Page 64 of Scarlet Thorns
More importantly, Tibor has been away on some business trip, leaving me blissfully alone in the house. The silence has been a gift— no heavy footsteps, no leering glances, no comments about my appearance disguised as workplace conversation. Just me, my laptop, and the endless cycle of social media campaigns that might, if I’m lucky, bring in enough clients to get me out of this financial hole.
I check my phone as I walk down the narrow staircase, careful to avoid the step that creaks loud enough to wake the dead. 11:47 a.m. Perfect timing for my twelve-to-eight shift. The morning hours have become sacred— my only opportunity to focus on rebuilding my business without interruption.
Today’s promotional campaign targeted beauty brands looking for authentic lifestyle content, emphasizing my Hungarian location and European aesthetic. The engagement has been decent, but likes and comments don’t pay rent. I need actual contracts, actual clients willing to pay actual money for content creation.
The bus trip to The Scarlet Fox takes less than five minutes from Tibor’s house, winding through residential streets whereelderly neighbors tend postage-stamp gardens and children play football. It’s peaceful in a way that Boston never was— quieter, more human-scaled. If my circumstances were different, I might actually enjoy living here.
But circumstances are what they are. I’m a broke digital nomad working as a waitress in a run-down restaurant, sleeping in an attic room that belongs to a man who totally creeps me out. Not exactly the European adventure I’d imagined when I left Boston.
The restaurant looks busier than usual as I approach, voices and laughter spilling through windows that need cleaning. Strange— lunch crowds are typically modest, mostly local workers grabbing quick meals between shifts. But today feels different, charged with an energy that makes me quicken my pace.
I slip through the employee entrance and change quickly into my uniform— black pants, white blouse, apron that’s seen better days. The fabric smells like industrial detergent, but it’s clean and respectable. Pride is a luxury I can’t afford right now.
The moment I push through the kitchen doors, chaos greets me.
Every table is occupied, and several parties wait by the entrance with the patient resignation of people who know good food takes time. The air thrums with conversation in multiple languages— Hungarian, German, English, something that might be Italian. Orders pile up on the pass while Nora, our cook, works with the focused intensity of a surgeon.
Tibor spots me immediately, his usual proprietary gaze sweeping over my appearance before he gestures urgently. “Kata’s not here today, so you’ll have to take care of her section too,” he calls over the din of sizzling pans and clinking plates.
Double section. Wonderful. I nod and grab an order pad, mentally calculating the tip potential. If I can keep up with the pace, this might actually be a decent money day.
“What happened to Kata?” I ask as I pass Nora at the grill, but she just shakes her head and keeps working.
The next few hours blur together. Orders taken, plates delivered, tables cleared, repeat. The smell of cooking oil and grilled meat permeates everything, clinging to my hair and clothes like an invisible film that no amount of washing completely removes. My feet ache in shoes that were never designed for eight hours of constant movement, and my smile feels painted on by the time the rush finally begins to ebb.
It’s during a brief lull that Nora finally has a chance to talk. She leans against the pass, wiping sweat from her forehead with a dish towel, and catches my eye with a knowing look.
“Kata called in sick,” she says quietly, glancing around to make sure Tibor is out of earshot. “But between you and me, I think she’s just fed up. We’re crazy busy and understaffed, and Tibor’s been…” She makes a face that speaks volumes.
I don’t need her to elaborate. I’ve seen how Tibor operates— the lingering touches, the inappropriate comments, the way he treats female staff like they owe him something beyond professional service. If Kata finally reached her breaking point, good for her.
“Think she’s coming back?” I ask, though I already know the answer.
“Doubtful. Which means more work for the rest of us.” Nora returns to her prep work, chopping vegetables with efficient precision. “Speaking of which, see what I told you? This place is a madhouse. It has been bought by a new owner and the transition period is about to get even crazier.”
The words stop me mid-step. “A new owner?”
“Haven’t met them yet,” Nora continues, her knife creating a steady rhythm against the cutting board. “All we know is that it’s some Russian guy and he must be loaded. Tibor said he just walked in, liked the place, and bought it straight away.”
Russian. The word sends an unexpected chill down my spine, though I can’t explain why. Maybe it’s the memory of Dad’s accent when he spoke his native language, or the way certain Russian phrases still make me think of childhood bedtime stories. But more likely it’s just the uncertainty— new ownership always means changes, and changes usually aren’t good for employees at the bottom of the hierarchy.
“Did Tibor say when the transition happens?”
“Soon, I think. Maybe that’s why we’re so busy lately— word’s getting out that something’s changing.” Nora shrugs with the philosophical acceptance of someone who’s survived multiple restaurant ownership changes. “Could be good, could be bad. At least it can’t get much worse.”
The afternoon shift continues at a relentless pace. My feet throb, my lower back aches from bending over tables, and the smile I wear for customers feels increasingly fragile. But the tips are better than usual— apparently busy restaurants make people more generous, or maybe it’s the anticipation of change that’s putting everyone in a good mood.
By six o’clock, the last lunch stragglers have cleared out and the dinner crowd hasn’t yet arrived. It’s the golden hour when restaurant staff can finally breathe, restock supplies, and prepare for the evening rush. I use the break to count my tips— enough to cover groceries for the week, with a little left over. Not great, but survivable.
That’s when I make the decision that’s been brewing all afternoon.
I need more money. More stability. More hours to build a cushion that might let me eventually move out of Tibor’s atticand into a place where I don’t have to worry about midnight visits or inappropriate comments disguised as workplace conversation.
When the restaurant finally quiets, I approach the counter where Tibor is reviewing receipts. He looks up as I approach, and something in his expression makes me want to retreat to the safety of the kitchen. But I need this job. Need the money. Need to swallow my pride and ask for what I require to survive.
“What do you want now, Ilona?” His tone carries the familiar edge of irritation mixed with something else I don’t want to identify; probably annoyance that I won’t let him get his hands on me. “If it’s time off you’re asking for, forget about it. We’re struggling with staff already.”
“That’s not why I’m here.” I force confidence into my voice, standing straighter despite the exhaustion weighing down my shoulders. “It’s the opposite. I’d like to pick up extra shifts.”
