I barely recognize the woman looking back at me. When did I become this person? This walking contradiction of desire and fear, love and hatred, longing and revulsion?
Oh God, I’m so fucked up.
And then there’s Slava. Sweet, innocent Slava who doesn’t know his father is a monster. I still don’t exactly know what happened, why he spent his first year in an orphanage before moving to the Vorobevs. Why did Osip let that happen? If he truly cared about his son— and the raw desperation in his eyes when he looked at that baby suggested he did— why hadn’t he moved heaven and earth to get him back sooner?
I guess I could prevent the system from letting Osip take custody of him by exposing that he murdered my father. The information sits in my chest like a loaded gun, powerful enough to destroy everything Osip clearly wants. But would the system even believe me? Osip Sidorov is a powerful man— powerful enough to get away with the murder of a famous gynecologist, my father. Maybe it’s safer if I keep quiet. Not just for my own sake, but for my mother’s.
And then, what’s even worse, is that I’m pregnant… with Osip’s baby!
The thought crashes over me like ice water, stealing my breath. Will I even make it past week twelve? Especially with this amount of stress crushing down on me like a physical weight? And if I do survive the first trimester, if this pregnancy somehow endures the chaos I’ve thrown myself into, what then? Will the baby look like his or her father? How am I supposed to forget about Osip if I’m raising his child, if every day I’m staring into eyes that mirror his, if every smile or cry reminds me of the man who destroyed my family?
My mind is a clusterfuck of confusion, thoughts spinning and colliding like debris in a tornado. My tears start flowing again, hot and angry and useless, because crying won’t solve anything. It won’t bring Dad back, won’t make Osip less dangerous, won’t make this pregnancy any less complicated.
The elevator dings softly as it stops on my mom’s floor, the sound abnormally loud in the cramped space. I haven’t spokento her since the day before last— I was so busy taking care of Slava after the Vorobevs died, so consumed with playing house with a baby whose father is practically the Devil incarnate.
God, what would Mom think if she knew?
I step out into the hallway, and immediately something feels wrong. The air is too still, too quiet. Usually, I can hear the faint sound of her television or the kettle whistling as she makes her afternoon tea. But today there’s nothing— just the oppressive silence of an empty building and the distant hum of traffic from the street below.
I approach her apartment, my footsteps muffled by the worn carpet that’s seen better decades. The door creaks as I open it— Mom never locks it during the day, a habit that drives me crazy but that she insists on maintaining because “this is a safe neighborhood, darling”— and an eerie silence greets me like a physical presence.
“Mom?” I call out, stepping inside. The word echoes off the walls and comes back to me unchanged, unanswered.
Crickets.
The flat feels cold, lifeless in a way that makes my skin crawl. It’s more than just the absence of another person— it’s the absence of life itself. No coffee brewing, no pages turning, no quiet humming as she tends to her plants by the window. Even the air feels stagnant, like it’s been holding its breath.
I move through the small space methodically, fighting down growing anxiety. She wouldn’t be working at this time of day, and she doesn’t really have a social life. My mother hasn’t gone out with friends since I’ve been back.
I pull out my phone and dial her number, trying to keep my breathing steady as it rings. Maybe she went to the shops. Maybe she’s visiting Mrs. Novák next door. Maybe she’s gone for a walk. I try to convince myself that she could be doing anynumber of harmless things, but somehow I can’t force down a growing sense of dread.
Please pick up.
Please pick up.
Please—
No response. The phone rings and rings until it goes to voicemail, her cheerful voice telling me to leave a message and she’ll call back soon. But there’s something in her recorded tone that I never noticed before— a weariness, a weight that makes my chest tighten with nameless fear.
I call again, because sometimes she misses the first call, sometimes she’s in the bathroom, or has the volume turned down too low. This time it goes straight to voicemail, and the fear that’s been building in my chest explodes into full-blown panic.
She’s not here. That much is clear. But if she’s not here, where could she be? Terror wells up in my chest like rising water, threatening to drown me. My mind races back to the last few weeks— her pale complexion when I video-called her, her weak voice over the phone that I attributed to a bad connection, the way her clothes seemed to hang loosely on her frame during our last Skype session.
