Page 19 of Scarlet Thorns
“I don’t know. Brighter, maybe? Like you got some good news or…” His expression shifts to something more paternal, more protective. “Please tell me Stanley didn’t propose. Because I still have serious reservations about that boy.”
Relief floods through me so fast I almost laugh. He’s fishing for Stanley-related gossip, not analyzing my moral choices.
“No proposals. Quite the opposite, actually.”
“Opposite?” Jason’s eyebrows climb toward his hairline. “Don’t tell me—”
“We had a fight.” The words come out easier than they should. “A big one.”
“About time.” The response is immediate and unapologetic. “That kid’s been treating you like an accessory instead of a partner for months. What finally broke the camel’s back?”
I consider how much to share. Jason has been like a second father to me since I started working here three years ago, offering advice and protection and the kind of steady presence my actual father sometimes struggles with due to his harrowing work schedule. But telling him about Stanley’s accusations means admitting how bad things had gotten. It means acknowledging that I stayed in a relationship where my integrity was questioned regularly.
“He accused me of cheating,” I say quietly.
Jason’s coffee cup hits his desk with enough force to slosh dark liquid over the rim. “That sonofabitch.” Jason’s voice drops to the tone he uses when interrogating suspects. “You deserve better, kiddo. A lot better.”
The nickname makes me smile despite everything. Jason started calling me ‘kiddo’ my first week on the job, when I was fresh out of college and terrified of making mistakes. Now it feels like a badge of honor— proof that I belong here, that I’m valued for who I am rather than who I’m sleeping with.
“Thanks, Jason. That… means more than you know.”
“Anytime.” He pauses, and I can see him weighing whether to push for more details. After a moment, he seems to decide against it. “Now, what’s on the agenda today? Please tell me you’ve figured out a way to make the quarterly budget meeting less soul-crushing.”
I laugh, grateful for the subject change. “I’ve prepared a full presentation with charts and graphs that will make even Mr. McAllister’s eyes glaze over within the first five minutes. Then you can slip out the back while he’s unconscious.”
“Brilliant strategy. This is why you’re indispensable.”
The morning flows into familiar rhythms after that. I update Jason’s calendar, field calls from witnesses who’ve suddenly remembered crucial details weeks after giving their initial statements, and format reports that will probably sit in filing cabinets for the next decade. The work is routine, comfortable, requiring just enough attention to keep my mind occupied without overwhelming me.
Officer Martinez stops by around ten-thirty with questions about a court appearance next week, and I walk him through the process while secretly admiring how he’s finally learned to keep his uniform pressed. At eleven, Detective Washington brings me a box of evidence photos that need to be digitized, and we spend twenty minutes troubleshooting the scanner that has apparently decided to reproduce everything in shades of green.
This is my world— practical problems with practical solutions, people who appreciate competence and efficiency,work that matters even when it’s unglamorous. For three years, it’s been enough. More than enough.
But today, as I organize files and schedule meetings, part of my mind keeps drifting to burgundy velvet and the weight of pale eyes behind a leather mask. TMG’s voice echoes through my thoughts at random moments:Men who dismiss what they can’t see are cowards.
He understood something about me in thirty minutes that Stanley never grasped. The realization should be disturbing— I shared more emotional intimacy with a stranger than with the man I thought I loved. Instead, it feels like awakening from a long, unsatisfying dream.
Around two o’clock, I’m updating the witness contact database when the pain hits.
It starts low, a familiar cramping in my pelvis that I’ve learned to breathe through. But this time, instead of the dull ache I’ve grown accustomed to, it’s sharp. Vicious. Like someone is twisting a knife through my lower abdomen and then adding a few extra turns for good measure.
My breath catches, fingers automatically gripping the edge of my desk as sweat breaks out across my forehead. The computer screen blurs, and for a moment I think I might actually pass out. The pain radiates up through my torso and down into my thighs, making my legs feel weak and unsteady.
Breathe,I tell myself.
Just breathe through it.
But breathing doesn’t help this time. If anything, the deep breaths seem to make the cramping worse, each inhale stretching muscles that feel like they’re being shredded from the inside. Nausea rolls through me in waves, and I have to close my eyes to keep myself from throwing up all over my keyboard.
This isn’t normal period pain. This isn’t stress or bad food or any of the explanations I’ve been clinging to for weeks. This issomething else entirely, something that’s getting worse instead of better.
The attack lasts maybe three minutes, but it feels like hours. When it finally ebbs, leaving me shaky and exhausted, I realize I’ve been holding my breath. My heart pounds against my ribs like it’s trying to escape, and my hands are trembling as I reach for my water bottle.
I glance around the bullpen, checking to see if anyone noticed my moment of crisis. Riley is on the phone, Washington is buried in case files, and Jason is in his office with the door closed, probably on a conference call about budgets. No one saw me fall apart at my desk.
Good. The last thing I need is workplace sympathy or suggestions that I should go home and rest. I’ve been resting for weeks, and it hasn’t helped. Whatever’s happening inside my body isn’t going to be solved by taking it easy.
I force myself to sit up straighter, to pretend normalcy while my internal voice screams warnings I’ve been ignoring for too long. This isn’t something I can push through anymore. This isn’t something I can hide.
