Page 65 of Scarlet Thorns
His eyebrows climb toward his hairline, surprise replacing irritation. He studies my face for a moment that stretches uncomfortably long, as if trying to read motivations I’m not sure I want him to understand.
“Extra shifts,” he repeats slowly. “How many extra shifts?”
“Whatever you can give me. Mornings, late nights, weekends. I need the money.”
The admission costs me something— another small piece of the pride I used to carry like armor. But pride doesn’t pay rent or put food on the table, and I’ve learned that survival sometimes requires sacrificing the person you used to be for the person you need to become.
“Let’s talk about it,” Tibor says finally, his gaze sliding over me. I resist the urge to cringe. “Come to my office at the end of your shift.”
The words should sound businesslike, professional. Instead, they carry undertones that make every survival instinctI have start screaming warnings. But I nod anyway, because I don’t have the luxury of choice right now.
“Of course. Thank you.”
I turn away with my head high— tired, worn, but still standing. Still fighting. I may bear little resemblance to the confident social media manager who left Boston a year ago, but I’m stronger in some ways. Harder. More willing to do what it takes to survive.
Tonight, I’ll sit in Tibor’s office and negotiate for more hours, more money, more stability. I’ll smile and nod and ignore whatever shitty comments he makes, because this job is my lifeline.
But someday— someday soon— I’ll build something better. Something that’s mine, that doesn’t require compromising pieces of myself for the privilege of basic survival.
Until then, I’ll take what I can get and keep planning my escape.
Even if that escape feels impossibly far away right now.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Ilona
“So Ilona, why do you want the extra work?” Tibor asks as I enter his cramped office.
The space feels smaller than it did during my interview— cluttered desk, filing cabinets that probably haven’t been organized since the Soviet era, and a single chair positioned uncomfortably close to his. The fluorescent light overhead flickers intermittently, casting everything in harsh, unflattering tones that make my exhaustion feel more pronounced.
I settle into the chair and force myself to meet his gaze, though something in his expression makes my stomach clench with unease.
“I need the money. I could do three extra shifts a week.”
“Ah. I see.” His eyes begin a slow, deliberate journey down my body— lingering on my chest, my legs, places that have nothing to do with work schedules or restaurant operations. The inspection makes me want to cross my arms over myself, but I force my posture to remain professional. “We can do that.”
Relief floods through me for exactly three seconds before he stands up and moves closer. Too close. Close enough that I can smell the lingering traces of alcohol on his breath and the musty scent of his unwashed shirt.
“On one condition.”
Shit.
Of course there’s a condition.
I shift in my seat, trying to create distance without being obvious about it.
“What condition?”
His hand descends onto my shoulder with possessive familiarity, fingers stroking along my collarbone with the back of his knuckles. The touch burns through the thin fabric of my uniform, making every nerve ending scream in protest.
“A little bit of this and that,” he says, his voice dropping to what he probably thinks is seductive but sounds more like a threat wrapped in fake charm.
The office walls seem to close in around me as understanding takes hold. He’s not talking about extra cleaning duties or staying late to help with inventory. He’s talking aboutme. My body. Payment in a currency that has nothing to do with money and everything to do with power.
Asshole!
Before I can formulate a response— before I can figure out how to refuse without losing everything— his phone erupts in sharp, insistent rings that slice through the tension.
