Page 55 of Scarlet Thorns
She gathers her clothes with theatrical dignity, clearly trying to show me what I’m missing. The door slams behind her hard enough to rattle the windows, followed by the unmistakable sound of her throwing things around the guest room.
Yobani urod.
Fucking pain in the ass.
I pour another shot of vodka and walk to the windows overlooking the city. Budapest spreads below me like a circuitboard of light and shadow, beautiful and foreign and nothing like the life I thought I’d be living by now.
In another timeline, I’d be tucking my son into bed about now. Reading him stories in Russian, teaching him the constellations visible from his nursery window. Galina would be in our kitchen, humming while she prepared his bottle for the middle-of-the-night feeding.
Instead, I’m standing in an empty house with a woman who sees me as a ticket to the life she thinks she deserves, drinking away memories of the family that died a year ago.
The vodka burns, but not enough to erase the taste of guilt and regret that’s become my constant companion. Tomorrow I’ll deal with Anett’s drama, find her a new place, probably listen to more tears and manipulation to make me change my mind.
But tonight, I’ll drink until the ghosts stop talking and the nightmares feel manageable. Until I can close my eyes without seeing masked figures stealing everything I care about.
Do svidaniya, malysh,I whisper to the window, to the son who never got to breathe, to the woman whose face I’ll never know but whose absence defines everything I’ve become.
Tomorrow I’ll figure out how to be human again.
Tonight, I’ll just try to survive the weight of everything I’ve lost.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Ilona
The notification on my laptop screen glows like an accusation.
Payment Overdue - Final Notice.
I stare at the words until they blur, my coffee growing cold in the chipped mug beside me. Three days. I have three days before my landlord kicks me out of this shoebox rental in District VII, and my bank account balance mocks me with its pathetic double digits.
Welcome to the glamorous life of a digital nomad.
The irony tastes bitter as week-old coffee. A year ago, when I first fled Boston with nothing but grief and a half-formed business plan, the nomadic lifestyle felt like freedom. Travel the world, work from cafés with stunning views, reinvent myself as Ilona Katona— Katona being my mother’s maiden name— leaving no trace of the broken girl whose father’s “suicide” destroyed everything she thought she knew about family.
But Instagram lies. Behind those perfectly curated posts of laptop setups against European backdrops, there’s the reality of counting euros for groceries, sleeping in hostels that smell like unwashed socks, and watching your client base evaporate as AI steals the work you thought only humans could do.
My social media business started strong— beauty brands loved my eye for aesthetics, my ability to make their products look irresistible against cobblestone streets and café windows. For several months, I actually made it work. Traveled through Prague, Vienna, Warsaw, always moving, always running from the ghost of my father and the questions that followed his death.
Then the algorithms started to change. AI content flooded the market. Suddenly, brands could generate perfect lifestyle shots without paying humans to create them. My client list dwindled from a healthy roster to a handful of loyal customers who probably hired me out of pity more than necessity.
Now I’m here in Budapest— the city where my parents fell in love thirty years ago, where Mom’s Hungarian roots run deep— and I’m about to become homeless in the place that was supposed to be my sanctuary.
My phone buzzes against the rickety table, and Mom’s face appears on the screen. I consider letting it go to voicemail, but guilt wins.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Ilona, darling.” Her voice carries that careful tone she’s perfected over the past year— forced brightness hiding genuine worry. “How are you, sweetheart?”
“I’m fine.” The lie comes automatically. “Just working on a new campaign for a skincare company.”
There is no skincare company. There hasn’t been a real client in two weeks.
“That’s wonderful. You sound tired, though. Are you eating enough? Getting proper sleep?”
I glance around my cramped studio— unmade bed, empty sandwich wrappers, the general chaos of someone whose life is barely held together by caffeine and stubbornness.
“I’m taking good care of myself, Mom. Promise.”
