Page 76 of Scarlet Thorns
My suite occupies the entire east wing, separated from the main living areas by a hallway long enough to echo my footsteps. The isolation is deliberate— he meant what he said about barely crossing paths.
I find myself looking for family photos that don’t exist, personal touches that aren’t there. No evidence of parents, siblings, friends. No casual clutter or forgotten coffee cups. Eventhe kitchen, for all its warmth and expensive appliances, feels untouched except for the coffee machine and the single cup he abandoned this morning.
It’s like he exists here but doesn’tlivehere.
By afternoon, I’ve mapped every corner of the ground floor and most of the second. The basement remains unexplored— something about the heavy door at the bottom of the stairs makes me hesitate. Not locked, but weighted with an authority that suggests I shouldn’t venture down alone.
I text him instead:“Should I familiarize myself with the basement areas as well?”
His response comes immediately:“No. Ground floor and second floor only.”
Professional. Curt. No hint of the man who almost kissed me last night.
The contradiction gnaws at me as I prepare a simple lunch in his pristine kitchen. Everything about this morning suggests I misread the situation completely. That the attraction was one-sided, born of gratitude and proximity rather than any real connection.
But I know what I felt. The way his breathing changed when I stepped closer. The heat in his eyes before he pulled away. The roughness in his voice when he said goodnight.
Unless I imagined all of it.
The possibility sits in my stomach like lead as I eat salad that tastes like nothing. Maybe I projected desire onto kindness, mistook professional courtesy for personal interest. God knows I’m lonely enough, desperate enough for real connection, that my mind could have fabricated the entire thing.
When evening comes, I’m no closer to understanding him or this house or my place in either. I’ve arranged my belongings, familiarized myself with every accessible room, even started amental list of small improvements that could make the spaces feel more lived-in.
But mostly, I’ve thought about the way he looked at me this morning. Like I was a stranger. Like nothing had passed between us at all.
Eventually, restlessness drives me to the one corner of the house that feels truly comfortable— a small balcony off my suite where I can watch the sun set over Budapest’s ancient hills. The air carries the scent of jasmine and something cooking in a neighboring house, reminders that real life exists beyond these marble walls.
I sink into a comfortable seat and dial Mom’s number. We’ve been talking more frequently since I left Boston, but tonight feels different. Important. Like I’m reporting from the other side of some invisible divide.
“Darling!” Her voice is brighter than it’s been in months, carrying energy I haven’t heard since before Dad died. “How are you? You sound different.”
“Different how?”
“I don’t know. Calmer, maybe? Less frantic.” She pauses, and I can picture her settling into her favorite chair with a cup of tea. “Where are you calling from?”
The question I’ve been dreading. How do I explain that I’m living in a Russian billionaire’s mansion after being sexually assaulted by my previous landlord? How do I describe meeting a man who makes my body sing and my survival instincts scream warnings in equal measure?
“I moved,” I say carefully. “New job opportunity came up. I’m working as a house manager for a… businessman. The pay is good, and accommodation is included.”
“A house manager?” Mom’s voice carries maternal suspicion refined over twenty-five years of detecting my half-truths. “What kind of businessman?”
“He owns restaurants. Very successful, very professional.” The description feels inadequate, but it’s technically true. “It’s temporary, while his new venture gets off the ground.”
“And you’re safe? Comfortable?”
The concern in her voice makes my chest tighten with guilt. She’s been through enough trauma without me adding to her worries.
“Very safe. Very comfortable.” Also technically true. “How are you doing, Mom? You sound… better.”
A soft laugh carries across the Atlantic. “Iambetter, sweetheart. Much better. I got a job, actually— part-time at the library downtown. Nothing glamorous, but it gets me out of the apartment, around people again.”
I sigh with relief. For months, I’ve carried the weight of her isolation along with my own grief, wondering if she’d ever find her way back to the living.
“Mom, that’s wonderful. I’m so proud of you.”
“Thank you, darling. And there’s something else.” Her voice takes on a quality I recognize— determination mixed with something harder. “I’m hiring a private investigator.”
I frown. “What?”
