Chapter 47 The Debt of a King
Mila’s POV
The air in the Jones’s guest room was thick with the scent of lavender and the quiet hum of a stable, functional life. For two days, Grace and Zoe hadn't flinched at loud noises. They hadn't checked the fridge to see if the milk was spoiled or watched the ceiling lights with bated breath, waiting for them to flicker out. They had been allowed to be children. But as I packed our single shared backpack, I knew the reprieve was over. We couldn't impose on Mr. and Mrs. Jones forever, and the girls were starting to ask for their own pillows, their own toys, and the familiar, if broken, comfort of our apartment.
"We’re just going to grab some more clothes, okay?" I told them, my voice sounding more certain than I felt. "Just a quick trip to get your favorite sweaters."
As we walked up the concrete steps of our building, I prepared myself for the darkness. I expected to find our hallway dim and the apartment freezing, a tomb of neglected bills and parental indifference. I had my phone flashlight ready, the beam a tiny, pathetic spear I intended to use against the gloom to find our belongings.
But when we reached the third floor, light was spilling out from under our door. Not the flickering, uncertain light of a candle, but the bright, aggressive hum of full-scale electricity.
I pushed the door open, and the sight that greeted me felt like a physical blow to the solar plexus.
The apartment wasn't dark. Every light in the place was blazing, casting a harsh, unforgiving glow on the peeling wallpaper and the clutter. And on the small kitchen table—the table where I spent my nights crunching numbers to make ends meet—was a spread of takeout that looked like it belonged in a Manhattan penthouse. There were bags from an upscale bistro three neighborhoods away, the aroma of garlic, expensive steak, and truffle oil filling the cramped space.
My parents weren't huddled in blankets. They were sitting at the table, laughing, their faces flushed with a terrifying, ecstatic energy. My father was holding a glass of wine that I knew cost more than my weekly tips, and my mother was mid-sentence, her voice animated in a way I hadn't heard in years.
They hadn't called.
The realization hit me before they even noticed I was standing there. They had the power back. They had food. They had been sitting here in the warmth and the light for God knows how long, and not once had they picked up the phone to tell me. Or, more importantly, ask if Grace and Zoe were safe.
"Mila! You’re back!" my mother cried, her eyes shining with a predatory delight. She didn't look like a woman who had shoved her daughter into a wall two days ago. She looked like she’d won the lottery and I was the ticket.
"How?" I whispered. "How are the lights on? Where did this food come from?"
My father leaned back, a smug, oily smile spreading across his face. He didn't even have the decency to look ashamed. "We decided to handle the 'negotiations' ourselves, Mila. You were being far too difficult, far too proud. We had that boy’s personal number—you think we wouldn't keep a contact like that handy."
The world seemed to tilt on its axis. "You called Nate? You went behind my back and asked him for money?"
"We didn't have to ask for much," my mother said, waving a greasy napkin at the feast. "Once he heard his 'favorite tutor' was sitting in the dark, he couldn't move fast enough. He didn't just pay the back-bill, Mila. He paid the next six months in advance. And he sent over a little 'stipend' for the family’s trouble. He’s a real gentleman, that one. He understands how things work for people in his position."
The bile rose in my throat, hot and acidic. They had bypassed me. They had gone straight to the one person I was trying to stay independent from and sold the last shred of my dignity to him. Nate hadn't just paid a bill; he had bought a stake in my life. He had turned my home into a Salvatore subsidiary. To my parents, this was a victory. To me, it was a brand.
"You didn't call us," I said, my voice trembling with a rage so cold it felt like ice in my veins. "The lights came back on, you got all this food, and you didn't even check to see if your youngest daughters were okay?"
"Oh, don't be so dramatic," my mother scoffed, dismissively. "We knew you were with that Eliza girl. We knew you wouldn't let them starve."
"Look, Mila! My nightlight works!" Zoe screamed, her face lighting up with a pure, uncomplicated joy as she ran toward the bedroom.
"And the heater is humming," Grace added, her shoulders finally dropping from around her ears. She looked at the food on the table, her eyes wide. "Can we stay? Please? I don't want to go back to the pallet on the floor at Eliza's. I want my own bed."
I looked at my sisters. They were so happy. They were children who didn't understand the cost of the steak on the table or the electricity in the walls. They didn't see the invisible leash Nate Salvatore had just snapped around my neck. They just saw a warm home and a full stomach.
If I dragged them back to the Joneses now, I would be the villain. I would be the person taking away their light and their dinner because of my "pride." My parents knew that. Nate knew that. They had trapped me using the only thing I cared about as the cage.
"Go eat, Zoe," I whispered, my voice hollow. "Go on, Grace."
They scrambled to the table, and for a moment, the apartment sounded like a happy home. My parents toasted to "our good fortune," their eyes already scanning me, calculating how much more they could get if I continued to stay in Nate's orbit.
I walked into our small shared bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed. The room was warm—artificially, suffocatingly warm. I pulled out my phone. There were no new texts from Nate. He didn't need to text me. He knew exactly what he had done. He had "solved" the problem. He had removed the variable of my hunger and my cold, and in doing so, he had made sure I could never look him in the eye and claim I owed him nothing.
I was trapped—not by a lack of money, but by the presence of it. I couldn't leave my sisters here alone with two people who were willing to trade their eldest daughter’s soul for a paid-up electric bill, but staying felt like surrendering to a fate I had fought my whole life to avoid.
I looked at the "Spotted" photo on my phone one last time. The "Scholarship Girl" and the "King." They were right. I was a project. I was an investment. And the investment had just been fully funded.