Chapter 100 The Quiet Between Storms
Mila’s POV
Waking up was like trying to swim through a sea of cooling tar. Every movement felt sluggish, heavy, and disconnected from my will. My eyelids were sand-papered shut, and when I finally forced them open, the world didn't rush in; it seeped.
I wasn't in Brooklyn.
The air here didn't carry the familiar scent of laundry detergent and the faint, metallic tang of the radiator. Instead, it was crisp, filtered, and carried the deep, expensive notes of cedarwood and Nate’s familiar cologne. The ceiling was too high, the silence too absolute. My stomach gave a violent, sickening lurch, a reminder of the violet drink that had tasted like honey and felt like fire.
I groaned, a dry, raspy sound that barely left my throat. My limbs were leaden, and there was a strange, dull ache in the crook of my elbow. Turning my head slowly, I saw the glint of a silver stand and a clear tube snaking down toward my arm. An IV.
The fragments of the night hit me then, sharp and jagged. Scarlett’s golden dress. The heavy mahogany doors. The cold, gray concrete of a room that wasn't a boardroom. The sound of a man’s voice talking about "having fun."
I gasped, the memory jolting my heart into a frantic, uneven rhythm. I tried to sit up, but the world tilted violently to the left, and a wave of nausea forced me back against the pillows.
"Easy. Don't try to move too fast."
The voice was low, gravelly, and instantly grounding. I looked toward the window. Nate was sitting in a deep leather armchair, silhouetted against the pre-dawn glow of the New York City skyline. He looked like he hadn't moved in hours. His tuxedo jacket was gone, his white shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, and his sleeves were rolled up to reveal bruised knuckles.
He didn't look like the polished heir to the Salvatore fortune. His eyes were red-rimmed, shadowed by an exhaustion that went deeper than a missed night of sleep. He was watching me with an intensity that felt like a physical weight, his gaze fixed on me as if he were afraid I might vanish if he blinked.
"Nate?" my voice was a mere shadow.
He was at the bedside in an instant, his hand cupping my cheek. His palm was warm, and he was real. I leaned into his touch, my eyes stinging with sudden, hot tears.
"You're safe," he whispered, his thumb stroking my temple. "I've got you. You’re in my home, and there is a guard at the door and a doctor on call. No one is coming for you, Mila. Not tonight. Not ever again."
He sat on the edge of the bed, his presence filling the space and pushing back the ghosts of the storage room. "And I'm never letting you go back to that world alone," he added, his voice hardening with a resolve that sent a shiver down my spine. "If you step foot on that campus, I am two steps behind you. If you go to a meeting, I am in the room. They had their chance to play fair. That’s over now."
I blinked, the fog in my brain beginning to lift just enough for me to notice my surroundings—and myself. The stiff, expensive navy silk of my gala dress was gone. In its place was something incredibly soft, white, and roughly four sizes too large for me. I looked down, realizing I was swimming in one of Nate’s crisp, button-down Oxford shirts. The sleeves were rolled into massive bundles at my wrists, and the hem reached halfway to my knees.
"Nate," I croaked, a small, hysterical bubble of laughter threatening to break through my terror. "Where is my dress? And did you... did you put me in this?"
He actually flushed, a faint streak of color appearing on his tired cheekbones. "The dress was ruined, Mila. It had... it had dust and things on it. And the doctor needed to get the IV started without being obstructed by three layers of silk and a corset back. I had my housekeeper, Mrs. Gable, come in to help you change. I mostly just... held the IV bag and tried not to have a panic attack."
"You look ridiculous," I murmured, glancing at his disheveled hair. "And I look like I’m wearing a tent."
"It’s a very expensive tent," he countered, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. "Egyptian cotton. It suits you better than that Alverstone uniform anyway."
The levity was a thin veil over a deep well of trauma, but I clung to it. "I think I’m drowning in your collar," I said, tugging at the starch. "I feel like a toddler playing dress-up."
"Good," he said, his voice dropping back into that fierce, protective register. "I’d rather you be a toddler in my shirt than a queen in their den. Do you need water? Or the bucket? The doctor said you'd be nauseous."
"Water," I said. "And maybe a reason to believe the world isn't entirely made of snakes."
He reached for a glass on the nightstand, supporting the back of my head as I took a small, shaky sip. "The world isn't," he said firmly. "Just the square mile around Alverstone. We’ll fix that. But first, you’re going to sleep. No more snakes tonight."
"Is... is Grace okay?" I managed to ask once the water had cleared some of the grit from my throat.
Nate nodded, a small, genuine softening appearing in his expression. "Eliza is with them. She’s been incredible, Mila. She told them you were working late at the library and staying over here to avoid the commute. They’re sleeping. They think you’re just being the overachiever you always are."
"Eliza did that?" I closed my eyes, a wave of gratitude washing over me. I could see her in my mind, making tea and bossing my sisters around, acting as the shield I couldn't be.
"She’s been on the phone with me every hour," Nate said. "She’s not going anywhere until you're back. You have a hell of a friend, Mila Stone."
"I know," I breathed.
We stayed like that for a while, the silence between us no longer heavy with the trauma of the gala, but filled with the steady, quiet hum of the city outside. We didn't talk about the induction. We didn't talk about the "Board of Inquisitors" or the ruined navy dress that I knew I would never wear again.
Instead, Nate told me about the view from his window when the sun hit the Chrysler Building. He talked about a small coffee shop in Italy he’d visited once where the espresso was so strong it made your teeth ache. He spoke of mundane things—the weather, the silence of the penthouse, the way the light changed at four in the morning—weaving a protective cocoon of normalcy around us.
I drifted back toward a cleaner, deeper sleep, my hand anchored in his. The last thing I felt before the shadows took me was Nate leaning down, his lips brushing my forehead, a silent promise whispered against my skin.