Page 142 of Scarlet Thorns

Our son.

He says it with such casual authority, such absolute certainty. As if paperwork and legal proceedings can erase the genetic bond that connects me to my child. As if love can be filed in triplicate and notarized.

But I stay composed. I have to. Falling apart now won’t help Slava.

“Mr. Vorobev.” I step closer, close enough to see the raindrops beading on his expensive coat. “I may not look like it now, but I am a wealthy man. I’m willing to payanyamount for you to cancel the adoption process. Name your price and consider it received today.”

Money. The universal language of men like us. Surely he understands that everything has a price, that every problem has a financial solution. I’ve built my life on that principle.

But Vorobev shakes his head, and there’s something almost pitying in his expression. “I don’t think you understand, Mr. Sidorov. Elena and I have been through a lot to have a child. IVF, legal procedures, everything. We’re not giving Slava up. He is our son.”

Their son.

Again with the possessive pronouns, the casual erasure of my existence.

“In fact,” he continues, turning back toward his car, “it’s not us who chose him. It is he who chose us.”

The casual cruelty of that statement stops my heart. My son— my flesh and blood— chose strangers over a father he’s never met. Of course he did. What did I expect? That he’d somehow sense our connection through the orphanage walls? And even if he did, why would he choose trash like me?

“And now, if you’ll excuse me,” Vorobev says, his hand already on the car door handle, “we need to go and collectour son.” He puts emphasis on the last two words.

“Wait, please!” The desperation in my voice strips away whatever dignity I had left. “Let’s talk this through!”

But he’s already climbing back into his fortress of steel and leather. The engine purrs to life, expensive and well-maintained, and I’m left standing in the rain like a beggar outside a palace gate.

The Land Rover disappears through the orphanage entrance, and I hear the electronic locks engage behind it. The sound might as well be the clanging of prison bars. I’m on the outside, looking in at a world where my son exists but I don’t belong.

I pace the sidewalk like a caged animal, thinking movement will somehow ease the terrible thoughts clawing at my skull. But rage and frustration and pure pain keep escalating, and I find myself fumbling in my bag for the strip of sedatives I’ve taken to carrying everywhere.

One pill.

Then another when the first does nothing to touch the raw agony eating me alive from the inside out.

The medication combines with stress and exhaustion— I’ve been flying all night, living on adrenaline and desperate hope— and suddenly the world starts to blur at the edges. My eyelids feel heavy, my limbs loose and uncoordinated. I stumble back to the bench and collapse, letting the rain wash over me as unconsciousness threatens to pull me under.

Give up, Sidorov.

Slava deserves better than you.

Go back to Budapest and pretend this never happened.

The thought whispers through my drug-addled brain. It would be easier. Safer. I could go back to my carefully constructed life, my expensive club. I could pretend that the part of my soul that belongs to Slava doesn’t exist.

But giving up isn’t in my nature. Never has been, not even when the odds were stacked against me and common sense screamed at me to run. Maybe I should find a hotel, clean up, get some sleep, approach the Vorobevs when I’m rested and rational instead of looking like a vagrant who’s lost everything.

But sleep feels impossible. How can I close my eyes knowing my son is so close, yet so far beyond my reach?

The sound of the massive gate grinding open jolts me out of my spiraling thoughts. My vision swims as I force my eyes to focus, and there it is again: VOR 0014. The license plate looms out of the rain-blurred gloom as the Land Rover approaches the exit.

This is it.

This is the moment they drive away with my son forever.

The vehicle stops for a moment, brake lights painting the wet asphalt red. Mrs. Vorobev— I can see her clearly now through the passenger window— gets out to adjust her clothing. She’s elegant even in the rain, the kind of woman who probably has never known real hardship or loss.

I push myself to my feet, swaying slightly as the sedatives war with desperation in my bloodstream. I’m about to approach the car one final time, to make one last plea for mercy, when I see him.

In the back seat, barely visible through the slightly tinted window, is a tiny head crowned with fair hair. Even from this distance, even through the glass and rain, I can make out features that mirror my own— the set of his eyes, the shape of his nose, the stubborn line of his jaw that he inherited from me along with my DNA.