Page 127 of Scarlet Thorns

I exist in a fog these days.

Not living— existing. Going through the motions like a fucking ghost haunting my own goddamn life.

The only thing keeping me tethered is knowing Ilona is safe. Dr. Varga discharged her three days ago, said she’ll recover fully, but she’s still weak. Still broken. I hired a small army of staff to make sure she has everything she needs, but we barely speak.

What’s there to say?

She manages one conversation— tells me she can’t be a surrogate mother anymore. That it was a dead idea from the start. Her voice is hollow when she says it, and I watch her fold into herself like she’s protecting whatever’s left of her spirit.

I want to tell her it doesn’t matter. That I don’t give a shit about the contract anymore. That all I care about is her staying here, with me, in this house that finally feels like home when she’s in it. But every time I look at her, I see the blood. I remember holding her broken body in my arms. I remember thinking I was going to lose her too.

You killed her father, dolboyob.

The voice in my head won’t shut up. It’s right, though. Maybe it’s better if I let whatever this is between us die a natural death. Maybe that’s what she deserves— freedom from the animal who destroyed her family.

So I go through my days on autopilot.

Construction site. Office. Gym. Eat. Drink. Sleep. Repeat.

Even Dénes can’t crack through the numbness when I see him at the site. He tries, makes some joke about me looking likea zombie from some movie he watched, but the laughter won’t come. I nod, grunt responses, pretend I’m listening. I’m not. I’m wallowing in grief. In guilt. In emotions that feel like too much fucking self-pity.

The blueprints spread across my desk might as well be written in ancient Greek. Numbers blur together. Measurements mean nothing. I’m staring at them when my phone buzzes. Radimir’s name flashes on the screen.

“Da?”

“Are you sitting?” His voice is strange. Tight. Different from his usual rapid-fire delivery.

I frown. “Why?”

“Just sit the fuck down, Osip.”

Something cold sinks in my gut. Radimir doesn’t sound like this unless the world is about to end. I lower myself into my chair, gripping the phone tighter. The leather creaks under my weight.

“Alright. Now talk. Why did you want me to sit?”

“Because what I’m about to tell you is…” He stops. Starts again. “It will be hard to accept. Ready?”

My jaw clenches. “Just spit it the fuck out,mudak!What is it?”

There’s a pause. I can hear him typing in the background, the rapid-fire clicking of keys that usually accompanies his deep dives into the dark corners of the internet.

“Story time,bratok.I recently came across a social media post from a nurse in Boston. She was reminiscing about the most dramatic night of her career— a pregnant murder victim whose baby survived. She didn’t disclose names, but the date…” Another pause. “Osip, the post went online just a few days after Galina died.”

My throat goes dry. The room spins in front of me.

“Go on.”

“I traced the nurse. Called her pretending to be from a medical journal, interested in extraordinary cases. She was secretive at first, removed the post, but given the extremity of the content, it had already gone viral. She couldn’t fully erase the digital footprint. Eventually, some cash got her talking.”

I can feel the blood draining from my face, leaving my flesh cold and clammy.

“She told me how they managed to save the baby through emergency C-section. There’d been some mix-up with paperwork and they never traced any relatives, so the baby was sent to Beacon Hill Orphanage in Boston. They have the necessary equipment and volunteers to take care of premature infants.”

The memory comes rushing back in an instant.

The tiny feet. The movement I’d seen through Galina’s dead stomach. The sign that my child was still alive, still fighting. The paramedics told me there was no way the baby survived. They lied. Or they were wrong. Or—

“Are you suggesting…?” The words stick in my throat.