Chapter Twenty-Six
Ilona
“So Ilona, why do you want the extra work?” Tibor asks as I enter his cramped office.
The space feels smaller than it did during my interview— cluttered desk, filing cabinets that probably haven’t been organized since the Soviet era, and a single chair positioned uncomfortably close to his.
The fluorescent light overhead flickers intermittently, casting everything in harsh, unflattering tones that make my exhaustion feel more pronounced.
I settle into the chair and force myself to meet his gaze, though something in his expression makes my stomach clench with unease.
“I need the money. I could do three extra shifts a week.”
“Ah. I see.” His eyes begin a slow, deliberate journey down my body— lingering on my chest, my legs, places that have nothing to do with work schedules or restaurant operations.
The inspection makes me want to cross my arms over myself, but I force my posture to remain professional. “We can do that.”
Relief floods through me for exactly three seconds before he stands up and moves closer. Too close. Close enough that I can smell the lingering traces of alcohol on his breath and the musty scent of his unwashed shirt.
“On one condition.”
Shit.
Of course there’s a condition.
I shift in my seat, trying to create distance without being obvious about it.
“What condition?”
His hand descends onto my shoulder with possessive familiarity, fingers stroking along my collarbone with the back of his knuckles. The touch burns through the thin fabric of my uniform, making every nerve ending scream in protest.
“A little bit of this and that,” he says, his voice dropping to what he probably thinks is seductive but sounds more like a threat wrapped in fake charm.
The office walls seem to close in around me as understanding takes hold. He’s not talking about extra cleaning duties or staying late to help with inventory. He’s talking about me . My body. Payment in a currency that has nothing to do with money and everything to do with power.
Asshole!
Before I can formulate a response— before I can figure out how to refuse without losing everything— his phone erupts in sharp, insistent rings that slice through the tension.
“ Bazdmeg ,” he curses in Hungarian, glancing at the screen with obvious annoyance. The call gets declined with more force than necessary, his thick fingers jabbing at the screen like he’s trying to kill something.
But the interruption gives him ideas instead of deterring him.
“Where were we?” His hand returns to my shoulder, but this time it’s joined by the other one. Both palms settle on me with claiming weight, thumbs stroking along my neck in a way that makes my skin crawl. “Ah yes, our little arrangement.”
“I’m not sure what you mean,” I say carefully, though we both know I understand exactly what he’s suggesting. My voice sounds steady, calm— a miracle considering my heart is beating against my chest like it’s looking for an escape hatch.
“Come now, Ilona.” His grip tightens slightly, not enough to bruise but enough to remind me how much stronger he is. “You’re a beautiful girl, alone in a foreign country. I’m a man with needs. We can help each other.”
The euphemisms make it worse somehow. Like he’s trying to dress up sexual coercion in polite language, make it sound like a business transaction instead of what it really is.
“I think there’s been a misunderstanding—” I start, but he cuts me off by moving even closer.
Now he’s standing directly beside my chair, his body heat radiating against my side like a furnace. One hand slides from my shoulder to my back, fingers pressing through my uniform in a way that’s unmistakably possessive.
“No misunderstanding,” he says, voice thick with certainty. “You need extra money. I need… companionship. Very simple arrangement.”
This is the last thing I need.
My thoughts careen between panic and calculation. If I refuse him outright, what happens next? He’s my boss. My landlord. The man who controls both my income and my housing. One word from him and I’m on the streets with nothing but a suitcase and a rapidly dwindling bank account.
But if I find a way around this, what’s to stop him from taking what he wants anyway? I live in his house. Sleep in a room directly above his living area. He has keys to every door, knows my schedule, knows I have nowhere else to go.
The scenario plays out in my mind with horrifying clarity: waking up in the middle of the night to find him in my attic room. No one to hear me scream. No one who would believe me over a local business owner with ties to the community.
“I think we should keep things professional,” I say, trying to inject authority into my voice while my hands shake in my lap. “The extra shifts would be great, but I’m not interested in… anything else.”
His laugh is low, dismissive, the sound men make when they think women’s boundaries are suggestions rather than requirements.
“Professional,” he repeats, like the word amuses him. “Is it professional to live in my house for nothing? Is it professional that I feed you meals every day? That I gave you a job when you had no experience?”
Each question lands like a slap, intended to make me feel grateful instead of violated. Like his generosity comes with terms and conditions I never agreed to, like kindness can be retroactively transformed into debt.
“Accommodation is part of my pay,” I say quietly. “I work my shifts. I haven’t asked for anything I’m not willing to earn through honest work.”
“Honest work.” His hand slides lower on my back, fingers tracing the line of my spine through my blouse. “This could be honest work too. Many girls would be grateful for such an opportunity.”
The implication hangs between us like poison gas— other girls, previous employees, women who maybe said yes to keep their jobs or maybe said no and disappeared like Kata. The thought makes nausea rise in my throat.
“Tibor, please—”
But he’s moving again, positioning himself directly in front of my chair so I can’t avoid looking at him. His hands find my shoulders once more, thumbs stroking along my collarbones with increasing boldness.
“You are very beautiful,” he says, as if this observation justifies everything. “Lonely, I think. Far from family. It doesn’t have to be like that.”
I squirm in the chair, trying to create space without being obvious about it.
“I’m not lonely,” I lie. “And I’m not looking for… that kind of relationship.”
“Not relationship,” he corrects, leaning closer until I can feel his breath against my face. “Just… friendship. With benefits. You scratch my back, I scratch yours.”
The crudeness of it makes my stomach turn. He’s not even pretending this is about attraction or connection— just transactional sex disguised as mutual benefit.
I’m going to throw up.
“I need to think about it,” I manage, though thinking is the last thing I want to do. Thinking means acknowledging that my options are limited, that refusing him might cost me everything I’ve worked to rebuild.
“Nothing to think about,” he says, and suddenly he’s pressing closer, his hips moving forward until his crotch brushes against my shoulder.
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?”