Page 67 of Scarlet Thorns

The contact sends panic shooting through my nervous system like electricity. This is happening. He’s actually doing this, touching me without permission, using his position to corner me in a space where no one can hear what’s happening.

No!

What the fuck do I do now?

The question tears through my mind as his body heat surrounds me, as his hands grow bolder, as the walls of his dingy office seem to shrink until there’s no air left to breathe. I could scream, but who would come? I could run, but where would I go?

I’m trapped. Financially, geographically, practically trapped by circumstances that seemed manageable this morning but feel impossible now.

“Just relax,” Tibor murmurs, his voice taking on the coaxing tone men use when they’re about to take something that doesn’t belong to them. “Let me show you how good I can be to you.”

Shit!

This can’t be happening!

“No! Leave me alone!” My voice is strident.

His hips press forward again, more deliberately this time, and I feel the unmistakable hardness of his dick through his pants. The sensation makes me want to vomit, to claw my way out of this chair and run until my lungs burst.

“Stop it!” I all but scream as he unzips his pants. But there’s nowhere to run. Nowhere that’s safe, nowhere that doesn’t require money I don’t have or connections I’ve lost.

That’s when the door crashes open without warning.

“What the fuck is going on?”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Osip

The drive through Budapest’s narrow streets feels different today.

Not the usual mindless navigation between therapy sessions and empty houses, but purposeful. I have business to handle— legitimate business, for once in my goddamn life.

The Scarlet Fox sits exactly as I left it three days ago when I signed the papers. Whitewashed walls, red roof, the fox sign swaying gently in the evening breeze. My restaurant now. My chance at something clean.

I check my Patek Philippe— 6:25 p.m. Tibor Arany should be waiting in his office. We’d arranged this meeting two days ago, time to discuss operations, staffing, the transition from his old boss to me. But when I called twenty minutes ago, themudakdeclined my call. Now he’s not answering at all.

Sloppy. Unprofessional.

Red flags that make my jaw clench with familiar irritation.

I push through the front entrance, noting how the dinner crowd has thinned to a handful of tables. The interior still carries that rustic charm that sold me on the place— the kind of authenticity money can’t manufacture.

But right now, I’m more interested in finding the manager who thinks declining the new owner’s calls is acceptable behavior.

The office is in the back, past the kitchen where someone clatters pans with efficient rhythm. A cheap nameplate reads “Tibor Arany - Manager” in faded lettering that’s seen better days. I’m about to knock when voices filter through the thin wood— muffled, tense, wrong.

A woman’s voice, strained with something between fear and desperation: “No! Leave me alone!”

What the fuck?

My hand freezes inches from the door as more sounds leak through— scuffling, heavy breathing, a man’s voice saying something in Hungarian that doesn’t sound like workplace conversation. The woman again, sharper this time: “No! Stop it!”

I don’t knock.

The door flings wide as I slam it open, revealing a scene that makes violence roar through my veins. Tibor Arany— the chubby, rustic manager I thought I could work with— has a young woman pressed against his desk. His pants are unzipped, his fat cock hanging out. She’s pushing against his chest with both hands, her face twisted with revulsion and terror.

Staff uniform. She works here. For me now.