Page 9 of Scarlet Thorns
He reaches into a nearby cabinet and withdraws something black and elegant— a mask made of intricate lace that would cover the upper half of my face while leaving my mouth free.
“No names,” he continues. “No personal information exchanged. Cameras and emergency systems throughout, so you’re safe at all times. If you want to leave, you leave. If you want to talk, you talk. If you want more…” He shrugs. “That’s entirely up to you.”
I stare at the mask in his hands, my heart hammering madly. This is insane. I don’t do things like this— I’m careful, responsible, the kind of person who researches restaurants before trying them. Anonymous encounters with strangers in private rooms are the stuff of fantasies, not real life.
But as I look at the mask, I realize that careful and responsible haven’t gotten me very far tonight. Careful and responsible just earned me accusations of infidelity from a man who cheated on me six months ago.
“Room Five is yours if you want it,” Jack says, pointing to a door halfway down the hall. “There’s a changing room with robes and other options if you prefer. But again— no pressure.You can walk away right now and just finish your drink at the bar.”
He hands me the mask, and the lace feels soft and expensive against my fingers. Quality fabric, not some cheap costume store purchase. Everything about this place seems designed for people who value discretion and luxury.
“What do I do if I change my mind?”
“There’s a call button in every room. Press it, and someone will come get you immediately. No questions asked.” Jack’s smile is reassuring. “We take care of our guests here, Ilona. You’re in control at all times.”
Control.
There’s that word again.
I look down the hallway toward Room Five, then back at the mask in my hands. Every rational part of my brain is screaming that this is a terrible idea, that I’m making decisions based on hurt and alcohol rather than sound judgment.
But the rational part of my brain also trusted Stanley Morrison. The rational part of my brain has been dismissing my own pain for weeks, trying to push through and pretend everything is fine when it’s clearly not.
Maybe it’s time to listen to a different part of myself. The part that’s tired of being questioned and dismissed. The part that wants to feel valued rather than accused. The part that craves anonymity and freedom from the weight of other people’s expectations.
“No names,” I repeat, testing the words.
“No names. No history. No baggage. Just whatever happens in the moment.”
I lift the mask and examine it more closely. The lace pattern is intricate, almost artistic. When I hold it up to my face, it transforms my reflection in the glass door beside me into someone mysterious and unrecognizable.
Someone brave.
“I’ll take Room Five,” I hear myself saying.
Jack nods and leads me to the door, producing a key card from his pocket. “Take your time. Someone will join you when you’re ready, or you can change your mind and leave whenever you want.”
The room beyond the door is like stepping into a dream. Everything is soft and luxurious— plush seating, warm lighting that flatters without being harsh, music playing at barely audible levels. There’s a mirror on the far wall, and when I catch sight of myself in it, I’m startled by how different I look with the mask on.
Not like Ilona Katona Shiradze, the woman who got accused of cheating tonight. Not like the responsible daughter who calls her father every Sunday. Not like the girlfriend who’s been making excuses for her boyfriend’s behavior for months.
Like someone else entirely. Someone who makes her own choices and doesn’t apologize for them.
I sit on the edge of the velvet couch, my pulse thrumming in my ears. I don’t know who will walk through the door of room five, or if anyone will at all. I don’t know what I’ll do if someone does appear, or how far I’m willing to take this crazy experiment in anonymous rebellion.
But for the first time in weeks— maybe months— I feel like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.
The mask is my armor, the room is my sanctuary, and whatever happens next will be my choice alone.
I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and wait to see who I become.
Chapter Four
Osip
The drive home is shit.
Boston traffic moves like molasses through streets lined with homes that are rich in heritage as much as wealth, but tonight, all that money feels like a noose around my neck. I scowl through the windshield while Stanley’s bullshit echoes in my head.
