Chapter Twenty-Two
Ilona
The notification on my laptop screen glows like an accusation.
Payment Overdue - Final Notice.
I stare at the words until they blur, my coffee growing cold in the chipped mug beside me. Three days. I have three days before my landlord kicks me out of this shoebox rental in District VII, and my bank account balance mocks me with its pathetic double digits.
Welcome to the glamorous life of a digital nomad.
The irony tastes bitter as week-old coffee.
A year ago, when I first fled Boston with nothing but grief and a half-formed business plan, the nomadic lifestyle felt like freedom.
Travel the world, work from cafés with stunning views, reinvent myself as Ilona Katona— Katona being my mother’s maiden name— leaving no trace of the broken girl whose father’s “suicide” destroyed everything she thought she knew about family.
But Instagram lies. Behind those perfectly curated posts of laptop setups against European backdrops, there’s the reality of counting euros for groceries, sleeping in hostels that smell like unwashed socks, and watching your client base evaporate as AI steals the work you thought only humans could do.
My social media business started strong— beauty brands loved my eye for aesthetics, my ability to make their products look irresistible against cobblestone streets and café windows.
For several months, I actually made it work.
Traveled through Prague, Vienna, Warsaw, always moving, always running from the ghost of my father and the questions that followed his death.
Then the algorithms started to change. AI content flooded the market. Suddenly, brands could generate perfect lifestyle shots without paying humans to create them. My client list dwindled from a healthy roster to a handful of loyal customers who probably hired me out of pity more than necessity.
Now I’m here in Budapest— the city where my parents fell in love thirty years ago, where Mom’s Hungarian roots run deep— and I’m about to become homeless in the place that was supposed to be my sanctuary.
My phone buzzes against the rickety table, and Mom’s face appears on the screen. I consider letting it go to voicemail, but guilt wins.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Ilona, darling.” Her voice carries that careful tone she’s perfected over the past year— forced brightness hiding genuine worry. “How are you, sweetheart?”
“I’m fine.” The lie comes automatically. “Just working on a new campaign for a skincare company.”
There is no skincare company. There hasn’t been a real client in two weeks.
“That’s wonderful. You sound tired, though. Are you eating enough? Getting proper sleep?”
I glance around my cramped studio— unmade bed, empty sandwich wrappers, the general chaos of someone whose life is barely held together by caffeine and stubbornness.
“I’m taking good care of myself, Mom. Promise.”
The silence stretches, and I know she doesn’t believe me.
Since Dad’s death, she’s become hypervigilant about my safety, convinced that his mysterious “business associates” might come after me.
I think it’s grief-induced paranoia, but trying to argue with a traumatized woman only makes things worse.
“I still think you should come home,” she says quietly. “Boston isn’t the same without you. Jason asks about you every time I see him at the grocery store.”
Jason. My former boss, the closest thing to a father figure I had after losing Dad. He called two weeks ago just to check in, his gravelly voice warm with concern I didn’t deserve. Good people like Jason make me feel guilty for running away, for choosing distance over dealing with my problems.
“I’m building something here, Mom. Budapest feels like home.” Another lie, but this one tastes sweeter. “I can see why you and Dad fell in love with this city.”
The mention of Dad creates another stretch of silence. We’ve gotten better at navigating around the crater his death left in our conversations, but the absence still echoes.
“Just… be careful, darling. I know you think I’m being paranoid, but your father had enemies. People who might—”
“Mom.” I keep my voice gentle but firm. “Nobody followed me to Europe. Nobody cares about Igor Shiradze’s daughter enough to track her down in Budapest. I’m safe.”
“I know. I just… I miss you, baby. You’re all I have left.”
The words make my heart hurt, guilt and love tangling in my chest until breathing feels optional. She’s right— we’re each other’s only family now, bound together by shared loss and the questions we’ll never get answers to.
“I miss you too, Mom,” I whisper. “But I need to be here right now. I need to figure out who I am without… without everything we lost.”
After we hang up, I sit in the silence of my tiny studio and face the reality I’ve been avoiding. Mom’s small apartment in Boston. Her worried phone calls. The life I left behind when I decided that running away was easier than healing.
But right now, I need to focus on survival.
I open indeed.hu and scroll through job listings with growing desperation. Retail positions that require fluent Hungarian. Office jobs that want degrees I don’t have. Restaurant work that pays barely enough to cover rent, let alone food.
Then I see it.
Waitress Wanted - The Scarlet Fox. Part-time/Full-time positions available Accommodation included. Staff meal provided daily.
The name stops me cold.
The Scarlet Fox. Like the place in Boston where I used to escape when my life became unbearable. Where I met TMG, the masked guy.
But this is Budapest, not Boston. Different continent, different world, different life. The only connection is a name that probably means nothing beyond coincidence.
I read the listing again, focusing on the practical details. Accommodation included. Staff meal daily. Exactly what I need to survive until I can rebuild my business or figure out my next move.
My finger hovers over the phone number. This could be the lifeline I’ve been praying for, or it could be a mistake that drags me back into memories I’m not ready to face.
But desperate times call for desperate measures.
The phone rings twice before a deep male voice answers in accented English. “The Scarlet Fox, this is Tibor.”
“Hi, I’m calling about the waitress position?”
“Ah, excellent! Yes, we are looking for someone reliable. Can you come in today for an interview? Say, three o’clock?”
That’s three hours from now. I can shower, find something clean to wear, and walk there to save bus fare. Google Maps shows it’s only two kilometers away— manageable, even with my diminishing energy reserves.
“That works perfectly. Should I bring anything specific?”
“Just yourself and a positive attitude,” Tibor says. “Ask for me when you arrive. Tibor Arany.”
After I hang up, I allow myself one moment of cautious optimism. Maybe this is exactly what I need— honest work, stable housing, a chance to rebuild without the weight of family history crushing me.
I walk to the tiny bathroom and stare at my reflection in the cracked mirror. The girl looking back at me is thinner than she used to be, with sharper cheekbones and eyes that have seen too much. But she’s survived a year of grief, displacement, and financial instability.
She can survive this too.
The shower water runs lukewarm, but it washes away the staleness of too many days spent hiding in this room. I dig through my limited wardrobe for something that says “reliable employee” instead of “broke nomad.”
As I get dressed, I catch myself thinking about TMG once again. I never figured out who he was, never got answers about why he disappeared so completely.
Maybe it’s better that way. Some stories are meant to remain mysteries, beautiful and untouchable in their incompleteness.
I check my reflection one last time, smoothing down my dark blazer over a simple white blouse. Professional but not desperate— I hope. My hair falls in soft waves around my shoulders, and for a moment, I see echoes of the confident woman I used to be.
The woman before Dad died.
Before everything fell apart.
But that’s the past. Today is about survival, about taking the first step toward rebuilding something from the ashes of everything I’ve lost.
I grab my small purse and the folder containing my hastily printed CV. Not much to show for twenty-five years of life, but it will have to be enough.
Google Maps shows the walk will take about twenty-five minutes. Perfect timing to arrive exactly at three o’clock, assuming I leave now. The autumn air will be crisp, and the walk will help calm my nerves.
As I reach for the door handle, my phone buzzes with a text from Mom. “Thinking of you today, sweetheart. I love you.”
Her timing is uncanny, like she always knows when I need to hear those words. I type back quickly. “ Love you too. About to head out for something promising.”
I slip the phone into my purse and take one last look around the tiny studio that’s been my prison and sanctuary for the past month. Tomorrow, with any luck, I’ll be packing these few belongings and moving somewhere new. Somewhere that comes with steady income and the promise of a fresh start.
The door clicks shut behind me, and I head toward whatever comes next. The name Scarlet Fox echoes in my mind— coincidence or destiny, I don’t know. But suddenly, I feel something that might actually be hope.
Maybe this is exactly what I need. Maybe the universe is finally throwing me a lifeline.
Time to find out.