Chapter Three
Ilona
My hands shake against the steering wheel as I sit in my car outside Stanley’s building, the engine running but going nowhere.
The tears won’t stop coming— ugly, choking sobs that leave my chest aching and my vision blurred. I catch my reflection in the rearview mirror and hate what I see. Mascara streaks down my cheeks, my lips are swollen from biting them, and my eyes look hollow.
Phantom pain.
The words echo in my head, sharp and dismissive. Nearly two years together, and that’s what he thinks of my suffering. After sharing a bed, planning a future, building what I thought was love— and he can reduce my agony to lies and convenient excuses.
The cramping in my pelvis pulses with each heartbeat, a constant reminder that something is deeply wrong with my body. But now it’s joined by a different kind of pain, the kind that comes from realizing the person you trusted most doesn’t trust you at all.
I should call Dad.
He would listen.
My father always listens when I need him, never dismissing my concerns or making me feel dramatic for having emotions.
He’s been my anchor since childhood— the one person who sees me exactly as I am and loves me anyway.
When I scraped my knee at seven, he sat with me for an hour explaining why crying was brave, not weak.
When I failed my calculus final in college, he drove three hours just to take me for ice cream and remind me that one grade didn’t define my worth.
But the thought of telling him about tonight makes my stomach twist with shame.
How do I explain that the man he’s grown to like— the man he plays golf with twice a month and discusses business strategies with over dinner— just accused me of cheating?
How do I tell him that I think Stanley isn’t such a great guy after all?
There’s something else, too. Something that’s been bothering me for weeks, but that I’ve been pushing aside.
The way Dad and Stanley talk sometimes, in low voices that stop when I enter the room.
The way they exchange glances during family dinners, like they share secrets I’m not privy to.
I’ve told myself it’s just male bonding, the natural evolution of a relationship between a father and his daughter’s boyfriend.
But tonight, with Stanley’s accusations still burning in my ears, I can’t shake the feeling that there’s more to their connection than casual friendship.
Stop it, Ilona.
You’re being paranoid.
Dad wouldn’t keep secrets from me— not important ones. And whatever Stanley is hiding, whatever darkness is eating at him from the inside, I won’t drag my father into it.
I wipe my face with the back of my hand and shift the car into drive. I need to move. I need to be anywhere but here, parked outside the building where the man I thought I loved just shattered my heart into a thousand pieces.
The streets of Boston blur past as I drive without a destination, letting muscle memory guide me through neighborhoods I’ve known since childhood.
The pain in my abdomen flares with each bump in the road, but I barely notice it anymore.
Physical pain is manageable. It’s the emotional devastation that’s threatening to pull me under.
I’m stopped at a red light when I see it— a building I’ve never paid attention to before, though I must have passed it dozens of times.
The sign glows in deep red neon: The Scarlet Fox .
Something about the name tugs at me, draws my attention like a magnet.
The exterior is understated but elegant, dark brick with tall windows that reveal warm light spilling from within.
On impulse, I turn into the small parking lot.
This isn’t me— I don’t drink alone at strange bars, don’t make reckless decisions when I’m emotionally compromised.
But maybe that’s exactly what I need tonight.
Maybe I need to be someone other than the woman who just got called a liar by her boyfriend.
Screw him!
Fixing my make up with jerky movements, I swing open the door and get out of the car.
The interior of The Scarlet Fox is nothing like the sports bars and trendy cocktail lounges Stanley prefers.
This place feels like a secret, all dark wood and burgundy velvet, soft jazz flowing from hidden speakers.
The lighting is warm and intimate, casting everything in golden shadows that make the space feel like a sanctuary.
The bartender notices me immediately— tall, dark-haired, with an easy smile that reaches his eyes. His rolled-up sleeves reveal forearms marked with intricate tattoos, and there’s something about his presence that feels both professional and genuinely welcoming.
“What can I get you?” he asks, sliding a cocktail napkin across the polished bar.
“Something strong,” I say, my voice still rough from crying. “Something that will help me forget the last two hours of my life.”
He studies my face for a moment— not in a creepy way, but with the practiced assessment of someone who’s seen plenty of heartbreak walk through these doors. “Whiskey neat, or something with more sugar to take the edge off?”
“Whiskey. Definitely whiskey.”
He pours two fingers of amber liquid into a crystal glass and sets it in front of me. The first sip burns, but it’s a clean burn that cuts through the fog of hurt and anger clouding my thoughts.
“Rough night?” he asks, wiping down glasses as he looks up at me.
“Jealous boyfriend drama,” I say, taking another sip. The alcohol is already warming my chest, loosening the tight knot of tension between my shoulder blades.
Something shifts in his expression—a flicker of understanding that goes beyond casual bartender sympathy. “Ah. One of those.”
“One of what?”
“Guys who think their insecurity is your problem to solve.” He leans against the bar, lowering his voice slightly. “Been there. Not fun.”
The whiskey is making me bold, or maybe it’s just the relief of talking to someone who doesn’t immediately dismiss my experience. “How do you know it’s his insecurity and not my actual guilt?”
“Because guilty people don’t cry like you’ve been crying. They get defensive or angry.” He gives me a casual glance over his shoulder. “You look like someone who’s been kicked while they were already down.”
The observation hits harder than it should. I drain the rest of my whiskey and push the glass toward him for a refill.
“I’m Jack, by the way,” he says, pouring another generous measure.
“Ilona.”
“Nice to meet you, Ilona. And for what it’s worth, jealous boyfriends usually reveal more about themselves than about their girlfriends.”
The second whiskey goes down easier, spreading warmth through my limbs and blurring the sharp edges of tonight’s confrontation. Jack continues polishing glasses, occasionally making small talk with other patrons, but his attention keeps returning to me with a kindness I desperately need.
“You know,” he says after I’ve finished my second drink, “we’ve got a private event in the back tonight. Might be exactly what you need to lift your mood a little.”
I raise an eyebrow, the alcohol making me braver than usual. “What kind of event?”
Jack’s smile is mysterious, almost conspiratorial. “Nothing too special. Just… something different. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. But it might help you remember that you’re in control of your own choices.”
The words resonate more than they should.
Control. When was the last time I felt truly in control of anything?
Stanley controls where we go, what we do, how we spend our time together.
My body is controlling me with pain I can’t predict or prevent.
Even my own emotions feel like they’re running the show tonight.
“Different how?”
Instead of answering directly, Jack glances around the bar, then gestures for me to follow him. “Come on. I’ll show you.”
The whiskey has made my legs slightly unsteady, but I slide off the barstool and follow him through a doorway I hadn’t noticed before.
We walk down a dimly lit corridor that feels like stepping into another world entirely.
The walls are lined with rich fabric, and the lighting shifts from warm gold to something more mysterious— deeper shadows punctuated by strategic pools of light.
The corridor ends at a hallway lined with doors, each marked only with a number. The atmosphere here is different— charged with possibility and secrets.
Jack stops and turns to face me, his expression serious but kind. “This is our Masked Night event,” he says quietly. “Anonymous encounters, entirely by choice. You get paired with someone at random.”
I suck in a sharp breath. “Paired with someone? What does that mean?”
He gives me a cheeky grin. “Whatever you want it to mean. But there are no obligations, no expectations beyond what you decide in the moment.”
He reaches into a nearby cabinet and withdraws something black and elegant— a mask made of intricate lace that would cover the upper half of my face while leaving my mouth free.
“No names,” he continues. “No personal information exchanged. Cameras and emergency systems throughout, so you’re safe at all times. If you want to leave, you leave. If you want to talk, you talk. If you want more…” He shrugs. “That’s entirely up to you.”
I stare at the mask in his hands, my heart hammering madly. This is insane. I don’t do things like this— I’m careful, responsible, the kind of person who researches restaurants before trying them. Anonymous encounters with strangers in private rooms are the stuff of fantasies, not real life.
But as I look at the mask, I realize that careful and responsible haven’t gotten me very far tonight. Careful and responsible just earned me accusations of infidelity from a man who cheated on me six months ago.
“Room Five is yours if you want it,” Jack says, pointing to a door halfway down the hall. “There’s a changing room with robes and other options if you prefer. But again— no pressure. You can walk away right now and just finish your drink at the bar.”
He hands me the mask, and the lace feels soft and expensive against my fingers. Quality fabric, not some cheap costume store purchase. Everything about this place seems designed for people who value discretion and luxury.
“What do I do if I change my mind?”
“There’s a call button in every room. Press it, and someone will come get you immediately. No questions asked.” Jack’s smile is reassuring. “We take care of our guests here, Ilona. You’re in control at all times.”
Control.
There’s that word again.
I look down the hallway toward Room Five, then back at the mask in my hands. Every rational part of my brain is screaming that this is a terrible idea, that I’m making decisions based on hurt and alcohol rather than sound judgment.
But the rational part of my brain also trusted Stanley Morrison. The rational part of my brain has been dismissing my own pain for weeks, trying to push through and pretend everything is fine when it’s clearly not.
Maybe it’s time to listen to a different part of myself. The part that’s tired of being questioned and dismissed. The part that wants to feel valued rather than accused. The part that craves anonymity and freedom from the weight of other people’s expectations.
“No names,” I repeat, testing the words.
“No names. No history. No baggage. Just whatever happens in the moment.”
I lift the mask and examine it more closely. The lace pattern is intricate, almost artistic. When I hold it up to my face, it transforms my reflection in the glass door beside me into someone mysterious and unrecognizable.
Someone brave.
“I’ll take Room Five,” I hear myself saying.
Jack nods and leads me to the door, producing a key card from his pocket. “Take your time. Someone will join you when you’re ready, or you can change your mind and leave whenever you want.”
The room beyond the door is like stepping into a dream.
Everything is soft and luxurious— plush seating, warm lighting that flatters without being harsh, music playing at barely audible levels.
There’s a mirror on the far wall, and when I catch sight of myself in it, I’m startled by how different I look with the mask on.
Not like Ilona Katona Shiradze, the woman who got accused of cheating tonight. Not like the responsible daughter who calls her father every Sunday. Not like the girlfriend who’s been making excuses for her boyfriend’s behavior for months.
Like someone else entirely. Someone who makes her own choices and doesn’t apologize for them.
I sit on the edge of the velvet couch, my pulse thrumming in my ears. I don’t know who will walk through the door of room five, or if anyone will at all. I don’t know what I’ll do if someone does appear, or how far I’m willing to take this crazy experiment in anonymous rebellion.
But for the first time in weeks— maybe months— I feel like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.
The mask is my armor, the room is my sanctuary, and whatever happens next will be my choice alone.
I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and wait to see who I become.