Page 61 of Scarlet Thorns
My hand wraps around my length, stroking with movements that feel more like punishment than pleasure. I remember her skin, porcelain pale in candlelight. The way she looked at me when I walked through that door— not with fear or calculation, but with hunger that matched my own.
She was everything Anett isn’t. Honest. Vulnerable. Real.
I come with a grunt while guilt and longing wage war in my chest. The release is violent, emptying, but it doesn’t touch the ache that’s taken up permanent residence behind my ribs.
The shower runs ice-cold because I deserve the shock of it, deserve the way it steals my breath and makes thinking impossible. By the time I emerge, skin raw and lungs burning, I feel almost human.
The sound of movement drifts from the kitchen— Anett, probably making coffee and planning whatever manipulation she’ll attempt today. Yesterday’s conversation about marriage and children hangs between us like a loaded weapon, and I don’t have the energy for round two.
I dress quickly in dark jeans and a charcoal sweater, grab my keys, and slip out through the side entrance before she can corner me with tears or accusations or whatever performance she’s rehearsed overnight.
The Buda Hills wrap around me as I drive through narrow streets that predate my grandfather’s grandfather. This is why I chose Budapest— the weight of history, the sense that individualtragedies matter less when measured against centuries of survival.
The Scarlet Fox sits at the corner of two residential streets, traditional whitewashed walls and red-tiled roof making it look like something from a fairy tale. I’ve been coming here for weeks, drawn by the name even though it bears no resemblance to the Boston club that changed my life.
Coincidence.
That’s all.
The interior matches the exterior’s rural charm— rough-hewn beams, checkered tablecloths, mismatched chairs made for comfort. A middle-aged waitress serves coffee strong enough to wake the dead while someone clatters around the kitchen.
“Jó reggelt,” she greets me with a tired smile that speaks of too many early mornings. “Good morning, sir.”
“Jó reggelt,” I reply, settling into my usual corner table with a view of both entrances. Old habits.
The coffee arrives black and bitter, exactly how I prefer it. For twenty minutes, I sit in silence and watch Budapest wake up through windows spotted with age. Trams clang past carrying office workers to jobs that don’t require violence. Mothers push strollers along sidewalks, cooing at their babies.
Normal life.
The kind I used to think was for other people.
When the waitress returns to refill my cup, I notice the exhaustion in her movements, the way she glances nervously toward the kitchen.
“Everything alright?” I ask in Hungarian, my accent marking me as foreign but the effort earning a grateful smile.
She hesitates, then takes in a breath, as if making a decision. “I am worried for my job,” she says abruptly.
“Why?” I ask. “You do it well. Is there a problem?”
“The owner… he is planning to sell.” She shrugs.
“That so?” I cock my head.
She glances around, then leans closer. “You are regular customer, yes? Good customer.” Her English is careful but clear. “Rich man.” She glances at the Patek Philippe on my wrist and I silently curse myself for this lapse into self-indulgence. “Maybe you interested? The owner, he is struggling. Money troubles. Very sad.”
I stare at her for a moment. These are possibilities I hadn’t considered. “Selling?”
“Igen. Yes. The family, they cannot keep up with costs. Modern places taking all the business.” She shrugs with the resigned grace of someone who’s watched dreams crumble. “Is shame. This place has history.”
I study the space with new eyes, seeing potential instead of nostalgia. The location is perfect— residential enough for privacy, commercial enough for legitimacy. The building itself has character that can’t be manufactured, charm that money can’t buy.
“Do you have the owner’s contact information?”
Her face brightens with hope. “You are serious? You buy?”
“Maybe. Worth a talk.”
She disappears into the kitchen and returns with a business card, the kind printed on cheap stock that’s seen too many hands. “His name is László. Very good man, just… bad timing with economy.”
