Page 99 of Scarlet Thorns
Just me and the woman who’s going to carry my child.
The thought sends heat spiraling through my chest, anticipation mixed with something deeper. Tonight, I’ll go to her room. Tonight, we’ll start the process that will give us both what we want— her, the financial security and chance at motherhood she’s been denied; me, the family I thought I’d lost forever.
But first, I need to make sure security understands that Anett Kovács is persona non grata. Permanently.
I reach for my phone, already planning the conversation that will ensure today’s drama never repeats itself. Because if Anett thinks she can interfere with what I’m building, she’s about to learn why crossing a Sidorov is the last mistake she’ll ever make.
The baby project is moving forward. And nothing— not jealous ex-lovers, not guilt from the past, not the weight of secrets I can never share— will stop me from claiming the future I deserve.
Tonight, everything changes.
Tonight, I take the first step toward redemption wrapped in Ilona’s willing surrender.
As for the dark secrets I’m keeping… I’ll have to live with them for the rest of my life.
Because there are some things she can never find out about.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Ilona
The clock reads 9:17 p.m., and the house has settled into the kind of quiet that feels almost sacred.
I’m curled up in my bed wearing my softest pajamas— gray cotton shorts and a matching tank top that suddenly feels inadequate against the evening chill. The book in my hands is supposed to be a distraction, some romance novel I picked up months ago, but the words blur together on the page.
My mind won’t stop churning.
That woman in the garden. Her eyes filled with rage, the way she spat the word “slut” like it physically burned her tongue. The possessive fury radiating from every inch of her designer-clad frame as she claimed ownership over Osip.
Osip is mine.
Another wave of jealousy surges. Which is ridiculous. I have no claim on him. This is business, nothing more. A surrogacy contract that will solve my financial problems and give him the child he wants.
But then why does the thought of that platinum blonde beauty having prior claim to his affections make me want to throw things?
I flip another page without reading it, my thoughts spiraling toward the pregnant woman in the photograph. Galina. The serene expression, the swell of her belly. Where is she now? Why does Osip keep her picture beside his bed if he’s making surrogacy arrangements with me?
Everything about this situation feels complicated in ways I didn’t anticipate when I sent that two-word text this morning.
Offer accepted.
Two words that seemed so simple, so clear-cut. Now doubt creeps through me, making me question whether I’ve made a catastrophic mistake.
Maybe I should have demanded more information before agreeing. Maybe I should have asked about ex-girlfriends and the ghosts that haunt his sleep and why a man who clearly has a type— stunning, sophisticated women— would choose someone like me for this arrangement.
The knock on my door stops my spiraling thoughts cold.
Three sharp raps that sound more like a summon than a request. My pulse jumps as I set the book aside, already knowing who’s on the other side. There’s something about the way Osip knocks— authoritative, impatient— that’s like a signature move.
I pad barefoot across the thick rug, hyperaware that I’m wearing next to nothing. The pajamas felt modest enough when I put them on, but now they seem almost indecent. The shorts barely cover my ass, and the tank top clings to curves I’m suddenly self-conscious about.
When I open the door, my breath catches.
He looms over me, all broad shoulders and animal magneticism wrapped in dark jeans and a charcoal sweater that hugs his torso in ways that should be illegal. His hair is slightly mussed, like he’s been running his fingers through it, and the shadow of stubble along his jaw makes him look dangerous and sophisticated all at once.
But it’s his eyes that steal my breath— those steel-gray depths that seem to pin me in place. They rake over my barely clothed form with an intensity that makes my skin flush hot despite the evening chill.
“I think we must start putting things into action.” He gets straight to the point, his voice low and husky with something that might be restraint. He holds up a manila folder thick with papers. “Here’s the paperwork.”
