Page 20 of Scarlet Thorns
Twenty minutes later, when I’m reasonably sure I can stand without collapsing, I walk to Jason’s office and knock on the doorframe. He looks up from a stack of reports, immediately noting something in my expression.
“Everything okay?”
“I’m wondering if I could leave a little early today.” I keep my voice steady, professional. “I have some personal stuff to take care of.”
Jason’s concern is immediate and genuine. “Of course. Are you feeling alright? You look a little pale.”
“Just tired. It’s been a long week.”
He studies my face for a moment, and I can see him weighing whether to press for details. Finally, he nods. “Takecare of yourself, kiddo. Whatever it is, it can wait until tomorrow if you need more time.”
“Thanks, Jason. Really.”
I gather my things with careful movements, afraid that sudden motion might trigger another attack. My purse feels heavier than usual, and I have to concentrate on walking normally as I make my way to the elevator.
The drive home passes in a haze of Boston traffic and escalating dread. Each red light gives me time to think, to analyze what just happened and what it might mean. The pain was different this time— more intense, more focused, more urgent. Like my body was trying to tell me something I keep refusing to hear.
By the time I reach my apartment, I’ve made a decision. Tomorrow, I’m calling Dad.
Igor Shiradze has been my hero since childhood— the brilliant doctor who saves babies and helps families, the man who taught me that knowledge and compassion can heal anything. If anyone can figure out what’s wrong with me, it’s him. And more importantly, he’s the one person who will take my concerns seriously without dismissing them as female hysteria or stress-related nonsense.
I should have told him weeks ago. Should have trusted his expertise instead of hoping the problem would resolve itself. But admitting I need help feels like admitting failure, like confirming that I can’t handle my own life.
The apartment is quiet and cool when I unlock the door, afternoon sunlight streaming through windows I forgot to cover this morning. I drop my purse by the entrance and walk straight to my bedroom, not bothering to change out of my work clothes before collapsing onto the unmade bed.
The cramping has settled into a low, persistent ache that makes me want to curl into a ball. I pull a pillow againstmy stomach and let myself feel the full weight of what’s been building for weeks— the fear, the uncertainty, the growing certainty that something inside me is fundamentally wrong.
Yet again, I let myself cry. Not the angry tears I shed over Stanley’s betrayal, but the scared, overwhelmed tears of someone who’s been pretending to be strong for too long. They come silently, soaking into the pillowcase as I hold myself in the growing darkness.
Part of me wants to text TMG, to somehow reach across the anonymous divide and share this new fear with someone who listened without judgment. But that’s impossible— the whole point of Masked Nights is the separation between fantasy and reality. Whatever comfort I found in Room Five stays there, locked away behind lace and candlelight.
Tomorrow, I’ll call Dad.
Tomorrow, I’ll stop pretending everything is fine when it’s clearly falling apart.
Tomorrow, I’ll start getting real answers instead of hoping problems disappear on their own.
Chapter Eight
Ilona
Morning rolls around sooner than expected.
I wake to the familiar knife twist in my pelvis, except this time it feels like someone’s added barbed wire to the blade. The digital clock reads 6:23 a.m., but I’ve been drifting in and out of consciousness for hours, each wave of cramping jolting me back to awareness like an electric shock.
Rolling onto my side doesn’t help. Neither does the heating pad I keep permanently plugged in beside my bed. The pain radiates from my lower abdomen down into my thighs, up through my ribs, making every breath feel deliberate and costly. My lower back aches like I’ve been lifting concrete blocks in my sleep.
This isn’t normal, Ilona.
You can’t keep pretending it is.
I catalog the symptoms I’ve been tracking in my phone for weeks: pain that’s getting worse instead of better, periods that arrive two weeks late or disappear entirely, exhaustion that sleep doesn’t touch, and the sharp, stabbing sensation every time Stanley tried to…
I push that thought away. Stanley’s not here now, but the pain remains. Which means this isn’t about stress or relationship drama or any of the convenient explanations I’ve been clinging to.
The shower helps marginally, hot water beating against tight muscles. But before long, it’s back.
I need help.
