Chapter Twenty-Three
Ilona
I blink in confusion as I try to make sense of what I’m seeing.
The silhouette carved against the dim golden glow of the room’s mood lighting. Broad shoulders. Familiar posture.
But wrong. So wrong.
Stanley sits in the chair. His chair. The Masked Guy’s chair.
“Stanley?” I say, my throat clogged with sleep and disbelief. This can’t be real. How could he have found me here?
“Hello, beautiful.” The reality of his voice removes all doubt in my mind. The fog of sleep evaporates in an instant and I sit bolt upright, hastily clasping the front of the robe closed.
This can’t be happening. Not here. Not in this sacred space where I found peace with—
“Surprised to see me?” Stanley’s perfect features twist into that smile I once thought charming. Now it makes my stomach lurch. “You really thought you could run from me? From us?”
“I… I…. What are you doing here?” I stutter, shooting a panicked glance at the door.
He leans forward, elbows on his knees like he owns this place. Like he owns me. “You’ve been a very difficult girl to track down, Ilona. Boston, Budapest, Boston again. Such a busy little bee.”
“What are you talking about?” I frown at him.
“What do you think I’m talking about ? ” His hazel eyes glitter with something dark.
“It seems we have a lot to discuss.” He tilts his head, and the warm lighting catches the sharp angles of his face— that devastating bone structure that once made my pulse quicken for all the wrong reasons.
Now it looks like something carved from marble by an artist who understood cruelty better than beauty.
His smile unfurls slowly, revealing teeth that seem too white in the amber shadows.
I straighten my shoulders and lift my chin. “There’s nothing to discuss, Stanley. Now, are you going to tell me what the hell you’re doing here?”
“Aren’t you happy to see me?” The question drips with false sweetness, like poison disguised as honey. “I’m happy to see you. As always.”
“What are you talking about, Stanley?” My voice sounds thin and foreign to my own ears.
Every instinct I possess is screaming danger, flooding my system with adrenaline that makes my skin feel electric.
There’s something fundamentally wrong about his presence here, in this sanctuary I thought was safe.
The way he’s positioned himself between me and the door isn’t accidental.
Nothing about Stanley Morrison is ever accidental.
What did he just say?
I’m happy to see you.
As always…
My mind races back to those fleeting glimpses in Budapest— the figure disappearing around corners, the familiar silhouette that vanished the moment I tried to focus on it.
The prickle of being watched that I’d dismissed as paranoia.
Jesus Christ, it really was him, wasn’t it?
Following me. Hunting me across continents like some twisted psycho.
How long has he been watching me? How many times did he see me before I caught those brief glimpses? The thought makes my stomach churn with violation, imagining his eyes tracking my movements, learning my patterns, planning… this.
I press my palms against the smooth velvet beneath me, using the texture to ground myself in reality.
The familiar weight of the club’s absolute discretion, its promise of anonymity and safety, feels like a lie now.
Stanley’s presence here shatters every assumption I had about this place being untouchable.
Stanley notices my discomfort and his smile widens, transforming his handsome features into something that belongs in nightmares. “Is there a problem, beautiful?”
“You’re damn right, there’s a problem,” I snap, mustering up as much indignation as is possible right now. “You haven’t answered me. What are you doing here, and what do you want?”
“I want your boyfriend to understand something,” he says, and his voice has changed completely. Gone is any pretense of civility, replaced by something cold and cutting that sends ice through my veins. “I want him to understand what happens when he tries to fuck me over.”
My brow furrows in genuine confusion, even as my body continues its preparation for flight or fight. Every muscle is coiled tight, ready to explode into motion the moment an opportunity presents itself.
“My boyfriend?” It feels strange saying it, particularly since there’s only one person he could be referring to.
Yet “boyfriend” seems like such an inadequate term for whatever Osip and I were to each other.
Business partners who fucked? Former lovers trapped in a complicated web of attraction and betrayal?
The father of my lost child who I can’t seem to stop wanting despite everything that’s happened between us?
“You know who I’m talking about.”
Stanley stands fluidly, and my breath catches. He’s taller than I remembered, broader too— all that athletic perfection turned into something menacing. The way he moves suggests violence barely leashed, power held in check only by his own whims.
He’s definitely talking about Osip.
But that doesn’t make sense. Stanley and I broke up almost a year and a half ago. He doesn’t know about Osip, doesn’t know about the surrogacy arrangement or the pregnancy that ended in heartbreak. How could he possibly—?
“I… I don’t have a boyfriend,” I manage, though the lie feels clumsy.
“That’s not what I heard.”
He begins moving toward me with deliberate, measured steps.
Each footfall seems to echo in the confined space, and I find myself frantically looking around for potential weapons within reach.
The crystal tumbler on the side table— could shatter, create a distraction.
My purse— somewhere on the floor, possibly containing nothing useful.
The heavy glass ashtray— if I could reach it, if I could swing it before he stopped me.
My eyes dart around the windowless room with increasing desperation, mapping escape routes that all seem to lead through him. The door is the only way out, and he’s positioned himself perfectly to cut off my path.
Stanley continues, his voice carrying the tone someone might use to discuss the weather— casual, conversational, utterly at odds with the menace radiating from his presence.
“You see, we were three in the baby business. Your father, me, and Osip. Your father tried to fuck us over, by skimming our accounts with millions.”
I stare at him in absolute horror as I try to take in what he’s saying. My pulse isn’t just racing now— it’s hammering against my windpipe so hard I can barely breathe. The room seems to contract around me, the walls pressing closer.
What the actual hell is he talking about?
My father?
Working with Stanley and… and… Osip?
“What are you talking about?” I croak, wishing my voice was stronger.
But even as I ask the question, fragments of conversations with Jason begin reassembling in my mind. The strange mortgage. The unexplained success rates. The adoption records that didn’t add up. The growing certainty that Dad wasn’t the man I thought he was.
Stanley’s smile takes on an almost pitying quality, like he’s about to explain something simple to a child. His voice drips with contempt as he continues.
“Oh, you don’t know? Poor little Ilona, you have no idea who your father really was.” He pauses, savoring my confusion. “Dr. Igor Shiradze— respected gynecologist, pillar of the community. What a fucking joke.” He scoffs.
I can only shake my head, my mouth dry as sand.
“Your precious daddy was running a black-market baby operation that would make your head spin. We had a network spanning three countries— desperate birth mothers in Eastern Europe, wealthy couples in America willing to pay anything for a healthy infant. Your father was the medical face, the one who made it all look legitimate.”
Stanley begins pacing now, his movements calculated to keep me trapped on the couch while he delivers his poison.
“He’d identify pregnant women in vulnerable situations— poverty, addiction, family rejection.
Then he’d swoop in like some fucking savior, offering medical care and a solution to their problems. Meanwhile, he had us matching them with couples who’d pay six figures or more for a baby, no questions asked. ”
My stomach churns with each detail, but Stanley isn’t finished.
“The beauty of it was the medical records. Your dear old father would falsify everything— make it look like legitimate adoptions through proper channels. He had contacts in hospitals, government offices, even child services. Money talks, and we had plenty of it.”
“That’s impossible,” I whisper, but the words lack weight.
Stanley laughs, a sound devoid of any warmth. “Is it? Think about all those success stories he told you about. All those grateful families sending thank-you notes. You think that was just his medical brilliance?”
“He… he helped people,” I stammer, but doubt is already eating away at my certainty.
“He helped himself to fucking millions of dollars, is what he did,” he snaps. “Started skimming off the top, setting up his own side deals, cutting me and Osip out of transactions. We built that operation together, and the greedy bastard decided he wanted it all for himself.”
What?
Dad skimming accounts?
Cutting Osip and Stanley out?
The room spins around me as I try to process everything I’ve just heard.
My father— the gentle man who taught me about compassion, who dedicated his life to bringing children into the world— was running some kind of criminal enterprise?
Selling babies for money? The thought makes bile rise in my throat.
“He was a thief and a liar. He owed me over two million. When Osip confronted him, he even tried to kill Osip.” Stanley laughs darkly; the sound is ugly. “That was his next mistake, because Sidorov is a brutal fucker and took him out before he could.”
The world stops.
Just… stops.
Every thought in my head evaporates, replaced by a roaring silence that feels like standing inside a breaking wave. The information crashes over me in pieces— fragments that my mind can’t quite assemble into coherent understanding.
Oh.
My.
God…
I reach out blindly, my fingers digging into the upholstery.
I need something real, something stable, because the entire foundation of my understanding is crumbling beneath me.
My dad— gentle, caring Dr. Igor Shiradze, who dedicated his life to helping families— tried to kill someone?
Was the mastermind behind some kind of criminal enterprise?
The baby business.
The phrase echoes in my skull. All those successful adoptions, all those grateful families who sent cards that made him smile with what I thought was professional pride. Jesus Christ, was it all… was it all built on stolen children and human trafficking?
But Stanley isn’t exactly the most trustworthy narrator.
Jason’s warnings echo in my memory— people you don’t want to mess with .
Stanley Morrison definitely qualifies. He could be bending the truth, shaping it to serve his own purposes.
But why would he lie about this? What would he gain from painting my father as a criminal if it wasn’t true?
And Osip… Osip killed my father.
I already knew this, technically. Jason confirmed that Dad was murdered, and he said Osip was involved. But hearing it stated so baldly, so casually, makes it real in a way that steals my ability to form coherent thoughts.
My dad tried to kill Osip first. That detail changes everything, doesn’t it? It transforms murder into self-defense, makes Osip’s actions seem almost… justified? The twisted logic makes my head spin.
Stop thinking that way!
Stanley watches my internal collapse with obvious satisfaction, like an artist admiring his latest masterpiece of destruction. “I’m still two million short, because of your father. But luckily, I can get that two million off Osip.”
“What does this have to do with me?” The question scrapes past my dry throat. I can barely force the words out through the crushing weight of revelation and growing terror.
“You, my dear… you’re leverage. Or collateral damage. Whatever you want to call it.”
The casual way he discusses my potential destruction makes me go cold. There’s no emotion in his voice, no anger or passion— just cold, clinical assessment of my value as a tool.
“What do you mean?”
“What I mean is, I’m going to show Osip what happens to those who owe me money and refuse to pay their debt. And you’re perfect for that purpose.”
He takes another step closer, and I can smell him now— expensive cologne layered over something darker. Sweat. Adrenaline. The metallic scent of barely contained aggression.
My panic rises like flood water, threatening to drown rational thought.
I glance desperately around the room, searching for salvation that doesn’t exist. There are no cameras here— the club’s absolute discretion policy ensures complete privacy.
No one will know what happens in this room unless I find a way to escape, find a way to get help.
“The beautiful thing about this place,” Stanley says, his voice cutting through my frantic mental calculations, “is that no one can see us. No witnesses, no recordings, no evidence. You’re going to help me get what I want. But first…”
He moves smoothly, closing the distance between us in two quick strides. His hand reaches out, fingers trailing along my jawline with mock tenderness that makes my skin crawl.
The touch is gentle, almost loving, but there’s something fundamentally wrong about it— like being caressed by a corpse. His skin is too cold, his fingers too steady, as if he’s disconnected from any normal human emotion.
“…first, we’re going to have a little reunion.” His other hand comes to rest on my shoulder, the weight of it somehow both light and crushing. I can feel the strength in those fingers, the barely restrained power that could snap my collarbone without effort.
“You have no idea how much I’ve missed you, Ilona.” The words are spoken softly, almost lovingly, but they carry the weight of a threat. His eyes never leave mine, boring into me like he’s trying to crawl inside my skull and make himself at home among my worst fears.
I want to scream, to fight, to run— but my body seems frozen in place, paralyzed by the recognition of just how completely fucked I am. Stanley Morrison has found me, cornered me in the one place I thought was safe from the outside world.
Whatever he has planned, whatever sick game he’s playing with Osip and my father’s ghost, I’m trapped at the center of it.
His thumb traces my lower lip with the gentleness of a lover and the possessiveness of an owner, and I can see in his eyes that this is only the beginning.