Page 49 of Scarlet Thorns

“I’m sorry to do this. Can I talk to you?”

Readappears again almost instantly. But still no response. No words to bridge the gap between his world and mine, no acknowledgment that what I’m asking for even exists.

Ten minutes pass. Ten minutes of sitting in this parking lot, watching other people’s normal lives continue while mine disintegrates. Ten minutes of wondering if I’ve just lost the only person who made me feel human in months.

Then my phone buzzes:

“Meet you in an hour. Usual place.”

Relief floods through me so fast it’s nauseating. He’s willing to break the rules. Willing to risk whatever consequences come with crossing that line.

“No masked night today.”

I gnaw on the edge of my nail as I wait for a reply.

“I will take care of that. See you in Room Five.”

The engine turns over on the second try, my hands steadier now that I have something to do, somewhere to go, someone to see. The drive to The Scarlet Fox passes in a fog of traffic lights and Boston streets that all look the same through eyes blurred with exhaustion and tears.

By the time I reach the familiar brick building, my heart is hammering against my ribs like it’s trying to escape. This is reckless. Dangerous. The kind of decision grief makes seem reasonable when nothing else in your life makes sense anymore.

Jack looks up from behind the polished bar as I enter, taking in my disheveled appearance with professional assessment. No surprise crosses his features— TMG must have called ahead, prepared him for this breach of protocol.

He nods toward the hallway without a word, understanding passing between us like shared conspiracy. Whatever rules exist here, whatever boundaries usually govern this place, they’re being suspended for reasons I don’t need to know.

The corridor feels different in daylight— less mysterious, more desperate. My footsteps echo off burgundy walls as I make my way to Room Five, each step bringing me closer to the only person who might understand the kind of pain that makes breathing optional.

The mask feels foreign on my face without the ritual of evening preparation, without the transformation from Ilona Shiradze into someone else entirely. But it settles into place anyway, becoming the barrier that makes honesty possible.

He’s already there when I open the door.

Sitting in the chair across from where I usually perch, fully clothed this time in dark jeans and a charcoal sweater that makes his shoulders look impossibly broad. The leather mask covers half his face, but I can see the tension in his jaw, the way his hands rest clenched on his thighs.

Something’s wrong.

He’s different.

The easy confidence that usually radiates from him has been replaced by something heavier, more guarded. Like he’s carrying weight that threatens to crush him.

“I’m sorry about this,” I begin, settling into my familiar chair with movements that feel automated. “There is no one else I can talk to.”

He nods once, a sharp jerk of his head that speaks of understanding without judgment. The permission in that simple gesture unlocks everything I’ve been holding back.

“My father died yesterday.” I choke the words out. “The police think it was suicide.”

Something flickers behind his mask— a tightening around his eyes that might be shock or recognition or simply the weight of witnessing someone else’s devastation. But he doesn’t speak, doesn’t offer empty platitudes or false comfort. Just listens with that complete attention that made me trust him in the first place.

“He was everything to me,” I continue, the words pouring out of me, my grieving heart no longer caring about rules. “My hero, my anchor, the one person who could fix anything. He… he was a respected gynecologist, helped so many families, saved so many lives.”

My words hang between us, and I swear I see him flinch. Like something unspoken crosses his face. But grief makes me hypersensitive, reading meaning into every shadow and silence.

“He taught me that problems have solutions, that hope exists even in the darkest moments. When I was little and scraped my knee, he told me it was brave to cry. When I failed my calculus final in college, he drove hours to see me. He took me for… for…” my voice cracks, “for ice cream and said, ‘it’s just one grade, darling. You’re worth so much more.’”

I choke out the memories, tears streaming down my cheeks and disappearing behind the lace mask. “He was supposed to help me figure out my endometriosis, supposed to be there when I finally found someone worth marrying, supposed to walk me down the aisle and hold his grandchildrenand grow old watching me build the life he taught me I deserved.”

The silence stretches, filled only by my ragged breathing and the distant hum of the city beyond these walls. TMG remains perfectly still, but I can feel the intensity of his focus like heat against my skin.

“My mother is in the hospital now, sedated because she couldn’t handle the news. She’s been drinking— my elegant, controlled mother who barely touched alcohol. Yesterday I found her passed out on our sofa, surrounded by empty bottles, completely destroyed.”