Chapter Fifty-Two
Ilona
The cramping hasn’t stopped.
It’s been days since the miscarriage, and my body still feels like it’s turning itself inside out.
Every breath comes with a sharp reminder of what I’ve lost— not just the pregnancy, but the hope I didn’t want to believe I was carrying.
The possibility of something beautiful with Osip, something that could have transcended whatever darkness brought us together.
Osip disappeared yesterday morning without a word.
No note, no explanation, just the silence where his presence used to be.
Since I got back from the hospital, I’ve returned to the guest suite.
No sense in sharing a bed with him now that we’re no longer trying for a baby.
And that hurts just as much as everything else.
And now there’s Melor— the brother who arrived out of nowhere when Osip vanished. He claims he doesn’t know where his brother went, but the way his eyes slide away from mine tells a different story. Everyone knows something I don’t. Everyone is protecting me from truths I apparently can’t handle.
I’m so fucking tired of being protected.
My phone pings with a reminder of my appointment with Dr. Varga this afternoon, so I call to confirm.
“Of course, Doctor is looking forward to your follow-up,” the receptionist says with a brightness that makes me want to curl in on myself. How could he possibly be looking forward to another inspection of my defective womb?
“Thanks,” I say flatly before ending the call. It feels like it takes all of my energy to change out of the pajamas I’ve taken to wearing all day, pulling on oversized sweats that were meant to accommodate an expanding belly that will now remain flat.
The driver is already waiting in the hallway by the time I get downstairs.
No chance of me taking my own car anywhere since everything went to hell.
It’s Osip’s instruction, but it suits me anyway.
The cramping makes it hard to focus, and I’m still paranoid about the car incident from a few weeks ago.
The driver remains silent as I slide into the backseat, and that suits me fine too. Budapest streams past the window in a blur of gray buildings and gray sky, matching the gray fog that’s settled over my thoughts since the miscarriage.
We pull up at the curb outside the clinic and the driver moves to get out, probably intent on opening my door.
“It’s fine,” I tell him, putting a hand on his shoulder. I don’t feel like calling attention to myself. Right now, I’d be perfectly happy if I could just crawl into a hole.
Just as I’m stepping out in front of the clinic, something makes me glance across the street.
A figure in a dark coat, half-hidden in the shadow of a tram stop.
For one impossible moment, my breath catches.
The way he holds himself, the way his head is tilted slightly reminds me of someone from a lifetime ago.
Stanley.
The same broad shoulders. The same way of standing with his weight shifted to one hip.
A tram rumbles between us, its bright yellow bulk blocking my view for endless seconds. When it passes, the street is empty except for an elderly woman walking a small dog.
Paranoid.
You’re being paranoid, girl.
My legs feel weak as I push through the clinic doors. Stress. Grief. Sleep deprivation. It has to be my mind playing tricks on me, conjuring monsters from shadows because the real world isn’t frightening enough. Stanley Morrison has no reason to be in Budapest. He has no way of knowing where I am.
Does he?
“Goddammit,” I mutter, shoving the irrational fear aside. Besides, who cares if it is actually Stanley? What could he possibly do that’s worse than what’s already happened?
“Ilona?” Dr. Varga’s voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts. He’s standing in the doorway of his office, concern etched into every line of his face. “Come, please.”
His examination room smells like antiseptic and lavender— an attempt at comfort that somehow makes everything feel more clinical. The paper crinkles under my body as I settle onto the examination table, and Dr. Varga pulls on latex gloves with a snap that makes me flinch.
“Tell me about the pain,” he says, his accented English careful and precise. “Scale of one to ten.”
“Six. Maybe seven when it’s bad.” I wince as he begins palpating my abdomen, his fingers gentle but thorough. “It’s not constant, but when it comes…”
“Sharp? Dull? Cramping?”
“All of the above.” The pressure of his examination sends fresh waves of discomfort through my pelvis. “And the bleeding hasn’t stopped. It’s lighter than before, but it’s still there.”
His frown deepens as he continues the exam, pressing different areas of my abdomen and watching my face for reactions. When I involuntarily suck in a breath, he pauses.
“Here? This hurts?”
“Yes.”
He makes a note on his chart, then reaches for the ultrasound equipment. The gel is cold against my skin, and the wand feels invasive as he moves it across my lower abdomen. I turn my head away from the screen— I don’t want to see the empty space where a life used to be growing.
“Ilona.” His voice is gentler now. “Look at me, not the screen.”
I meet his eyes, and the sympathy there makes my throat tighten.
“There appears to be some retained tissue,” he says carefully. “This is not uncommon after a miscarriage, but it needs to be addressed. It’s what’s causing your continued bleeding and pain.”
Retained tissue.
The clinical words sit heavy in the room between us.
“What does that mean? What needs to be done?”
“If it doesn’t resolve on its own, we may need a small procedure— a D&C— to ensure everything is cleared properly.
But first, I want blood work and urine samples to check for infection.
” He strips off his gloves and tosses them in the medical waste bin.
“I will call you with the results in the next one to two days. If the pain becomes severe, or if the bleeding increases significantly, you come immediately. Do not wait.”
The worry in his voice follows me out of the building like a dark cloud.
I’m barely ten steps onto the sidewalk when my phone rings. I reach into my purse and pull it out. Jason’s name flashes on the screen, and something cold settles in my stomach.
“Ilona.” His voice carries an edge that’s totally unlike his usual warm tone— like he’s discovered something that’s changed everything. “I have news. About your father. It’s big. You’re going to need to brace yourself.”
My heart skips a beat.
I scan the street until I spot a small park across from the clinic, just a patch of grass with a few benches and some shady trees. My legs feel wobbly as I make my way over and sink onto the cold metal slats.
“Tell me.”
The silence stretches out for too long, and I can practically hear Jason wrestling with whatever he’s about to say. In the distance, a church bell chimes the hour, each note hanging in the air like some sort of doomsday clock.
“Ilona, what I’m about to say isn’t going to be easy for you to hear. Your father did not die of suicide. He was murdered. The suicide was a cover-up. I’m sorry, kiddo.”
The bench seems to drop away beneath me.
The world narrows to just Jason’s voice and the word murdered echoes around my head. My throat closes like a fist and my heart shatters into a thousand pieces at the same time.
Dad.
Oh my God, Dad.
But somewhere beneath the shock, somewhere in the darkest depths of my soul, a tiny voice claws its way to the surface.
I knew it.
The thought rises from some deep place in my chest, fierce and vindicated and absolutely terrifying.
I fucking knew it.
“Do you know who did it?” My voice sounds strange, unfamiliar even to my own ears. Too goddamned calm, considering the bombshell he just unloaded.
“One of his business partners. I’m sorry to say this, Ilona, but it seems your father was involved in something very shady and frankly, quite dangerous.”
Business partners.
That makes no sense. Dad was a gynecologist. His business partners were other doctors, hospital administrators, medical suppliers. What could any of them have to do with murder?
“What are you talking about?”
Jason’s hesitation crackles through the phone line. When he finally speaks, his voice is even gentler, like he’s breaking bad news to a child.
“I’m not sure you want to hear it.”
“Tell me!” The words explode out of me, sharp enough that a woman walking past with a stroller glances over nervously.
“They were procuring orphaned babies for wealthy parents who couldn’t have their own child.
For astronomical fees. And besides being the face of this operation, it seems your father was skimming these fees— practically stealing from his business partners.
When they found out…” Jason’s voice trails off, letting me fill in the horrific blank.
Baby trafficking.
My father— gentle, healing, devoted to bringing new life into the world— was selling babies to the highest bidder.
Nausea rises up my throat in a wave that I have to force down by swallowing hard.
“Who killed him, Jason?” I snap. My lips feel numb as I speak, cold and tingling, as if the warm blood’s been sucked from me. “Tell me!”
“Ilona… if I tell you the name I found, I’m putting you in a world of danger.”
Danger.
Like the figure I thought I saw outside the clinic. Like the car that nearly crashed a few weeks ago. Like the feeling I’ve had lately that invisible eyes are tracking my every movement.
But right now, I don’t give a damn about any of it.
“I don’t care, Jason. I have to know!” I fight to keep my breathing steady.
“This is not someone you want to mess with, kiddo. Even if I tell you, you have to promise me that you never, ever go after this guy. Do you understand me?”
The promise sits on my tongue like poison. Because part of me— the part that’s been hollowed out by loss and betrayal and too many unanswered questions— wants exactly that. Wants to find my father’s killer and make them pay.
“I promise,” I lie.
“Fine. His name is—”
“How was the appointment?” A voice cuts Jason’s words short, leaving me unable to hear the rest of the sentence.
Deep, familiar, carrying the same protective undertone I’ve grown accustomed to over the past two days.
Melor stands beside the bench, his massive frame blocking out the weak afternoon sun.
“Ilona?” Jason presses. “Are you there?”
“Just a minute,” I tell him.
“Ready to go?” Melor asks, looking pointedly at his watch and then reaching for my purse.
“I’ll call you back,” I manage to tell Jason, my finger already moving toward the end call button.
But just before I hang up, Jason’s voice cuts through the speaker, urgent and sharp: “Ilona, I need you to be very careful, this is—”
The call ends with a soft beep, leaving me staring at Melor’s impassive face and wondering what name just got swallowed by silence.