Page 48 of Scarlet Thorns
This new woman, this grieving daughter, doesn’t know how to exist in a world without Igor Shiradze. Doesn’t know howto be someone’s daughter when that someone has chosen to stop being anyone’s father.
The world will never be the same again.
And neither will I.
Chapter Nineteen
Ilona
The hospital parking lot stretches before me like concrete purgatory, cars glinting under the harsh afternoon sun.
I sit behind the wheel of my Honda, engine off, keys dangling from fingers that won’t stop trembling. The silence presses against my eardrums, broken only by the distant hum of traffic and the rhythmic beeping of some medical alarm filtering through the hospital windows above.
No matter how hard I try to process all of this, nothing sinks in. Twenty million dollars in debt. Dad’s secrets. The house we’ll lose. The life we thought we knew— all of it built on lies I never saw coming.
My father is dead.
The words echo in my skull, refusing to feel real despite Jason’s words, despite the hours I’ve spent watching Mom fall apart.
I press the heels of my palms against my eyes until stars explode behind my lids, but the pressure can’t stop the tears from coming. They fall hot and fast, carrying with them all the conversations we’ll never have, all the moments he’ll miss, all the questions I never thought to ask when there was still time for answers.
The grief is suffocating. It fills my lungs like water, makes breathing feel like drowning. Every inhale burns, every exhale comes out broken and jagged. This isn’t the manageable sadness I’ve felt before— this is something primal and devastating, the kind of loss that rewires your DNA.
I need to talk to someone. I need connection, understanding, anything to remind me that I’m not completelyalone in this wasteland of hospitals and debt and family secrets. But who? Jason is being professional about Dad’s case, treating me like a victim instead of someone who needs comfort. My friends from work wouldn’t understand the magnitude of this devastation. And Stanley…
Stanley is history. The thought should bring relief— and part of it does— but mostly it just adds another layer of isolation to an already unbearable situation.
TMG – The Masked Guy
The thought hits me like lightning.
He understood pain in ways that suggested his own familiarity with loss. Maybe…
But it’s Sunday. No masked nights. No burgundy rooms filled with candlelight and the possibility of being seen by someone who doesn’t need explanations.
My phone feels heavy in my trembling hands as I stare at the blank screen. The VanishMe app. His contact information, written in strong masculine handwriting.
I could download it. Could reach across the anonymous divide and ask for what I need— not sex, not romance, but simple human connection from someone who’s proven he can offer it without conditions.
The app downloads faster than my racing heart can process. Black interface, minimal design, everything focused on messages that disappear after sixty seconds. Perfect for secrets that shouldn’t exist, conversations that need to stay buried.
My fingers hover over the keyboard, paralyzed by the weight of what I’m about to do. Breaking the rules. Shattering the carefully maintained boundaries that keep his world separate from mine.
But I’m drowning here, and he’s the only lifeline I can reach.
You know you shouldn’t be doing this, Ilona.
It’s against the rules.
The message disappears into digital ether, leaving only the crushing weight of silence. Maybe he won’t see it. Maybe he’ll ignore it, protecting the anonymity that makes our connection possible.
Minutes crawl by like hours.
Then:Read.
He saw it. He’s there, somewhere in the city, staring at my plea for help. But the silence stretches, taut and unforgiving, until I’m sure I’ve destroyed whatever magic existed between us.
Desperation overrides caution. I type before I can lose my nerve:
