Page 25 of Scarlet Thorns
What if this makes me less than whole?
The tears come harder, ugly and desperate. I cry for the diagnosis, for the pain I’ve endured, for the pain still to come. I cry for the children I might never carry, the pregnancy I might never experience, the simple future that’s been complicated beyond recognition.
I cry for feeling broken and damaged and reduced to a medical condition I never wanted to understand.
When the storm finally passes, I sit in the silence of my car, emotionally drained and physically exhausted. The air conditioning runs automatically, but I’m still hot, still shaking, still trying to process what my life looks like now.
Home feels like the last place I want to be. The apartment filled with reminders of a relationship that imploded just as my health started falling apart. The silence that will give me too much time to think, to spiral, to imagine worst-case scenarios.
I need… something. Distraction. Connection. Something that makes me feel human instead of broken.
And suddenly, I know what that something is.
TMG.
The masked guy. The memory of his voice echoes through my exhaustion:Pain doesn’t need witnesses to be real.
He understood something about me that Stanley never grasped. He offered comfort without trying to fix anything, acceptance without demanding explanations. For thirty minutes, I felt like myself instead of a collection of symptoms and problems.
I need that again. I need to remember what it feels like to be desired instead of diagnosed, to be mysterious instead of medical.
Before I can second-guess myself, I dial the number I memorized after my first visit.
“Scarlet Fox.” Jack’s voice is warm, professional.
“Hi,” I say, trying to sound casual instead of desperate. “Do you still do masked nights?”
“Every Friday night. That’s tonight, actually.” A pause. “Will we be seeing you again?”
My heart skips at the timing. Friday night. Tonight. Like the universe is offering me exactly what I need when I need it most.
“Yes,” I hear myself saying. “I’ll be there.”
I end the call and sit in the parking lot for another few minutes, trying to reconcile the woman who just received a life-changing diagnosis with the woman who’s planning to return to an anonymous encounter club. But somehow, it makes perfect sense.
I’m not looking for sex. I’m not looking for romance or complications or anything beyond this moment. I’m looking to feel human again, to remember that I’m more than my medical chart, to exist in a space where endometriosis doesn’t define me.
And maybe— though I shouldn’t hope this— he’ll be there. The stranger who saw something worth touching in a woman who’s been feeling untouchable.
I start the engine and pull out of the parking lot, driving toward home with something that feels dangerously like hope building in my chest. Tonight, I won’t be Ilona Shiradze, the woman who just got diagnosed with endometriosis. Tonight, I’ll be whoever I choose to be behind a lace mask.
And for now, that’s all I need.
Chapter Ten
Ilona
The air in Scarlet Fox feels different tonight.
Maybe it’s me that’s different— broken in ways I’m still learning to understand. The burgundy velvet and amber lighting that once felt mysterious now feel like sanctuary, like the only place in the world where I can exist without pretending everything is fine.
Jack recognizes me immediately, his dark eyes softening with something that might be concern. He doesn’t ask questions, doesn’t offer sympathetic platitudes. Just nods toward the familiar hallway and slides a lace mask across the polished bar.
“Room Five,” he says quietly. “Same as before.”
My fingers tremble as I take the mask. The delicate lace feels fragile, like it might disintegrate if I grip too tightly. But then again, everything feels fragile right now.
The corridor stretches before me, each step echoes my heartbeat— erratic, desperate, alive despite everything trying to kill it. The scent of sandalwood and roses grows stronger as I approach the familiar door, and my body remembers this space with startling clarity.
