Page 13 of Scarlet Chains

How can I explain that he’s a killer without telling you he killed your husband?

“I’m sure. What we had… it wasn’t real. I was living in a fantasy, and when reality hit, it all fell apart.”

The reality that I was being paid to have his baby. That none of it was what I thought it was. And there’s no way I can tell my mother any of this.

She studies my face for a long moment, and I can see her fighting the urge to ask more questions. Finally, she squeezes my hands.

“It’s okay, baby. You always have a place here. You can always come home. We’ll figure it out, don’t you worry.”

She pulls me into another hug, and I let myself sink into it, breathing in her familiar scent— lavender soap and vanilla. But even as comfort washes over me, I can’t ignore how fragile she feels. How her bones press against my palms through her thin sweater.

What’s wrong with you, Mom?

What aren’t you telling me?

The question burns in my throat, but I can’t bring myself to ask. Not yet. Not when I’m keeping secrets of my own.

Later, as evening shadows creep across the small apartment, Mom bustles around gathering blankets and pillows.

“I’m sorry the couch isn’t more comfortable,” she says, shaking out a faded quilt. “But it’s better than it looks, I promise.”

“Mom, this is perfect. Thank you.”

She tucks the sheet around the cushions, then straightens, one hand pressed briefly to her lower back.

“There are extra blankets in the closet if you get cold. And help yourself to anything in the kitchen.”

“I will.”

She hovers for a moment, like she wants to say something more, then leans down to kiss my forehead.

“I’m so glad you’re home, baby. Whatever happened over there, we’ll get through it together.”

If only you knew the whole truth.

“I love you, Mom.”

“I love you too. Try to get some sleep.”

She disappears into her bedroom, leaving me alone with the water-stained ceiling and the weight of everything I can’t say.

Hours pass, but sleep won’t come. Every sound from the neighboring units feels like it’s happening inside my skull— footsteps overhead, muffled conversations through thin walls, the hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen.

But it’s not the cramped space keeping me awake.

It’s him.

Osip.

I can still feel his hands on my skin, still hear the way his voice went soft when he found out about the baby. The wayhe held me like I might disappear if he let go— desperate and possessive and achingly tender all at once.

But you’re not who I thought you were.

I roll onto my side, pulling Mom’s threadbare blanket up to my chin. The fabric smells like her— safe, familiar, home. But even here, thousands of miles away from Budapest, I can’t escape him.

Because the truth is more complicated than I want it to be.

The truth is that even knowing what he did, even knowing what kind of man he really is, a part of me still aches for him. Still feels that invisible thread pulling me back toward the darkness I ran from.