Page 144 of Scarlet Thorns
“Yes.” My voice sounds foreign to my own ears— hollow, determined.
Just a few more hours and I’ll be gone.
Vanished.
Free.
But even as I think it, I know Osip will come for me. Men like him don’t let go of what they consider theirs. And God help me, despite everything, part of me still belongs to him.
The part that’s been slowly killing me.
The taxi slows as we approach the airport, and my stomach drops. “I’m sorry, miss,” the driver says, pulling to the curb. “I can only park here, a bit further away from the terminal. There are roadworks and I can’t go closer.”
“It’s okay.” I force steadiness into my voice. “I have some time before check-in opens.”
The driver helps me wrestle my suitcase from the trunk— the same suitcase I’d packed in desperate silence.
I shove some notes into the driver’s hand and then the taxi disappears into traffic, leaving me alone on the sidewalk. The wind cuts through my cardigan, and I pull it tighter against my chest. The terminal building looms ahead, its lights promising escape, sanctuary, a new beginning.
I start walking toward those lights. Each step takes me closer to freedom, but the weight in my chest only grows heavier.
Ring. Ring. Ring.
My phone. Shit, where is it? I stop abruptly, nearly losing my grip on the suitcase handle. My purse— of course. The phone keeps ringing, insistent and shrill in the evening air.
I fumble through the contents of my bag, my fingers clumsy with cold and adrenaline. Lipstick, wallet, keys to a life I’m leaving behind— finally, my phone.
Dr. Tamás Varga’s name flashes on the screen.
My doctor. At this late hour?
Shit.
What now?
“Hello?” I answer, pulling my suitcase closer and balancing it against my legs.
“Ilona, I have some news. I’ve reviewed your latest tests,” he says briskly. There’s something in his tone— excitement? Concern? “We now know why your symptoms didn’t go away.”
The world tilts sideways. “Oh. And why?”
“Because you are still pregnant.”
For the second time today, the phone nearly slips from my numb fingers. The words don’t compute, don’t make sense.
I’m… what?
Pregnant?
But the blood, the cramping, the devastating loss I’d mourned—
“I… uh… How is that possible?”
“You carried non-identical twins,” Dr. Varga explains, his voice gentle but clinical. “Two separate fetuses. You only lost one of them, and now the other has more space and is developing well, even thriving. This is extremely rare, especially with endometriosis. Initially, we mistook it for one of the endometrial tumors we’d been monitoring. But, Ilona, it’s not a tumor— it’s a living baby! This little one seems determined to make it.”
Twins.
The word reverberates through my skull. I had been carrying twins, and one of them… one of them is still alive. Still growing. Still fighting.
