Page 110 of Scarlet Thorns
By eleven-thirty, I’ve given up on shopping entirely.
My hands won’t stop shaking, and every stranger on the street feels like a potential threat. The boutique bags sit in my car— evidence of a normal afternoon that turned into something from a nightmare.
But I still have thirty minutes before my appointment with Dr. Varga, and the thought of sitting in the car, watching shadows and jumping at every sound, feels unbearable. There’s a café across from his clinic— one of those sleek, expensive places with tall windows and baristas who treat coffee like an art form.
Zsolnay Café. The kind of place where Budapest’s elite come to see and be seen. And it seems like a highly unlikely place for anyone planning an assassination.
I order a cappuccino and find a table near the back, positioning myself so I can see both the entrance and the street beyond. The coffee is perfect— rich and smooth with that bitter edge that makes everything else seem more manageable.
For a few minutes, I almost feel normal. The café buzzes with quiet conversation in Hungarian and a smattering of German, punctuated by the gentle hiss of the espresso machine. A businessman reads his paper over a cup of coffee. Two women laugh over shared pastries, their designer handbags positioned in just the right place to be seen.
This is what money buys— the illusion of safety, of normalcy, of belonging somewhere beautiful.
Then I see him.
A man at the counter, waiting for an order. Dark blond hair, broad shoulders, the kind of athletic build that comes fromexpensive gym memberships and personal trainers. He’s facing away from me, but something about the way he holds himself, the particular set of his shoulders…
My blood turns to ice.
Stanley?
The coffee cup freezes halfway to my lips. It can’t be him. It’s impossible. I’m in Budapest, thousands of miles from Boston, living a life he knows nothing about. Why would Stanley Morrison be in a café across from my doctor’s office?
The man turns slightly, and I catch a glimpse of his profile. The sharp jawline, the perfect symmetry of features that used to make my heart race and later made my skin crawl.
It is him.
Or is it?
My mind feels foggy, unreliable. Maybe the stress and paranoia are making me see threats that don’t exist. Maybe every blond man with a gym body looks like my ex-boyfriend when I’m this terrified.
The man collects his coffee and heads toward the exit without turning fully around. I strain to see his face clearly, but he’s moving too quickly, and the early afternoon light streaming through the windows creates shadows that obscure his features.
By the time I think to follow him, he’s gone.
I sit there staring at the empty doorway, my cappuccino growing cold in front of me. Stanley Morrison. The man who controlled almost every aspect of my life for eighteen months. Who cheated on me, then somehow made it my fault. Who made me doubt myself whenever I asked for empathy.
But that’s impossible. Stanley is part of my past— a toxic chapter I closed when I got out of Boston. He has no reason to be in Budapest, no way of knowing where I am or what I’m doing.
Unless…
What if the car sabotage wasn’t random? What if it wasn’t connected to Osip’s world or my father’s investigation? What if Stanley found me, followed me across an ocean, and decided that if he couldn’t have me, no one could?
But how? How would he even know where to look?
And why would he go to such lengths?
You’re just nuts, Ilona!
There’s no way my narcissistic ex-boyfriend would travel all this way just to get back at me.
I force myself to finish the coffee, my hands trembling around the delicate porcelain cup. It wasn’t him. It couldn’t have been. I’m letting paranoia put crazy thoughts in my head, that’s all.
Besides, I have bigger things to worry about. Like whatever Dr. Varga is going to tell me about the nausea that’s been plaguing me for three days straight. I empty my cup, get the check and head across the road to the medical suites.
Dr. Varga’s office is everything a private medical practice should be— pristine white walls, expensive equipment that gleams under soft lighting, the kind of furniture that whispers discretion and competence. He greets me with his usual warm professionalism, though I catch him studying my face with concern.
“You look tired, Ilona. Are you sleeping well?”
