Chapter Seven
Ilona
The fluorescent lights in the precinct buzz with their familiar electrical hum as I push through the glass doors.
The scent hits me immediately— burned coffee, industrial disinfectant, and that particular staleness that comes from too many people working too many hours in too small a space.
Normally, this cocktail of chaos and routine feels like coming home.
Today, it feels like stepping into someone else’s life.
My desk sits in the corner of the bullpen, a fortress of organized efficiency surrounded by the controlled mayhem that defines the Boston Police Department’s administrative wing.
Two monitors glow with case files and scheduling software, while my coffee mug— the one Dad brought me back from a conference in Chicago— sits exactly where I left it yesterday.
Everything is the same. Everything should feel normal.
But I’m not the same woman who sat here yesterday morning.
The memory of candlelight and velvet chairs drifts through my mind unbidden.
TMG — The Masked Guy. I’ve been calling him that in my thoughts because I can’t quite bring myself to think of him as a stranger anymore.
Not after the way he listened. Not after the way he looked at me like my pain mattered, like my words carried weight instead of inconvenience.
Heat spreads across my cheeks as I remember his voice: Pain doesn’t need witnesses to be real.
“Morning, sunshine.”
Captain Jason Mulholland’s gravelly voice cuts through my reverie, and I look up to find him approaching my desk with that easy smile that’s gotten me through more difficult days than I can count.
His silver hair is slightly messed from running his hands through it— a sure sign he’s already been wrestling with paperwork for an hour.
“Good morning, Captain.” I reach out and hand him the large coffee I picked up from the café down the street. “Dark roast, two sugars, splash of cream.”
His eyes light up as he accepts the cup, genuine gratitude warming his weathered features. “You’re an angel, Ilona. Absolute angel.”
“Just trying to keep you functional.” I settle into my chair, powering up my computer. “Though I have to ask— did you even go home last night? Because that’s the same shirt you were wearing yesterday.”
Jason glances down at his rumpled button-down and has the grace to look sheepish. “Caught red-handed. There was that armed robbery case from Tuesday, and the witness statements weren’t adding up, so I figured I’d just—”
“Jason.” I give him the look that usually makes junior officers confess to eating evidence room donuts. “You’re not twenty-five anymore. Your body needs actual rest, not catnaps in your office chair.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He mock-salutes me with his coffee cup. “Though I have to say, you look… different today.”
The observation makes me blink in surprise. Different how? Can he see it somehow— the fact that I spent last night in a room with a half-naked stranger, sharing secrets I’ve never told anyone? Do I wear the experience on my face like a scarlet letter?
“Different?” I keep my voice carefully neutral while my pulse jumps. “What do you mean?”
Jason studies me with those sharp blue eyes that made him an excellent detective and now make him an excellent captain.
“I don’t know. Brighter, maybe? Like you got some good news or…” His expression shifts to something more paternal, more protective. “Please tell me Stanley didn’t propose. Because I still have serious reservations about that boy.”
Relief floods through me so fast I almost laugh. He’s fishing for Stanley-related gossip, not analyzing my moral choices.
“No proposals. Quite the opposite, actually.”
“Opposite?” Jason’s eyebrows climb toward his hairline. “Don’t tell me—”
“We had a fight.” The words come out easier than they should. “A big one.”
“About time.” The response is immediate and unapologetic. “That kid’s been treating you like an accessory instead of a partner for months. What finally broke the camel’s back?”
I consider how much to share. Jason has been like a second father to me since I started working here three years ago, offering advice and protection and the kind of steady presence my actual father sometimes struggles with due to his harrowing work schedule.
But telling him about Stanley’s accusations means admitting how bad things had gotten.
It means acknowledging that I stayed in a relationship where my integrity was questioned regularly.
“He accused me of cheating,” I say quietly.
Jason’s coffee cup hits his desk with enough force to slosh dark liquid over the rim. “That sonofabitch.” Jason’s voice drops to the tone he uses when interrogating suspects. “You deserve better, kiddo. A lot better.”
The nickname makes me smile despite everything. Jason started calling me ‘kiddo’ my first week on the job, when I was fresh out of college and terrified of making mistakes. Now it feels like a badge of honor— proof that I belong here, that I’m valued for who I am rather than who I’m sleeping with.
“Thanks, Jason. That… means more than you know.”
“Anytime.” He pauses, and I can see him weighing whether to push for more details. After a moment, he seems to decide against it. “Now, what’s on the agenda today? Please tell me you’ve figured out a way to make the quarterly budget meeting less soul-crushing.”
I laugh, grateful for the subject change. “I’ve prepared a full presentation with charts and graphs that will make even Mr. McAllister’s eyes glaze over within the first five minutes. Then you can slip out the back while he’s unconscious.”
“Brilliant strategy. This is why you’re indispensable.”
The morning flows into familiar rhythms after that.
I update Jason’s calendar, field calls from witnesses who’ve suddenly remembered crucial details weeks after giving their initial statements, and format reports that will probably sit in filing cabinets for the next decade.
The work is routine, comfortable, requiring just enough attention to keep my mind occupied without overwhelming me.
Officer Martinez stops by around ten-thirty with questions about a court appearance next week, and I walk him through the process while secretly admiring how he’s finally learned to keep his uniform pressed.
At eleven, Detective Washington brings me a box of evidence photos that need to be digitized, and we spend twenty minutes troubleshooting the scanner that has apparently decided to reproduce everything in shades of green.
This is my world— practical problems with practical solutions, people who appreciate competence and efficiency, work that matters even when it’s unglamorous. For three years, it’s been enough. More than enough.
But today, as I organize files and schedule meetings, part of my mind keeps drifting to burgundy velvet and the weight of pale eyes behind a leather mask. TMG’s voice echoes through my thoughts at random moments: Men who dismiss what they can’t see are cowards.
He understood something about me in thirty minutes that Stanley never grasped. The realization should be disturbing— I shared more emotional intimacy with a stranger than with the man I thought I loved. Instead, it feels like awakening from a long, unsatisfying dream.
Around two o’clock, I’m updating the witness contact database when the pain hits.
It starts low, a familiar cramping in my pelvis that I’ve learned to breathe through. But this time, instead of the dull ache I’ve grown accustomed to, it’s sharp. Vicious. Like someone is twisting a knife through my lower abdomen and then adding a few extra turns for good measure.
My breath catches, fingers automatically gripping the edge of my desk as sweat breaks out across my forehead. The computer screen blurs, and for a moment I think I might actually pass out. The pain radiates up through my torso and down into my thighs, making my legs feel weak and unsteady.
Breathe, I tell myself.
Just breathe through it.
But breathing doesn’t help this time. If anything, the deep breaths seem to make the cramping worse, each inhale stretching muscles that feel like they’re being shredded from the inside.
Nausea rolls through me in waves, and I have to close my eyes to keep myself from throwing up all over my keyboard.
This isn’t normal period pain. This isn’t stress or bad food or any of the explanations I’ve been clinging to for weeks. This is something else entirely, something that’s getting worse instead of better.
The attack lasts maybe three minutes, but it feels like hours. When it finally ebbs, leaving me shaky and exhausted, I realize I’ve been holding my breath. My heart pounds against my ribs like it’s trying to escape, and my hands are trembling as I reach for my water bottle.
I glance around the bullpen, checking to see if anyone noticed my moment of crisis. Riley is on the phone, Washington is buried in case files, and Jason is in his office with the door closed, probably on a conference call about budgets. No one saw me fall apart at my desk.
Good. The last thing I need is workplace sympathy or suggestions that I should go home and rest. I’ve been resting for weeks, and it hasn’t helped. Whatever’s happening inside my body isn’t going to be solved by taking it easy.
I force myself to sit up straighter, to pretend normalcy while my internal voice screams warnings I’ve been ignoring for too long. This isn’t something I can push through anymore. This isn’t something I can hide.
Twenty minutes later, when I’m reasonably sure I can stand without collapsing, I walk to Jason’s office and knock on the doorframe. He looks up from a stack of reports, immediately noting something in my expression.
“Everything okay?”
“I’m wondering if I could leave a little early today.” I keep my voice steady, professional. “I have some personal stuff to take care of.”
Jason’s concern is immediate and genuine. “Of course. Are you feeling alright? You look a little pale.”
“Just tired. It’s been a long week.”
He studies my face for a moment, and I can see him weighing whether to press for details. Finally, he nods. “Take care of yourself, kiddo. Whatever it is, it can wait until tomorrow if you need more time.”
“Thanks, Jason. Really.”
I gather my things with careful movements, afraid that sudden motion might trigger another attack. My purse feels heavier than usual, and I have to concentrate on walking normally as I make my way to the elevator.
The drive home passes in a haze of Boston traffic and escalating dread.
Each red light gives me time to think, to analyze what just happened and what it might mean.
The pain was different this time— more intense, more focused, more urgent.
Like my body was trying to tell me something I keep refusing to hear.
By the time I reach my apartment, I’ve made a decision. Tomorrow, I’m calling Dad.
Igor Shiradze has been my hero since childhood— the brilliant doctor who saves babies and helps families, the man who taught me that knowledge and compassion can heal anything.
If anyone can figure out what’s wrong with me, it’s him.
And more importantly, he’s the one person who will take my concerns seriously without dismissing them as female hysteria or stress-related nonsense.
I should have told him weeks ago. Should have trusted his expertise instead of hoping the problem would resolve itself. But admitting I need help feels like admitting failure, like confirming that I can’t handle my own life.
The apartment is quiet and cool when I unlock the door, afternoon sunlight streaming through windows I forgot to cover this morning. I drop my purse by the entrance and walk straight to my bedroom, not bothering to change out of my work clothes before collapsing onto the unmade bed.
The cramping has settled into a low, persistent ache that makes me want to curl into a ball. I pull a pillow against my stomach and let myself feel the full weight of what’s been building for weeks— the fear, the uncertainty, the growing certainty that something inside me is fundamentally wrong.
Yet again, I let myself cry. Not the angry tears I shed over Stanley’s betrayal, but the scared, overwhelmed tears of someone who’s been pretending to be strong for too long. They come silently, soaking into the pillowcase as I hold myself in the growing darkness.
Part of me wants to text TMG, to somehow reach across the anonymous divide and share this new fear with someone who listened without judgment.
But that’s impossible— the whole point of Masked Nights is the separation between fantasy and reality.
Whatever comfort I found in Room Five stays there, locked away behind lace and candlelight.
Tomorrow, I’ll call Dad.
Tomorrow, I’ll stop pretending everything is fine when it’s clearly falling apart.
Tomorrow, I’ll start getting real answers instead of hoping problems disappear on their own.