Chapter 107 Rounding Errors
The dorm room was a sterile, narrow box of cinderblock and beige linoleum. It was supposed to be a double, but the second bed was a bare mattress, stripped of life and waiting for a student who would never arrive. For most freshmen, this was a rite of passage. For me, it was a fallout shelter.
I sat on the edge of my bed, staring at the three trash bags that held my entire life. I had the room to myself—a lucky break in the housing lottery—but the silence didn't feel like a luxury. It felt like an indictment. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Zoe’s tear-streaked face and the way the Joneses' front door had clicked shut, severing the only tether I had left to the girl I used to be.
I couldn't go back to the cafe. Not yet. I needed money that Eliza’s parents didn't have to subsidize, and I needed it faster than minimum wage could provide. I had spent the afternoon pounding the pavement of the side streets near Alverstone until I found The Gilded Griddle—a high-turnover diner that catered to night-shift hospital workers and hungover trust-fund kids. The tips were triple what I made in Brooklyn, and the manager didn't care about my resume as long as I could carry three plates and keep my mouth shut.
I was exhausted. My body felt like it was held together by caffeine and sheer, stubborn spite. I hadn't answered Nate’s calls in six hours. I knew he was tracking my phone—it was a Salvatore gift, after all—but I figured he’d assume I was just catching up on sleep.
I was wrong. Nate Salvatore didn't assume; he investigated.
A sharp, authoritative knock echoed through the small room. My heart did a slow, painful roll in my chest. I didn't even have to look through the peephole to know who it was. The air in the hallway practically hummed with his presence.
I opened the door, and there he was. Nate looked like he had walked straight off the cover of a magazine, but his eyes were dark with a mixture of confusion and brewing anger. He looked past me at the trash bags, the bare walls, and the single, sad pillow on my bed.
"Mila," he said, his voice a low vibrate. "What the hell is this?"
"It’s my dorm, Nate," I said, trying to keep my voice steady as I blocked his view of my meager belongings. "I moved in early. I needed the quiet to study."
He didn't buy it. He didn't even pretend to. He stepped into the room, forcing me to back up into the cramped space. He reached into the pocket of his tailored coat and pulled out a small, rectangular slip of paper. He held it out between two fingers.
It was a check. And it was blank.
"Theodore ran a routine check on your address," Nate said, his voice terrifyingly calm. "He found the eviction notice. He found the bank statements. He found out what your parents did with the money I sent."
"I didn't ask you to look into that," I whispered, my face burning with a shame so hot it felt like it would blister. "I didn't ask for your help."
"It doesn't matter what you asked for," he stepped closer, his shadow swallowing me against the cinderblock wall. "Mila, this is nothing. This is a rounding error. I can have the back rent paid, the eviction expunged, and a new lease signed for a penthouse three blocks from campus before the sun comes up. You won't even have to pack those bags. Just tell me the number. Fill it in. It's nothing to me."
The words hit me like a physical slap, knocking the air right out of my lungs. Nothing.
The air in the room suddenly felt too thin, the smell of the industrial cleaner on the floors becoming nauseating. I looked at the blank check, then up at his handsome, concerned face—the face of a man who truly believed he was being a hero, a knight in shining armor coming to slay a dragon he didn't even understand. He didn't see the jagged edges of my pride. He didn't see the four flights of stairs I’d climbed my whole life just to keep my head above water while my parents tried to pull me under.
"Nothing?" I repeated, my voice dropping to a dangerous, jagged edge that vibrated with suppressed rage. "You think this is nothing?"
"In the grand scheme of things? Yes," Nate said, sounding frustrated now, his brow furrowing. "It’s a bill, Mila. A small, annoying obstacle that I can make go away with a single signature. Why are you living out of trash bags and sleeping on a plastic mattress when I can fix this in five seconds?"
"Because it’s my life, Nate!" I snapped, the roar finally breaking out of my chest like a flood. I slapped the check out of his hand, watching it flutter to the linoleum like a dead, useless leaf. "To you, it’s a rounding error. To you, it’s just another line on a ledger that you don't even have to look at because your accountants handle the 'minor' details. But to me? That apartment was the only thing keeping my sisters safe. That money was every hour I spent scrubbing floors and taking insults at the cafe. It was my sweat. It was my blood. It was my dignity."
I stepped toward him, my finger trembling as I pointed at the door, my voice rising with every word. "You think you’re saving me? You’re just reminding me that you own the world and I’m just a guest who can't afford the cover charge. You’re telling me that everything I’ve fought for—my independence, my ability to stand on my own two feet—can be bought and sold by a Salvatore without a second thought. You didn't even ask me how I felt; you just brought a pen."
"Mila, be reasonable. You're emotional and exhausted—"
"I am being more than reasonable!" I shouted, tears of pure fury finally stinging my eyes. "I had to give my sisters away today, Nate. I had to watch them walk into someone else's house because I couldn't provide a roof and a lock for them. I felt that failure in my bones. And you stand here in your thousand-dollar coat telling me it's nothing? It’s my entire world. And if I let you 'fix' it with a blank check, I’m just another charity case you’re keeping on a shelf to feel better about yourself. I won't be that. I’d rather live in this box and work until my hands bleed than be a rounding error in your life."
Nate stood frozen, his mouth slightly open as if the words were stuck in his throat. The silence of the dorm room rushed back in, heavier and colder than before, leaving us both breathless in the wreckage of his "nothing."