Chapter 78 Staying Inside the Lines
Nate had spent twenty minutes trying to convince me to move the girls to his penthouse in Manhattan, citing security, central heating, and a private chef. He spoke of triple-paned glass that muffled the city and floor-to-ceiling views, trying to sell me on a sanctuary that felt more like a gilded cage.
"Nate, no," I said, my voice firm despite the lingering chill. "Look at them. They’ve already been abandoned by their parents and lied to by their neighbors in the last twenty-four hours. I am not whisking them away to a glass tower where they’ll feel like museum exhibits or charity cases. They need their own home, even if it’s drafty. They need to stay here."
Nate paced the small kitchen, his head nearly brushing the water-stained ceiling. "Mila, a debt collector just tried to kick in your door. This place isn't a fortress."
"And you scared him off. You showed him that I’m not standing alone. Now, if you want to help, help me fix the necessity. Call the technician. I will pay you back every cent for the repair, but we are staying put. My sisters' stability isn't for sale, not even for central heating."
He looked like he wanted to argue, to simply scoop us all up and carry us into his world by sheer force of will, but he saw the immovable set of my jaw. He let out a frustrated sigh, a plume of white air escaping his lips, and pulled out his phone. "Fine. But I’m staying until the heat is on. And I’m paying for the repair—don't even start with the 'paying me back' talk, Mila."
"I’m starting it," I insisted, crossing my arms. "It’s a loan, Nathaniel. Not a gift."
He rolled his eyes, a flicker of the old, arrogant Nate returning, but he made the call. He spoke with a clipped, authoritative tone that suggested the technician would be arriving by helicopter if necessary. Within thirty minutes, a specialist was here, and the radiator began a slow, clanking resurrection that sounded like music to my ears.
As the apartment began to thaw, the tension shifted into something surreal. To the Blueblood Bulletin, Nate was a predatory heir; to my mother, he was a payday; but to six-year-old Zoe, he was simply "the tall man" who happened to have a very warm coat. She didn't see the Salvatore legacy or the millions of dollars; she just saw a pair of broad shoulders and a captive audience.
"Mr. Tall Man?" Zoe asked, tugging on the hem of Nate's cashmere sweater. She was holding a bedraggled coloring book and a box of blunt, broken crayons. "You’re sitting in the way of the light. And you're taking up too much rug."
Nate looked down at her, appearing more terrified of the six-year-old than he had been of the debt collector. He looked at me for help, his eyes wide and pleading. "I... I can move, Zoe."
"No," she commanded, pointing to a spot on the faded rug directly next to the radiator. "Sit. You have to help. Grace says you’re smart, so you should know how to do the dragon’s wings. They have to be sparkly."
I bit back a smile as Nate, the man who handled multi-million-dollar trust funds and stared down corporate boards, gingerly lowered his large frame onto our worn-out carpet. He looked absurd, his long legs folded like a grasshopper’s, staring intensely at a cheap newsprint picture of a fire-breathing dragon.
"Okay," Nate muttered, picking up a forest-green crayon with the trembling precision of a surgeon. "Wings. Right. I can do wings. Are we going for a gradient effect or solid emerald?"
"Stay inside the lines," Zoe warned, leaning over his shoulder so closely her pigtails brushed his cheek. "If you go outside, the dragon can’t fly. And don't use the 'stinky' yellow. It's ugly."
Nate took a deep breath, his tongue poking out slightly in concentration. Seeing him there, stripped of his blazer and his bravado, trying to earn the approval of a child who didn't care about his last name, made my heart ache in a way I wasn't prepared for. He was so careful, so desperate not to disappoint her, as if the dragon’s flight truly depended on his steady hand.
The evening took another unexpected turn when a knock at the door revealed Theodore. He didn't come with bags of food or a legal team; he came with a heavy cardboard box and a coat dusted with fresh snow.
"I figured Nate might be overstaying his welcome and lacked the proper entertainment," Theodore said, offering me a rare, slight smile.
He didn't hover or wait for an invitation to sit. He walked straight over to Grace, who was sitting on the sofa trying to read a tattered schoolbook by the dim light of a floor lamp. Theodore opened his box, revealing leather-bound volumes that looked older than the building we were in, their gold leaf catching the flickering light.
"I heard you like the classics," Theodore said to Grace, his voice softening. He handed her a gold-embossed copy of Jane Eyre. "These are from my private collection. They aren't for looking at; they’re for reading. Just mind the spines. They've traveled quite a bit farther than Brooklyn."
Grace’s eyes went wide, her fingers hovering over the cover as if it were made of glass. For the next hour, we had what Zoe dubbed "Movie Night," though the TV stayed off. We sat in the growing, glorious warmth of the apartment, eating the bagels Nate had brought. Theodore sat on the edge of the sofa, discussing plot points and character arcs with Grace as if she were a scholar at Alverstone, treating her thoughts with a gravity she had never known.
"Thank you," I whispered to Theodore as I stood by the stove, making tea in my chipped mugs. "For the books. And for coming all this way. I know this isn't exactly where you're used to spending a Saturday night."
Theodore looked around the cramped, humble room. He watched Nate laugh—a real, uninhibited sound—as Zoe critiqued his use of 'burnt sienna' for the dragon's belly. He watched the way the girls looked at us, not with the predatory hunger of the socialites back in the Hamptons, but with simple, honest curiosity.
"Don't thank me," Theodore said softly, his voice dropping so the others wouldn't hear. "The Salvatores have houses, Mila. They have estates, galleries, and wings of museums named after them. But this..." He gestured to the mismatched chairs, the laundry drying over the heater, and the lingering scent of cinnamon. "This is the first 'real' thing I’ve been a part of in years. It’s quiet. It’s honest. I think Nate needs this more. He's finally learning that a home is built, not inherited."
I looked at Nate, who was currently being lectured by Zoe on why dragons don't like purple because it makes them sneeze. He looked happy. Not the polished, performance-based joy of a gala—but genuinely, messily at peace. He wasn't a brand tonight; he was just a man on a rug, trying to stay inside the lines.