Page 96 of Scarlet Chains
Her eyes glisten with tears that threaten to spill, my beautiful wife, who cries so freely. When she leans across the table to frame my face with her hands, something in my chest unlocks that’s been waiting for this moment since I realized I couldn’t live without her.
She leans across the table, closing the distance between us.
“You’re unbelievable, Osip.” She whispers it against my mouth before kissing me, soft and sweet and tasting like coffee and the kind of joy that makes everything else disappear into background noise.
When we break apart, I can see the exact moment when the reality of what I’m offering fully hits her. This isn’t just a gift— it’s a foundation. A future built on something we both understand, something that connects our past to our present in ways that feel like destiny rather than coincidence.
“Come on,” I say, standing and offering her my hand. “Let me show you around.”
The tour unfolds like revealing cards in a winning hand. Each space designed with the obsessive attention I used to reserve for planning hits— every element chosen to create perfect balance between elegance and the kind of comfort that makes people forget to watch their words.
The main dining room flows into a bar where premium spirits line shelves reaching toward coffered ceilings. The kitchen is visible through strategically placed windows, gleaming with equipment that would make Gordon Ramsay weep. There are private dining areas for conversations that require discretion, while the main space keeps the energy that comes from people enjoying themselves without fear.
“This is incredible,” she whispers, running fingers along the bar’s smooth surface where crystal catches light like captured diamonds.
But when I lead her toward the back, through the door marked “Private Members Only,” her breathing changes to something deeper than appreciation.
The corridor beyond is lined with dark wood and lit by sconces casting warm, golden light. Carpet thick enough to muffle gunshots, creating an atmosphere of intimacy and discretion that speaks to secrets shared and boundaries willingly crossed.
At the end, a final door opens into space that makes Ilona stop dead.
Room Five.
Exactly as I remember it.
But I took it a step further, accessing the original architect’s plans, delving into the files provided by their original interior designer. It’s a replica. Perfect in every way.
Burgundy velvet walls, antique furniture positioned with photographic precision, lighting that transforms everything into rich jewel tones. Even the sofa placement matches my memories exactly, because some details are too fucking important to leave to chance.
She stands in the center, turning slowly to take in every detail. I watch her expression cycle through recognition, disbelief, and something that might be wonder.
It’s definitely wonder, mudak.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d think this is…” She trails off, but I see the exact moment memory aligns with reality.
Her lips curve into a smile that holds everything— our past, our present, the impossible series of coincidence or Fate that brought us from anonymous strangers to this moment.
“You got that right,” I murmur, closing the distance between us until I can feel the heat radiating from her skin. “It’s an exact copy of our private space where Masked Nights happened in Boston.”
The words hang heavy between us, loaded with implication and memory and recognition that reaches deeper than thought. She looks up with those eyes that have haunted my dreams since before I knew her name, and I see the moment when past and present collapse into single, perfect truth.
“You remember,” she breathes. Not a question.
“Everything,” I whisper back. “Every word you spoke. Every touch. Every moment when you let a stranger see parts of yourself you’d never shown anyone.”
How could I forget? It was the moment I took my first steps toward saving my soul.
Her hands find my shirt front, fingers curling into fabric like she’s anchoring herself to something solid in a world suddenly spinning too fast. “I thought I’d never see you again. The Masked Guy who listened when no one else would, who made me feel beautiful when I thought I was broken beyond repair.”
“You were never broken.” I cup her face, taking in the lines of her features with a reverence reserved for sacred things. “Wounded, maybe. Grieving. But never broken.”
The kiss that follows feels like redemption, like coming home to a place you never knew you were searching for. It starts soft, tentative— a question being asked and answered simultaneously. But when she melts against me with a sigh that sounds like relief made audible, something pure and possessive unfurls in my chest.
This is my wife.
My woman for life.
The woman who trusted a masked stranger with her pain, who saw past violence and danger to something worth saving, who chose to build a life with me despite every rational reason to run.
