Page 59 of Scarlet Thorns

His house?

Shit.

Not a staff dormitory or a separate apartment— his actual house. Where he lives. Alone, based on the lack of any mention of family.

“That’s… very generous,” I manage, though every instinct I have is screaming warnings.

“Come, we go now. I drive you.”

Before I can protest, he’s leading me outside to a battered Škoda that’s probably older than I am. The interior smells like cigarettes and body odor, and something sticky has been spilled on the passenger seat that he hastily covers with a jacket.

The drive takes less than ten minutes through residential streets lined with similar traditional houses. When we pull up to his place, my heart sinks further.

The house looks like a bachelor pad crossed with a hoarder’s paradise. Overgrown garden, peeling paint, newspapers scattered across the front porch. Through windows that haven’t been cleaned in months, I can see the chaos inside— dirty dishes, laundry draped over furniture, the general disorder of someone who’s given up on domestic standards.

“Is not much to look at from outside,” Tibor says with what might be embarrassment. “But inside is comfortable.”

Comfortable isn’t exactly the word I’d use.

The living room assaults my senses immediately— stale cooking smells, unwashed clothes, the sour scent of spilled beer that’s been left to ferment in carpet fibers. Dirty plates tower beside a sink overflowing with greasy water, and an unmade bed is visible through an open door. No female touch anywhere, just the accumulated mess of a man who lives without accountability.

“Kitchen there, bathroom upstairs, television works mostly,” he narrates as we move through the disaster zone. “Your room is in attic. Very private.”

The stairs groan under our combined weight as we climb to the second floor, then up a narrower staircase to what’s essentially a converted storage space. The “room” he shows me is barely larger than a closet, with a slanted ceiling that forces anyone over five-six to duck. A dirty mattress lies directly on the floor, surrounded by boxes of what looks like restaurant supplies and personal junk.

One small window provides minimal light, and I can already tell the space will be freezing in winter. No heating vents, no insulation visible in the exposed rafters. The smell of mildew competes with something else I can’t identify and don’t want to.

“Does…” I swallow hard, trying to find a tactful way to ask. “Does your wife live here too?”

Tibor’s grin widens, and there’s something predatory in his expression that makes me want to run. “No wife. Just me. We would be… flatmates.”

The way he says “flatmates” makes my skin crawl. Like the word means something entirely different in his vocabulary.

Shit.

But what choice do I have? Having accommodation included in the package means I could survive here while rebuilding my business. Maybe save enough to find a proper flat once I’m back on my feet. In the meantime, I’ll just have to lock the door to my room.

“It’s perfect,” I lie, forcing enthusiasm into my voice. “When can I start?”

“Tomorrow morning. Eight o’clock sharp.” His hand lingers above my lower back as he guides me toward the stairs. “I show you to your room properly tomorrow. Tonight, you rest in your old place. Tomorrow, we begin our… partnership.”

The word “partnership” carries the same loaded implications as “flatmates,” and I fight down nausea as his hand hovers over my spine.

But I shake his hand and thank him for the opportunity, because this is my lifeline right now. However uncomfortable, however wrong this feels, it’s better than sleeping on the streets or crawling back to Boston with my tail between my legs.

During the silent drive back to the restaurant where I can make the trip back to my current flat, I stare out the window at Budapest’s beautiful streets and wonder what I’ve just agreed to.

Survival, I remind myself.

This is about survival.

I can handle whatever Tibor throws at me for a few weeks or maybe a couple of months. I’ve survived worse things than a lecherous boss and questionable living conditions. This istemporary— just long enough to get back on my feet and find something better.

But as the car winds through the city’s historic streets, past couples walking hand in hand and families enjoying meals on restaurant terraces, I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve just made a deal with the devil.

One more compromise in a year full of them. One more situation where I swallow my pride and accept what’s offered because the alternative is worse.

At least it’s only temporary.