Chapter 50 The Weight of Gold Chains
Mila’s POV
The Jones’s house always smelled like safety—laundry detergent, roasting chicken, and the faint, sweet scent of the vanilla candles Mrs. Jones kept on the mantle. But tonight, as I stood in Eliza’s bedroom surrounded by a mountain of discarded fabric, the safety felt like a fragile bubble waiting to pop.
"Try the navy one again," Eliza said, her voice muffled as she rummaged through the back of her closet. "It makes your eyes look like flint. If you’re going to a Beaumont gallery, you need to look like you can hold your own against a marble statue."
I pulled the dress over my head, the silk cool against my skin. It was a loaner from Eliza. "I feel like a fraud, Liz. I’m wearing Nate’s 'advance' under my skin and my friend's dress on my back. When does any of this actually belong to me?"
Eliza stopped digging and sat on the edge of the bed. She looked tired. Not just the "working a double shift" tired, but a deep, soulful exhaustion that I hadn't fully processed through the fog of my own disasters. My eyes drifted to her nightstand, where the velvet box sat. I knew what was inside—the emerald necklace Gavin had sent her over a week ago.
"I’m sorry," I said softly, sitting down next to her. The silk of the dress rustled between us. "I’ve been so wrapped up in the blackout and the parents and... Nate. I haven't even asked how you’re doing. You haven't mentioned Gavin in days. Not since the delivery."
Eliza’s expression shifted, a flicker of raw pain crossing her features before she masked it with a practiced, brittle smile.
"He hasn't called, Mila. Not once since the courier dropped that off," she whispered. "I thought we were doing so well. I thought when he looked at me at the cafe, he actually saw me. But after that 'Spotted' photo of you and Nate went viral, it’s like he woke up from a dream and realized that being associated with girls like us was a liability he wasn't willing to carry."
"Liz, I'm so sorry. I should have checked on you more," I felt the guilt wash over me, thick and suffocating. "I’ve been so selfishly drowning in my own mess."
"Don't," Eliza said, her voice sharpening with protective care. "My heart getting bruised by a rich boy who got cold feet is nothing compared to everything going on in your life. Your parents are literally trying to auction you off to a Salvatore. I felt like a brat even thinking about complaining to you when you’re fighting for your sisters' survival."
"It’s not nothing," I insisted, taking her hand. Her palm was cold. "You’re my best friend. Your heart matters as much as my electricity. I hate that you felt like you had to hide your hurt because mine was louder."
Eliza squeezed my hand back, a small, sad smile finally reaching her eyes. "We're a pair, aren't we? Two girls trying to navigate a world that treats us like background characters in someone else's epic. But tonight, you’re not a background character. You’re going to that gallery. You’re going to stand next to Theodore Beaumont—who, for the record, is the only one of those three who seems to have a functional soul—and you’re going to remind yourself that you’re brilliant."
I looked at myself in the full-length mirror. The navy dress was simple, elegant, and perfectly tailored. I didn't look like a scholarship girl from a one-bedroom apartment with a dark living room. I looked like a woman who belonged in a room full of art.
But as I applied a final coat of mascara, I thought about the boys. They didn't just give gifts; they gave anchors. They attached themselves to us with gold chains and waited to see if we’d sink or swim. Gavin had used a necklace to say goodbye because he was too weak to say it to Eliza's face. Nate had used a "stipend" to say stay because he was too arrogant to ask.
And then there was Theodore.
Theodore, who had stood by me when the hallway turned into a gauntlet. Theodore, who had looked at Nate—his brother in every way that mattered—and told him no. He was the only one who hadn't tried to buy a piece of me yet, but in this world, even "kindness" felt like a debt waiting to be collected.
"What if Nate is there?" I asked, my voice trembling as I grabbed my coat. "He told me he expected me to be available for 'research' tonight."
"Then you let him see you with someone who treats you like a person, not a line item in a ledger," Eliza said firmly. She stood up and began fixing a stray lock of my hair, her touch steady and maternal. "You’re Mila Stone. You’re the girl who survived a betrayal and a blackout in the same forty-eight hours. A gallery opening is just a room with expensive wallpaper. You've faced much scarier things."
A horn honked outside—the low, discreet growl of a high-end engine that didn't belong on this block.
"That’s him," I said, my stomach doing a violent somersault.
"Go," Eliza whispered, kissing my cheek. "And Mila? If Theodore tries to buy you a painting, tell him you’d prefer a cheeseburger and a real conversation. Remind him that you can't be curated."
I walked down the stairs, the sound of my heels on the wood feeling like a drumroll for a performance I wasn't sure I was ready to give. As I stepped out onto the sidewalk, the biting Brooklyn air caught my breath. I saw the black sedan idling at the curb. Theodore was standing by the door, his hands in his pockets, looking at the Jones's house with a quiet, respectful patience that Nate would never possess.
When he saw me, his entire expression shifted. It wasn't the predatory, "mine" look Nate gave me, or the guilty, distant look I imagined Gavin gave Eliza. It was something else—something that felt dangerously like genuine admiration.
"You look incredible, Mila," he said, stepping forward to open the door for me. He didn't reach for my arm this time; he gave me the space to move on my own.
"I feel like I'm wearing a costume," I admitted, sliding into the plush leather interior that smelled of cedar and wealth.
"It’s not a costume," Theodore said, closing the door softly and walking around to the driver's side. "It’s just the rest of the world finally catching up to who you already are. You've always belonged in the light, Mila. Some people just try to dim it so they can feel brighter."
As we pulled away from the curb, I looked back at the house. Eliza was standing in the window, a small, lonely figure framed by the warm yellow light of her bedroom. I realized then that while I was being whisked away to a world of expressionism and velvet ropes, she was staying behind with an emerald necklace that felt more like a tombstone for a relationship that never truly had a chance.