Page 107 of Scarlet Thorns
Ilona
Three weeks.
It’s been three weeks of living in this gilded cage, and I’m starting to lose track of where the contract ends and something else begins.
This morning finds me sprawled across Osip’s Egyptian cotton sheets, my body humming with bliss and soreness in equal measure. The man is insatiable— and apparently, so am I. What started as clinical encounters “for the baby” has morphed into something that feels dangerously close to addiction.
The kitchen counter. The marble-tiled shower. The antique bathtub with the gold fixtures. We’ve christened every surface in this house, and each time I tell myself it’s just biology, just hormones, just the contract we signed. But the way he looks at me afterward— like he’s seeing something that surprises him— suggests we’re both lying to ourselves.
Neither of us has addressed what’s happening between us. The shift from transactional to… whatever this is. Maybe we’re both too afraid to name it.
The money appeared in my account exactly when he promised it would. Five hundred thousand euros, sitting there like proof of what I’ve become. I’ve already sent Jason the retainer for Dad’s investigation, and the relief in Mom’s voice when I called to tell her we could afford the best help available almost made the shame worth it.
Almost.
Dr. Varga— the gynecologist Osip has arranged for— has also been a godsend. He’s discreet, professional, thorough. His team of specialists examined every aspect of my health, they’remonitoring my endometriosis, adjusting medications, ensuring my body is ready for pregnancy. Osip treats me like I’m a porcelain doll, which is both comforting and slightly suffocating.
But this morning, for the third day in a row, my happy sex buzz morphs into a familiar clench in my stomach.
The nausea hits before I’m fully conscious— a rolling, acidic wave that sends me lurching toward the bathroom. I barely make it to the toilet before my body rebels, retching up nothing but bitter yellow liquid since I haven’t eaten anything since yesterday evening.
My knees hit the bathroom floor hard, hands braced against the tiles as my stomach contracts again and again. Each heave sends fire up my throat, and by the time it’s over, I’m shaking and sweating despite the cool morning air.
This is the third morning.
Three days of waking up like I’ve been poisoned.
I slump back against the marble wall, pressing my palms against my temples. It can’t be pregnancy— too early for that, even with how… dedicated Osip and I have been to fulfilling the contract. My endometriosis has never caused this kind of violent nausea before, but maybe the stress of everything— the contract, the money, the investigation, living in this strange limbo— is making it worse.
Or maybe it’s simpler than that. Maybe it’s just my body rejecting this life I’ve stumbled into. Maybe it’s guilt, manifesting physically.
I rinse my mouth at the sink, brushing my teeth and pushing lank hair out of my face. I feel like absolute shit.
At least I have the appointment with Dr. Varga later today. He’ll run tests, adjust my medications, maybe give me something for the nausea. He’ll fix this like he’s been fixing everything else— quietly, efficiently, without judgment.
I head back to bed carefully, not wanting to wake Osip. He’s been working longer hours lately, taking calls at all hours in rapid-fire Russian that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up. Whatever business he’s conducting, it’s not the kind that gets discussed over morning coffee.
I manage to sleep fitfully, exhausted enough that I don’t notice when Osip gets up and leaves the bedroom. It’s always like that; the nights filled with untold pleasure before we lapse back into that strange emotional void during the day.
An hour later, I’m dressed and ready to head into the city. I need to pick up a few things before my appointment— more comfortable clothes in anticipation of when my body might start changing, some vitamins Dr. Varga recommended, maybe something to settle my stomach. These shopping trips have become my small rebellion against the golden cage, my chance to feel normal for a few hours.
Osip is still locked away in his office when I walk by, voice raised in what sounds like an argument. I can hear fragments through the heavy door— something about schedules and security and someone being “sloppy.” I don’t knock. Some conversations are clearly not meant for me.
The car he bought me sits gleaming in the driveway— a sleek Jaguar that’s more luxurious than anything I ever thought I’d drive. I run my fingers along the hood before getting in, still not quite believing it’s mine. Everything about my new life feels like borrowed clothes that don’t quite fit.
The engine purrs to life, smooth and responsive. I adjust the mirrors, buckle my seatbelt, and pull out of the circular driveway with the cautious precision of someone who’s still afraid of scratching something worth more than a small house.
For the first few minutes of the drive, everything feels normal. The car glides over the smooth roads of Buda Hills like it’s floating, the steering responsive to the slightest touch. I’mgetting used to this— the luxury, the effortless power under the hood, the way other drivers give me more space when they see the Jaguar emblem.
Then I feel it.
A subtle tug to the left, so slight I almost dismiss it as my imagination. But then it happens again— the steering wheel pulling gently in my hands like something is drawing the car off course. I tighten my grip, correcting automatically, but the pulling sensation persists.
My heart starts beating faster.
The vibration comes next— a faint tremor through the steering wheel that travels up my arms. It’s rhythmic, matching the rotation of the wheels, and it’s getting stronger. The car that was gliding smoothly moments ago now feels like it’s fighting against itself.
I ease off the accelerator, hands sweating as I grip the wheel tighter. The pull to the left becomes more insistent, and I have to actively steer right just to keep the car going straight. The vibration intensifies until my whole body is trembling with it.
