Page 75 of Scarlet Thorns
Ilona
Morning light filters through silk curtains and warms the foot of my bed.
I stretch between sheets so soft they feel like liquid against my skin, momentarily disoriented by the sheer luxury surrounding me.
Then reality crashes back.
I’m living in Osip Sidorov’s house.
The memory of last night plays in fragments— the way he’d towered over me, eyes intense, lingering on my lips until I was certain he might kiss me. Then the sudden coolness in his voice when he said goodnight, so different from the heated tension in the moments earlier.
I’d lain awake for hours afterward, replaying every moment, wondering if I’d imagined the crackling electricity between us. The roughness in his voice when he said my name.
Maybe it was all in my head.
The ensuite bathroom is marble and gleaming fixtures, larger than my entire studio back in District VII. I spend longer than necessary under the multiple shower heads, letting the perfectly heated water wash away my confusion along with yesterday’s stress.
When I finally make my way downstairs, following the scent of coffee, I find him in the kitchen. He’s standing by the windows with a cup and his phone, already dressed in another perfectly tailored suit. The morning sun catches the sharp line of his profile, and for a moment I just watch him, memorizing the way he holds himself with such controlled precision.
He looks up when I enter, and I search his face for any trace of last night’s heat.
Nothing.
His expression is politely neutral, professionally distant.
“Good morning.” His voice carries no warmth, no recognition of what passed between us. “Sleep well?”
“Yes, thank you.” I hover near the coffee machine, uncertain of the protocol. “The room is beautiful.”
“Good.” He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t move closer. Just studies me with the same detached assessment he might give a new piece of furniture. “We should discuss your responsibilities.”
The word ‘responsibilities’ feels like a wall slamming down between us. I pour coffee with hands that want to shake, focusing on the simple task to avoid looking at him.
“Your primary duties will be managing the household staff,” he continues, his tone crisp and businesslike. “Mária comes three times a week for deep cleaning. József handles maintenance and security. There’s a gardening service on Fridays.”
I nod, taking notes on my phone, trying to match his professional demeanor. The coffee tastes expensive and perfect, like everything else in this house.
“You’ll oversee deliveries, coordinate any repairs, ensure the house runs smoothly in my absence.” He pauses, and when I glance up, his eyes are already looking elsewhere. “I travel frequently for business. Sometimes for weeks at a time.”
“Understood.”
“The wine cellar and my private office are off-limits. Everything else is accessible as needed for your duties.” His phone buzzes, and he checks it immediately, already dismissing me. “Questions?”
A thousand questions crowd my throat. Why are you acting like we’re strangers? Did I imagine everything? What changed between showing me upstairs and this morning?
Instead, I say, “No questions.”
“Excellent. I have meetings all day. Make yourself familiar with the house.” He’s already moving toward the door, coffee abandoned on the counter. “We’ll discuss specifics this evening.”
And then he’s gone, leaving me alone in the vast kitchen with the lingering scent of his cologne and the hollow ache of disappointment.
I wander through the house like a ghost, taking inventory of rooms that feel more like museum displays than lived-in spaces. The library smells of leather and neglect, beautiful books arranged with mathematical precision on shelves that reach the ceiling. Not a single volume shows signs of being read.
The formal dining room could seat twenty, its mahogany table reflecting crystal chandeliers that shine like they’re polished daily. Everything gleams with the kind of perfection that comes from having staff but no family to create the beautiful chaos of real life.
Eight bedrooms, each one perfectly appointed and completely sterile. Guest bathrooms with towels folded into geometric sculptures. A media room with a screen the size of my old apartment’s wall and seating that’s never been sat in.
It’s a house built for entertaining that feels like no one has ever been entertained here.
