Page 61 of Crimson Sin
I feel like a ghost sliding through the shadows, careful not to leave a trace. Event planners know everyone, and Charlotte is no exception. Hotel managers, venue owners, and even drivers who always know the quickest ways through the city. She handed me names and numbers, introductions that buy me safety for now. And I cling to them like lifelines.
“Leave your phone behind,”she told me, pressing a new one into my palm.“I’ll set up a forwarding line. Anyone who calls your number will still reach you. To them, nothing has changed. But Daniil’s people will be chasing a ghost. The phone they trace won’t move. It’ll sit here like a decoy.”
Then she reached into her tote bag and pulled out a scuffed but functional laptop. The silver casing was dented at one corner,and the stickers were half-peeled from the lid.“Take this too,”she said, sliding it toward me.“It’s old, but it works. Fresh user account, no history, no ties back to you. If you need to answer work emails, search, or anything, use this instead of your own. Daniil’s people will be watching for movement on your accounts.”
“You thought of everything,”I murmured, blinking at her.
Charlotte shrugged lightly, but her eyes gleamed.“If you think working with high-profile clients doesn’t teach you how to stay one step ahead, then you don’t know me at all.”
Daniil’s men will try to follow me. They’ll dig and chase, but all they’ll find is silence until I choose to surface again.
The first contact was Marcus, who runs a small motel on the south side. No questions asked, cash only, weekly rates. The second was Elena, a waitress at a 24-hour diner who lets me sit in the corner booth for hours nursing a single cup of coffee. The third was Joey, a cab driver who knows which routes avoid the main streets, and who doesn’t look too closely at his passengers’ faces.
But even as I blend into this makeshift sanctuary, I cannot silence what gnaws at me. The memory of Daniil’s touch lingers, cruel and intoxicating. The way his fingers traced my jawline before he kissed me. The heat of his body against mine in those moments when his mask slipped away. The sound of his voice, the way he says my name, it all threads itself through my mind when I least expect it.
I hate that I miss it. I hate that in the quiet moments between running and hiding, I find myself wondering what he's doing. Whether he's looking for me, angry, worried, or relieved that I'mgone. And beneath it all, there is a fluttering inside me with quiet insistence. The tiny heartbeat that is not mine.
A homeless man shuffles past, pushing a shopping cart loaded with plastic bags and blankets. He doesn't look at me, lost in his own survival. A pharmacy sign flickers ahead, its green glow cutting through the drizzle. The rain started again, the third time today. My jacket isn't waterproof, and dampness seeps through to my skin. My legs feel heavy as I push the door open, the warmth inside wrapping around me with sterile familiarity.
The pharmacy is brighter than the street, all white tiles and fluorescent lighting. Shelves of vitamins and pain relievers stretch toward the back, where a small consultation window sits behind the main counter. A few customers browse the aisles. An elderly woman is comparing prices on arthritis cream, a young mother with a fussy toddler in her cart, and two teenagers browsing the candy aisle. Normal people with normal lives.
I pull the small plastic packet of pills from my pocket, my fingers trembling. The pharmacist, a middle-aged man with glasses perched low on his nose, takes them from me with a polite smile that fades as he examines the blister pack.
His brow furrows as he holds the package up to the light, examining the individual pills. He opens a reference book, flipping through pages of small print and pharmaceutical codes. The minutes feel like hours while I stand there, my heart hammering against my ribs.
“These aren't active,” he states at last, his tone firm. “These are blanks. No hormones, nothing. They wouldn't prevent pregnancy or anything else.”
For a moment, I can’t breathe. The pharmacy tilts around me, shelves blurring at the edges. His words crash over me, leaving me numb and burning all at once. “Are you certain?” in a thin, fragile voice.
He nods, setting the pack on the counter. “Absolutely certain. See this coding here?” He points to tiny numbers I never noticed. “These are placebo pills. Sugar pills, essentially. Sometimes they're included in birth control packs for the week of menstruation, but an entire pack like this? That’s something I haven’t seen before.”
I close my hand around the pills, my nails digging into the plastic until it cracks. My mind reels, memories flooding back with new clarity. The image that arises is Irina Volkov with her signature red lipstick, and her smooth voice offering me lavender oil and a silk mask. She walked into my room with false kindness, and I let her. More than that, I was grateful for what I thought was genuine concern from another woman in that testosterone-filled mansion.
The betrayal is a knife twisting inside me. But why? Why would she do this? What game is she playing?
“Ma'am? Are you alright?” The pharmacist's voice seems to come from very far away.
I blink, focusing on his concerned face. “Yes. Thank you for checking.”
I step back into the cold night, the street swaying under my feet. Rain hits my face, mixing with tears I didn't realize I was shedding. My pregnancy was no accident. It was arranged, orchestrated by someone who wanted me to be bound to Daniil Zorin more completely than any document could achieve.
My body trembles, my palm pressed to my abdomen. The life inside me is real and innocent. But everything surrounding it feels like a trap sprung by a woman who smiled while she destroyed my choices.
I walk for hours, letting the rain soak through my clothes until I'm shivering. The city whirls past me, streetlights becoming stars, car headlights trailing like comets. I end up in Grant Park, sitting on a bench near the lake. The water stretches out into darkness, and with it, my choices in this harsh reality.
Days pass in a blur. I change motels, keep my head down, and avoid the glances of strangers. In between the hiding and restless nights, I answer work emails, mundane threads of normal life colliding with the chaos I’m trapped in. The museum writes to tell me the exhibit drew record numbers, and there’s even talk of a promotion, as if success in that world could balance the ruin in this one.
I wake at night, drenched in sweat, reaching for a man I swore I had to leave. In my dreams, he finds me. Sometimes he's angry, his voice cold like a winter storm. Sometimes he's desperate, pulling me against him like I'm the only thing keeping him tethered to earth. And sometimes he's gentle, his hand curved protectively over my belly, whispering promises I know he can't keep. These are the dreams that hurt the most.
My heart aches with the impossibility of it all. How do you love someone who holds you prisoner? How do you hate someone who makes you feel more alive than you've ever felt? How do you protect a child from a world built on violence and lies?
On the fourth morning of my disappearance, my phone buzzes with an unfamiliar number. The sound cuts through the quiet of my latest motel room that smells of industrial carpet cleaner andother people's secrets. Fear prickles down my spine. I almost let it ring out, but some instinct makes me answer.
“Mrs. Zorin?” a cheerful voice asks. “This is the Cook County Clerk's Office. We're calling to confirm your recent marriage has been filed and recorded. Congratulations.”
The words melt together, wrong and impossible. The phone feels like it weighs a thousand pounds in my hand. “W-what?” I stutter.
“Your certificate was processed this week. If you'd like to update your last name legally, we can provide the forms. You are, of course, free to continue using Carter if you prefer.”
