Scarlet Thorns (Sidorov Bratva #1)

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 exhausted and 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?”

Stanley takes a slow sip of his drink, watching me over the rim of the glass. “For whatever the hell has been going on with you lately. The distance. The mood swings. The way you flinch every time I touch you.”

“I don’t flinch.”

“You flinched just now.”

Did I? I replay the last few minutes in my head and realize he might be right. When he grabbed my wrists, my instinct was to pull away. But not because of him— because any pressure on my lower body sends shockwaves of discomfort through my system.

“I’m in pain, Stanley. That’s not a mood swing or an excuse. That’s a medical issue that I’m trying to figure out.”

“Have you seen a doctor?”

“Not yet.”

“Why not?”

It’s a reasonable question with an unreasonable answer. Because I’m procrastinating, afraid of what they might find. Because my mother spent years dismissing my concerns about painful periods as “something women just deal with.” Because part of me keeps hoping it will just go away on its own.

“I’ve been busy with work, and—”

“Bullshit.” Stanley sets down his glass with enough force to make me jump.

“You’ve got excellent health insurance through your job.

You could see a specialist tomorrow if you wanted to.

So either this pain isn’t as serious as you’re making it out to be, or you’re using it as an excuse to avoid having sex with me. ”

The accusation hangs between us like a loaded weapon. I stare at him, this man I’ve shared a bed with for eighteen months, and realize I don’t recognize the person standing in front of me. When did he become so cold? So calculating?

“You think I’m lying about being in pain?”

“I think you’re avoiding me. And I think there’s a reason for it.”

The pain in my abdomen chooses that moment to flare again, a sharp twist that makes me press my hand to my side instinctively. Stanley notices the gesture and his expression hardens further.

“See? You’re fine until I try to touch you. Then suddenly you’re clutching your stomach like you’re dying.”

“That’s not—” I stop myself before I can finish the sentence. What’s the point? He’s already made up his mind about what’s happening here.

“What I think,” Stanley continues, his voice dropping dangerously quiet, “is that you’re fucking someone else.”

I stare at him. For a moment, I can’t even process what he said. “What did you just say?”

“You heard me.” He picks up his scotch again, taking another measured sip. “The signs are all there. The emotional distance. The sexual withdrawal. The mysterious ‘health issues’ that conveniently flare up whenever I want sex.”

I stand up too quickly, and the movement sends another wave of cramping through my pelvis. “You think I’m cheating on you?”

“I know you are.”

The certainty in his voice is what gets me. Not anger or accusation, but flat, matter-of-fact conviction. Like he’s already tried and convicted me in his head.

“Based on what evidence?”

“Based on the fact that you disappear for hours with vague explanations. Based on the fact that you’ve completely shut down physically. Based on the fact that you’re sitting there lying to my face about phantom pain instead of just admitting what’s really going on.”

Phantom pain.

The phrase echoes in my head, dismissing weeks of agony with two casual words. This is the man who’s supposed to love me, support me, and he can’t even acknowledge that my suffering might be real.

“You want to know where I’ve been disappearing to?

” I can hear my voice rising, but I can’t seem to control it.

“I’ve been spending hours googling my symptoms because I’m scared and I don’t know what’s happening to my body.

I’ve been taking long walks because sitting still makes the pain worse.

I’ve been avoiding my friends because I don’t want to explain why I can barely function some days. ”

Stanley rolls his eyes. “Dramatic as always.”

“Dramatic?” The word comes out as a near-shout. “I’m describing my actual life, Stanley. My actual experience. And you’re calling it dramatic?”

“I’m calling it suspicious. Normal people don’t research symptoms for weeks instead of just making a doctor’s appointment. Normal people don’t avoid their boyfriend for mysterious health issues that only seem to affect them when it’s convenient.”

Heat floods my face, a combination of anger and humiliation that makes my hands shake.

“You know what’s suspicious? Your immediate assumption that I must be cheating instead of considering that I might actually be telling you the truth.”

“Can you blame me?” Stanley sets down his glass and crosses his arms. “After everything that happened with Melissa, I know what deception looks like.”

The reference to his ex-girlfriend makes my back stiffen.

Melissa, who I caught him with six months ago in his office.

Melissa, whose moans I heard through the closed door before I walked in on them.

Melissa, who he fucked on his desk while I was at home planning a surprise dinner for our anniversary.

“Are you serious right now?” I can barely get the words out. “You’re comparing your actual cheating— which I witnessed with my own eyes— to your paranoid theories about my medical issues?”

“I apologized for that. I made it right.”

“You apologized, yes. But making it right would have involved rebuilding trust, not using your guilt as an excuse to become suspicious and controlling.”

Stanley’s jaw tightens. “I’m not controlling.”

“No? Then what do you call interrogating me about where I’ve been? What do you call dismissing my pain as lies and excuses? What do you call accusing me of cheating because I’m not in the mood for sex?”

“I call it being realistic about what happens when someone completely changes their behavior without an explanation.”

“I gave you an explanation. You just don’t want to believe it.”

“Because it doesn’t make sense!” Stanley’s composure finally cracks completely. “If you’re really in that much pain, why haven’t you done anything about it? Why are you choosing to suffer instead of getting help?”

The question hits too close to home because I’ve been asking myself the same thing. Why haven’t I made that appointment? Why do I keep hoping this will resolve itself? Why am I so afraid of finding out what’s wrong?

“Because I’m scared,” I admit quietly. “Because I don’t know what they’ll find. Because my mother always told me that women just have to deal with pain and I’ve been trying to deal with it on my own.”

For a moment, Stanley’s expression softens slightly. “Ilona—”

“But you know what I’m more scared of now?” I continue. “I’m more scared of staying with someone who assumes the worst about me instead of trying to understand what I’m going through.”

“That’s not what I’m doing.”

“Isn’t it? I tell you I’m in pain, and you call me a liar. I tell you I need space to figure out what’s wrong with my body, and you accuse me of infidelity. What part of that sounds like understanding to you?”

Stanley runs a hand through his perfectly styled hair, messing it for the first time all evening. “I just… I need to know that we’re okay. That you’re still committed to this relationship.”

“My commitment was never in question. But yours might be.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

I look around his pristine apartment, taking in the expensive furniture and carefully curated art.

Everything here reflects his taste, his preferences, his vision of how life should look.

There’s nothing of me in this space except for a single photo of us tucked away on a bookshelf, almost like an afterthought.

“It means that the second things got difficult, you decided I must be the problem. You didn’t ask how you could help. You didn’t offer to come to a doctor’s appointment with me. You didn’t even consider that I might be telling the truth. You just jumped straight to betrayal.”

“Because that’s what my experience has taught me.”

“Your experience? You mean the experience where you cheated on me ?”

Stanley flinches. “That’s different.”

“How?”

“Because I told you the truth about it. Eventually.”

“Eventually. After I caught you. After you tried to gaslight me into thinking I’d misunderstood what I saw.” The memories are flooding back now, sharp and painful. “Just like you’re trying to gaslight me now into thinking my pain isn’t real.”

“That’s not—”

“It is exactly that.” I walk to the entryway where I dropped my purse earlier, each step sending fresh waves of discomfort through my body. “And I’m done with it.”

“Where are you going?”

I turn to look at him one last time, this man who I thought I loved, who I thought might love me back. He looks smaller somehow, standing alone in his perfect apartment with his perfect scotch and his perfectly reasonable explanations for why everything must be my fault.

“I’m going to figure out what’s wrong with me. And I’m going to do it without someone constantly questioning my honesty or my motives.”

“Ilona, don’t be ridiculous. We can work through this.”

“Can we? Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’ve already decided I’m guilty of something. How am I supposed to prove my innocence to someone who doesn’t want to believe me?”

Stanley takes a step toward me, but I hold up my hand to stop him.

He narrows his eyes at me. “If you walk out that door, don’t expect me to be here when you change your mind.”

What?

Did he really just say that?

The threat should scare me. Six months ago, it would have. But standing here now, watching him try to manipulate me into staying, I realize that losing him might not be the worst thing that could happen to me.

“You know what, Stanley? That might be exactly what I need.”

I close the door behind me before he can respond, and the sound echoes through the empty hallway like a gunshot. As I head toward the elevator, I feel exhausted, but somehow more solid than I’ve felt in weeks.

The pain in my abdomen pulses with each heartbeat, reminding me that whatever’s wrong with my body isn’t going away just because I’ve walked away from him. But for the first time in months, the physical pain isn’t the worst thing I’m feeling.

This time, I don’t look back.