Page 4 of Scarlet Thorns
“That’s not—”
“It is exactly that.” I walk to the entryway where I dropped my purse earlier, each step sending fresh waves of discomfort through my body. “And I’m done with it.”
“Where are you going?”
I turn to look at him one last time, this man who I thought I loved, who I thought might love me back. He looks smaller somehow, standing alone in his perfect apartment with his perfect scotch and his perfectly reasonable explanations for why everything must be my fault.
“I’m going to figure out what’s wrong with me. And I’m going to do it without someone constantly questioning my honesty or my motives.”
“Ilona, don’t be ridiculous. We can work through this.”
“Can we? Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’ve already decided I’m guilty of something. How am Isupposed to prove my innocence to someone who doesn’t want to believe me?”
Stanley takes a step toward me, but I hold up my hand to stop him.
He narrows his eyes at me. “If you walk out that door, don’t expect me to be here when you change your mind.”
What?
Did he really just say that?
The threat should scare me. Six months ago, it would have. But standing here now, watching him try to manipulate me into staying, I realize that losing him might not be the worst thing that could happen to me.
“You know what, Stanley? That might be exactly what I need.”
I close the door behind me before he can respond, and the sound echoes through the empty hallway like a gunshot. As I head toward the elevator, I feel exhausted, but somehow more solid than I’ve felt in weeks.
The pain in my abdomen pulses with each heartbeat, reminding me that whatever’s wrong with my body isn’t going away just because I’ve walked away from him. But for the first time in months, the physical pain isn’t the worst thing I’m feeling.
This time, I don’t look back.
Chapter Two
Osip
Quarterly figures.
Rows and rows of streaming numbers. Columns of figures that are beginning to blur after three solid hours.
Fuck my life.
I’m reviewing the company financials when Stanley crashes through my door like a man who’s forgotten how doors work. No knock. He never knocks anymore. The mahogany slams against the wall, disturbing the careful silence I maintain in this office.
Stanley Morrison stands there like shit on my expensive carpet. His usually perfect hair is fucked, his thousand-dollar suit wrinkled like he slept in it, and his eyes carry that wild look I’ve been seeing more often lately. Two years as partners, and I’ve watched him deteriorate from calculated businessman to unpredictable liability.
“We need to talk.” He shuts the door behind him with deliberate force.
I don’t look up from the spreadsheet. Numbers don’t lie, unlike the man standing in my office. “Talk.”
“Where’s my cut from the Henderson delivery?”
My pen stops moving across the paper. The Henderson delivery? I set down the Mont Blanc and lean back in my leather chair, studying Stanley’s face. His jaw is clenched tight, his hands balled into fists at his sides. This isn’t a casual inquiry— this is an accusation waiting to explode.
“What Henderson delivery?”
“Don’t play fucking stupid with me, Osip. The one from three weeks ago. Healthy newborn, premium placement. Should be worth at least two hundred thousand to me, minimum.”
I pull open the bottom drawer of my desk, retrieving the leather portfolio where I keep detailed records of every transaction we’ve handled in the past six months. Each delivery, each payment, each cut distributed to our network. I flip through the pages methodically, knowing exactly what I’ll find.
