Page 58 of Scarlet Thorns

Nothing.

I dial the number again, feeling slightly ridiculous standing alone in an empty restaurant while calling someone who should be right here.

“Igen, hello?” The same voice from earlier, but muffled now.

“Hi, it’s Ilona. I’m here for the interview, but—”

“Ah, yes! Sorry, sorry. I am upstairs. Coming down now.”

Heavy footsteps thunder overhead, then down wooden stairs that creak ominously under significant weight. Momentslater, a man appears who looks exactly like central casting’s idea of a Hungarian restaurant owner.

Tibor Arany is probably in his fifties, with a substantial belly that speaks of sampling too much of his own cooking. Salt-and-pepper hair is slicked back with questionable success, and his complexion suggests a man who enjoys hispálinkaafter service. He’s not unattractive exactly, but there’s something about the way his eyes immediately travel the length of my body that makes my skin crawl.

“Ilona!” He approaches with arms spread wide, as if we’re old friends rather than strangers meeting for a job interview. “You are even more beautiful than you sounded on the phone.”

I force a smile and extend my hand for a professional handshake, but he bypasses it entirely and pulls me into a hug that lasts several seconds too long. His hands linger on my waist, and I catch a whiff of alcohol on his breath despite it being mid-afternoon.

“Shall we sit and talk?” I extract myself from his grip politely. A year of nomadic life has taught me how to handle unwanted attention without causing offense— a skill I wish I’d never needed to develop.

“Of course, of course.” He gestures toward a corner table, his gaze dropping to my legs as I sit down. “Can I get you something to drink? Coffee? Something stronger?”

“Coffee would be lovely, thank you.”

He disappears behind the bar, and I use the moment to study my surroundings more carefully. The restaurant is clean enough, though clearly showing its age. Faded photographs of Hungarian countryside cover the walls, and traditional folk music plays softly from hidden speakers. It’s the kind of place that probably serves excellent comfort food to locals who’ve been coming here for decades.

Not glamorous, but honest work. I can do this.

Tibor returns with two coffees and settles into the chair across from me, sitting closer than necessary.

“So, Ilona Katona. Beautiful Hungarian name for a beautiful Hungarian girl.”

“Thank you.” I open the folder containing my CV, trying to steer the conversation toward professional territory. “I brought my resume, though I realize restaurant experience isn’t extensive. But I’m a quick learner and—”

“Bah!” He waves away my papers without looking at them. “Experience is nothing. What matters is…” His eyes travel over me again, lingering on my neckline. “Personality. Charm. The ability to make customers happy.”

The emphasis on “happy” makes my stomach turn, but I need this job. “I enjoy working with people. Customer service has always been—”

“You have a boyfriend?” The question comes out of nowhere, delivered with a grin that shows too many teeth.

“I… excuse me?”

“Boyfriend. Husband. These things matter for work schedule, you understand. Young, beautiful girl like you…” He shrugs as if this line of questioning is perfectly normal.

It’s not. It’s anything but normal. But I’m broke, homeless in three days, and desperate. “I’m… single,” I say carefully. “I’m focused on my career right now.”

“Good, good. Career is important.” His hand moves across the table, fingers brushing mine where they rest beside my coffee cup. “But so is having someone to appreciate your… talents.”

I pull my hands back into my lap. “About the position itself— what would my responsibilities include?”

For the next twenty minutes, Tibor outlines the job while making increasingly inappropriate comments. I’d be serving food and drinks, cleaning tables, handling the register. Standard restaurant work, nothing I can’t manage. But he peppers thedescription with remarks about my appearance, suggestions that “pretty girls get better tips,” and barely veiled innuendos about “keeping customers satisfied.”

Each comment makes my skin crawl a little more, but I smile and nod and pretend not to notice. Because I need this job. Because three days isn’t enough time to find something better. Because sometimes survival means swallowing your pride and enduring things that would have sent the old Ilona running for the hills.

“The pay is not much,” he admits, naming a figure that’s barely above minimum wage. “But with tips and the accommodation included, you will be comfortable.”

“About the accommodation— where exactly would I be staying?”

Tibor glances at his watch, a cheap digital thing that looks like it came from a gas station. “My shift starts soon, but I can show you now. It is at my house.”