Page 139 of Scarlet Thorns

I end the call. I can’t hear any more. Can’t process any more truth. I’m thinking of Osip. His hands on my face when I told him about the baby. The way his eyes went soft when hethought I wasn’t looking. The taste of his mouth when he kissed me.

Did he know?

The question burns through my veins like poison. When he offered me the job? When he kissed me that first night? When he held me after the miscarriage, his strong arms wrapped around me as I sobbed for what we’d lost?

My stomach lurches.

I sprint to the bathroom, skidding on the polished marble. I barely make it to the toilet before my body convulses, trying to purge itself of the impossible truth. Everything comes up— dinner, coffee, the lies I’ve been swallowing for weeks.

The floor is cold against my knees as I collapse. Real. Solid. More honest than anything else in this house. I press my palms flat against the stone, trying to ground myself in something that won’t shift beneath me.

When the retching stops, I sit back on my heels. Wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. The taste of bile coats my tongue— bitter truth in a world of sweet deceptions.

I can’t stay here.

The thought cuts clean through the fog. I can’t breathe his air for another second. Can’t pretend this is home when my skin crawls at the memory of his hands. Can’t sleep in the bed where he made love to me while knowing what he’d done to my family.

Did he know?

I don’t even know what’s keeping me anyway. The baby is gone. The contract is meaningless. I’m nobody’s surrogate now— just a shattered woman living with her father’s murderer.

Boston.

I need my mother. Need to hold her and let her hold me while I figure out how to survive this. She can’t know the truth— it would destroy her completely— but I need her presence. Her love. Something real in this carnival of lies.

After splashing my face with cold water, I walk numbly back to the bedroom. I retrieve my phone from where I dropped it, and check my bank account. The screen blurs as I stare at the numbers. The money sits there, mocking me. Blood money. Payment from my father’s killer for the privilege of using my body to create new life. Money he deposited while knowing exactly who I was, exactly what he’d stolen from me.

He had to know who I was.

Had to.

I have to get out of here.

I switch to a travel app, scroll through airline options with desperate fingers. The next flight to Boston leaves in a little over three hours. Business Class is my only option at this short notice. Costs more than I’ve ever spent on anything. I don’t care. I’d pay anything to escape this beautiful prison.

The booking confirmation appears on my screen— seat 12B, departure in three hours. Real. Concrete. A way out.

I move through my room like a sleepwalker, pulling a suitcase from the walk-in closet and stuffing it with clothing— designer dresses, silk blouses, cashmere sweaters.

Each item feels contaminated as I throw it into the suitcase. The emerald dress he said brought out my eyes. The black cocktail dress he couldn’t stop touching when I wore it to dinner. The white sundress from our weekend in the countryside, when he held my hand and talked about baby names.

All of it rotting from the inside out.

I grab toiletries from the marble bathroom, pack them into a travel bag without looking. Toothbrush, face wash, the prenatal vitamins I haven’t been able to throw away. Physical evidence of dreams that died before they could live.

From the bedroom window, I can see lights in the main house’s other wings. The house bustles with the sounds of thestaff who’ve been going about their business since my return. Footsteps in the hallway, muffled conversations in languages I don’t understand, the distant sound of classical music from the kitchen radio.

Caregivers he brought in to help me after my stay in the hospital. Nurses, a therapist, a nutritionist— all meant to help me heal from losing the baby. They’ve given up on bothering me, though. I haven’t wanted their care.

No sounds of Osip’s return either. I still have no idea where he’s gone to.

Should I leave a note? But what the fuck would I say?

Thanks for the job, sorry about the dead baby, figured out you murdered my dad?

What do you say to someone who destroyed your world while making you believe he was rebuilding it?

Nothing, that’s what.