Page 60 of Scarlet Chains
I pick up my phone and book an Uber, my fingers surprisingly steady as I type in the address. The app confirms the driver is fifteen minutes away, and I use the time to sit quietly with my decision. No second-guessing, no rational arguments about why this is a terrible idea. Sometimes the heart knows what it needs even when the mind can’t understand the reasoning.
About half an hour later, I step into The Scarlet Fox, and the familiar atmosphere washes over me like stepping into a warm bath after standing in the cold. The scent hits me first— aged leather and expensive whiskey, sandalwood and something undefinable that speaks of secrets and possibilities. The lighting is exactly as I remember it, dim enough to hide imperfections but warm enough to feel welcoming.
Jack, the barman, looks up from polishing a glass, his face lighting up with genuine recognition. He hasn’t changed a bit in the months since I’ve been here— the same engaging smile, the same friendly eyes, almost as if he’s been expecting me.
“Look who it is! Long time no see,” he says, setting down the glass and leaning forward slightly. There’s warmth in his voice, the kind reserved for regulars who are remembered fondly.
Get a grip.
He’s a pro.
Probably does the same for everyone.
“Hey,” I reply, managing a faint smile that feels strange on my face. It’s been so long since I’ve had reason to smile that the muscles feel rusty, unpracticed. Being back here feels surreal, like walking into a time capsule from my old life. The life where my biggest worry was a failing relationship with Stanley, not murder and betrayal and impossible pregnancies.
I take a breath, steeling myself for potential disappointment, and muster the courage to ask the question that brought me here: “Do you still do the masked nights?”
Jack’s grin widens, and for the first time in weeks, something like hope unfurls in my chest. “You’re in luck, lady. Tonight’s the night.”
The familiar ritual feels like muscle memory— taking the silk robe from Jack’s practiced hands, accepting the plush towel and the elegant mask that will transform me from Ilona Katona Shiradze, tragic daughter and broken woman, into simply someone seeking connection in the shadows.
I head up to Room Five, my feet finding the path without conscious direction. The stairs creak under my weight with sounds I remember, each step taking me further from the harsh reality of hospital rooms and dying mothers and murdered fathers.
I glance around the room, breathing in its familiar scent. The dim, brooding atmosphere embraces me like an old friend, and the memories from a year ago with TMG come flooding back. Not just the physical connection— though that had been intoxicating— but the emotional sanctuary he’d provided. The way he’d listened without trying to fix anything, understood without demanding explanations.
I sink into the plush armchair near the corner, letting my thoughts swirl with everything wrong in my life. But somehow, being here makes it feel manageable. Not solved, not fixed,but contained within walls that have seen countless secrets and survived them all.
Still, it feels nice to be here. Nicer than sitting alone in my mom’s flat, counting water stains and contemplating the brandy bottle. There’s something about this room that makes me see things in a different light— not rose-colored glasses exactly, but a softer focus that doesn’t cut quite so deep.
Still clean from the shower back at Mom’s place, I quickly undress and slip into the robe, letting the soft silk slide against my skin. For a moment, I relax into the sensation, settling back against the deep armchair and closing my eyes as the atmosphere surrounds me.
It’s quiet in here. Peaceful. I’m sure the walls are sound-proofed, and I’m grateful for it now. Because I’m tired. The exhaustion I’ve been fighting for days finally catches up with me. I don’t mean to fall asleep, but the emotional weight I’ve been carrying feels lighter here, and my body finally allows itself to rest.
Just for a few minutes.
The thought takes root as the idea of sleep becomes irresistible. Just long enough to gather strength for whatever comes next.
And so, I sleep.
When I wake, my senses immediately alert me that something has changed. The quality of the silence is different, charged with a presence that wasn’t there before. My eyes snap open, adrenaline flooding my system as I realize I’m not alone in the room.
A man is sitting in the armchair opposite me, watching me with unnerving stillness. My heart skips, then thunders against my ribs as if it’s hoping to explode from its cage.
“Ilona.”
The voice chills my blood to ice water, every syllable dripping with a familiarity that makes my skin crawl. This isn’t The Masked Guy. This isn’t salvation or comfort or escape. This is something much worse.
Something very dangerous.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Ilona
I blink in confusion as I try to make sense of what I’m seeing.
The silhouette carved against the dim golden glow of the room’s mood lighting. Broad shoulders. Familiar posture.
But wrong. So wrong.
