Page 61 of Scarlet Chains
Stanley sits in the chair.Hischair. The Masked Guy’s chair.
“Stanley?” I say, my throat clogged with sleep and disbelief. This can’t be real. How could he have found me here?
“Hello, beautiful.” The reality of his voice removes all doubt in my mind. The fog of sleep evaporates in an instant and I sit bolt upright, hastily clasping the front of the robe closed.
This can’t be happening. Not here. Not in this sacred space where I found peace with—
“Surprised to see me?” Stanley’s perfect features twist into that smile I once thought charming. Now it makes my stomach lurch. “You really thought you could run from me? From us?”
“I… I…. What are you doing here?” I stutter, shooting a panicked glance at the door.
He leans forward, elbows on his knees like he owns this place. Like he owns me. “You’ve been a very difficult girl to track down, Ilona. Boston, Budapest, Boston again. Such a busy little bee.”
“What are you talking about?” I frown at him.
“What do you think I’m talking about?” His hazel eyes glitter with something dark. “It seems we have a lot to discuss.” He tilts his head, and the warm lighting catches the sharp angles of his face— that devastating bone structure that oncemade my pulse quicken for all the wrong reasons. Now it looks like something carved from marble by an artist who understood cruelty better than beauty. His smile unfurls slowly, revealing teeth that seem too white in the amber shadows.
I straighten my shoulders and lift my chin. “There’s nothing to discuss, Stanley. Now, are you going to tell me what the hell you’re doing here?”
“Aren’t you happy to see me?” The question drips with false sweetness, like poison disguised as honey. “I’m happy to see you. As always.”
“What are you talking about, Stanley?” My voice sounds thin and foreign to my own ears. Every instinct I possess is screaming danger, flooding my system with adrenaline that makes my skin feel electric. There’s something fundamentally wrong about his presence here, in this sanctuary I thought was safe. The way he’s positioned himself between me and the door isn’t accidental. Nothing about Stanley Morrison is ever accidental.
What did he just say?
I’m happy to see you.
As always…
My mind races back to those fleeting glimpses in Budapest— the figure disappearing around corners, the familiar silhouette that vanished the moment I tried to focus on it. The prickle of being watched that I’d dismissed as paranoia. Jesus Christ, it really was him, wasn’t it? Following me. Hunting me across continents like some twisted psycho.
How long has he been watching me? How many times did he see me before I caught those brief glimpses? The thought makes my stomach churn with violation, imagining his eyes tracking my movements, learning my patterns, planning… this.
I press my palms against the smooth velvet beneath me, using the texture to ground myself in reality. The familiar weightof the club’s absolute discretion, its promise of anonymity and safety, feels like a lie now. Stanley’s presence here shatters every assumption I had about this place being untouchable.
Stanley notices my discomfort and his smile widens, transforming his handsome features into something that belongs in nightmares. “Is there a problem, beautiful?”
“You’re damn right, there’s a problem,” I snap, mustering up as much indignation as is possible right now. “You haven’t answered me. What are you doing here, and what do you want?”
“I want your boyfriend to understand something,” he says, and his voice has changed completely. Gone is any pretense of civility, replaced by something cold and cutting that sends ice through my veins. “I want him to understand what happens when he tries to fuck me over.”
My brow furrows in genuine confusion, even as my body continues its preparation for flight or fight. Every muscle is coiled tight, ready to explode into motion the moment an opportunity presents itself.
“My boyfriend?” It feels strange saying it, particularly since there’s only one person he could be referring to. Yet “boyfriend” seems like such an inadequate term for whatever Osip and I were to each other. Business partners who fucked? Former lovers trapped in a complicated web of attraction and betrayal? The father of my lost child who I can’t seem to stop wanting despite everything that’s happened between us?
“You know who I’m talking about.”
Stanley stands fluidly, and my breath catches. He’s taller than I remembered, broader too— all that athletic perfection turned into something menacing. The way he moves suggests violence barely leashed, power held in check only by his own whims.
He’s definitely talking about Osip.
But that doesn’t make sense. Stanley and I broke up almost a year and a half ago. He doesn’t know about Osip, doesn’t know about the surrogacy arrangement or the pregnancy that ended in heartbreak. How could he possibly—?
“I… I don’t have a boyfriend,” I manage, though the lie feels clumsy.
“That’s not what I heard.”
He begins moving toward me with deliberate, measured steps. Each footfall seems to echo in the confined space, and I find myself frantically looking around for potential weapons within reach. The crystal tumbler on the side table— could shatter, create a distraction. My purse— somewhere on the floor, possibly containing nothing useful. The heavy glass ashtray— if I could reach it, if I could swing it before he stopped me.
