Page 1 of Scarlet Thorns

Chapter One

Ilona

The cramping starts low in my pelvis, a dull ache that’s been my unwelcome companion for the past three weeks.

I shift on Stanley’s leather couch, trying to find a position that doesn’t make me want to curl into a ball, but his hands are already moving up my thighs with that familiar possessive confidence.

“Hey,” I murmur, catching his wrists. “Can we just… talk tonight? I’ve had this headache all day.”

It’s not entirely a lie. The pain radiating from my belly has definitely triggered a headache, but I can’t bring myself to tell him about the real issue. Not when I don’t understand it myself.

Stanley’s penthouse apartment stretches around us in all its minimalist glory— chrome fixtures, glass tables, and furniture that looks like it belongs in an architectural magazine rather than someone’s home. The city lights of Boston glitter beyond the ceiling-high windows, but somehow the view only makes the space feel more isolated. More cold.

“Talk about what?” Stanley doesn’t move his hands. If anything, his grip tightens slightly. “We just spent dinner talking.”

“I know, but—”

“But what, Ilona?” His voice carries that edge I’ve been hearing more frequently lately. “We’ve barely touched each other in two weeks.”

Two weeks.

Has it really been that long?

The days have been blurring together lately, each one punctuated by these episodes of pain that leave me exhaustedand on edge. I’ve been making lame excuses— work stress, family drama, anything but the truth that something feels very wrong with my body.

“I’m just tired,” I say, which is also true. The kind of bone-deep exhaustion that sleep doesn’t fix.

“You’re always tired.” Stanley releases my wrists and leans back, studying me with those dark eyes that once made me feel desired but now feel like they’re only looking for flaws. “When’s the last time you initiated anything between us?”

The question catches me off guard. “I don’t know. Does it matter?”

“Of course it matters. I’m starting to feel like I’m dating a fucking roommate.”

The profanity hits harder than it should. Stanley rarely swears around me— he prides himself on being refined, controlled. The fact that his composure is cracking tells me this conversation is about to go somewhere I’m not prepared for.

“Stanley, that’s not fair. I’ve been dealing with some health stuff—”

“What health stuff?” He sits forward, but it doesn’t feel like concern. It feels like interrogation. “You look fine to me.”

You look fine.

Three words that sum up everything wrong with trying to explain invisible pain to someone who’s never experienced it. I look fine because I’ve gotten good at hiding the moments when I double over in bathroom stalls, when I have to grip the edge of my desk until the cramping passes, when I take longer showers because the heat is the only thing that helps.

“It’s probably nothing,” I say, because admitting I’m scared feels too vulnerable right now. “Just some cramping.”

“Cramping?” Stanley’s expression shifts to something between annoyance and disbelief. “Like period cramps?”

“Something like that.”

“So take some ibuprofen and get over it. Women have been dealing with periods since the beginning of time.”

The dismissiveness in his tone makes my stomach clench in a different way entirely. This isn’t period pain— I know what that feels like. This is something else, something that’s been steadily getting worse and starting to interfere with every aspect of my life. But Stanley has already decided it’s not worth his consideration.

“It’s not that simple, Stan,” I say quietly.

“Isn’t it?” He stands up and walks to the bar cart in the corner, pouring himself a scotch with deliberate movements. “Or is this just another excuse?”

“Excuse for what?”