Chapter 8 Public Outcry
The world came back to me in jagged, terrifying fragments. Every time I drifted toward the surface of consciousness, I was met with the rhythmic hiss-click of a monitor and the distant, muffled roar of a city that had suddenly decided I was its favorite story.
"She’s still out," a voice whispered nearby. It was Eliza. She sounded exhausted, her usual warrior-sharp edge dulled by a heavy layer of worry. "The doctor says the concussion is making her sleep, but every time she stirs, she’s whispering about the girls. She doesn't even know what’s happening outside this room, Dawn. She has no idea."
"She doesn't need to know yet," my mother’s voice hitched, but it wasn't with grief. It was that frantic, high-pitched tone she used when she was staring at a scratch-off ticket, convinced the next one was the big winner. "Eliza, have you seen the news? They’re calling her the 'Angel of Brooklyn.' There are reporters from three different networks camped downstairs. One of them offered us ten thousand for an exclusive interview before she even woke up."
"You tell them to go to hell, Dawn," Eliza snapped, her voice low but dangerous. "She almost died saving that Salvatore kid. She isn't a payday, she’s a person."
I tried to groan, but my throat felt like it had been lined with sandpaper. I forced my eyes open, the light from the massive floor-to-ceiling window feeling like a physical weight against my retinas.
"Grace... Zoe..." I managed to rasp.
Eliza was by my side in an instant, her cool hand pressing against my forehead. "I'm here, Mila. I'm right here."
I looked past her. My sisters were tucked into one of the oversized leather armchairs in the corner of the luxury suite. They looked small—too small for the weight of the silence in the room. Grace was holding Zoe tightly, her knuckles white, her eyes wide and dark with a fear I hadn't seen since our parents first disappeared for a week straight. They weren't at home; they were right here, trapped in this gilded cage with me because home wasn't safe anymore.
"Where... why aren't you at the apartment?" I demanded, the adrenaline of a protector overriding the dull, thumping ache in my ribs.
Eliza’s expression faltered. She looked at Grace, who bit her lip and looked away.
"Mila... it’s a mess," Eliza said, her voice dropping. "The story went viral an hour after the accident. Someone filmed the whole thing on their phone from the bus stop. The video of you throwing yourself in front of that truck has ten million views already. It’s everywhere—TikTok, Twitter, the evening news."
She reached for a remote and turned on the wall-mounted TV, keeping the volume at a low, haunting hum.
The screen was a chaotic collage of images. There was a grainy, shaky video of the intersection in Brooklyn. I saw myself—a blur in a dark hoodie—slamming into the towering, broad-shouldered figure of Nathaniel Salvatore. I saw the yellow truck clip me, the way my body spun through the air like a discarded toy before hitting the asphalt.
The headline scrolling across the bottom made my stomach turn: POOR BARISTA SAVES BILLIONAIRE HEIR: SACRIFICE OR TRAGEDY?
"They found out where we live," Grace whispered from the corner, her voice trembling. "We tried to go back yesterday to get clothes and my schoolbooks, but there were men with big cameras everywhere. They were blocking the stairs, Mila. They kept shouting your name. They were asking if we were 'the Stone sisters' and if the Salvatores had given us a check yet. One man tried to follow us into the lobby. We had to run back to Eliza’s car."
"They were banging on the windows," Zoe added, her lower lip trembling as she climbed onto the edge of my bed, reaching for my hand. "I don't like the men, Mila. They make loud noises with their lights."
A cold, sharp fury began to burn through the fog of the painkillers. My sisters were being hunted because I had dared to have a reflex. The "Hero" narrative was a cage, and the bars were being forged by every click, share, and intrusive lens.
"The internet is eating it up," Eliza said, staring at the screen with a look of pure disgust. "The narrative is too perfect for them: the girl who has nothing saves the boy who has everything. People are furious, Mila. They’re protesting outside the Salvatore Holdings building, demanding to know why a 'rich brat' let a 'working-class girl' take a hit for him. It’s a PR nightmare of epic proportions. The Salvatores are being crucified in the press."
I looked at the screen again. They showed a photo of Nathaniel being ushered into a car after the accident, his face pale and unreadable. Next to it was a photo of our cramped, peeling apartment door in Brooklyn, now surrounded by paparazzi in high-vis vests and yellow caution tape.
The contrast was sickening. He was being protected by private security and reinforced glass; my sisters were being terrified in the only place they were supposed to be safe, their privacy traded for a headline.
"The lawyers were back while you were sleeping," my mother said, stepping forward from the shadows near the door. She was holding a thick stack of business cards as if they were trophies. "They said the Salvatores want to make a formal statement. They want to show they’re 'taking care of their own.' Mila, if we play this right, if we just sign what they want, we never have to worry about the electric bill or the rent again. We could move out of that dump."
"Get out," I whispered.
"Mila, honey, be reasonable—"
"GET OUT!" I shouted, the effort causing a white-hot flare of pain to explode in my fractured ribs. I gasped, clutching my side, my vision swimming as the monitors began to beep a frantic, rhythmic warning.
Eliza immediately ushered my parents toward the door, her face set in a grim, uncompromising line. She didn't care about the money; she cared about the girl in the bed. Once they were gone, the room fell into a heavy, suffocating silence, punctuated only by the distant, frantic chirp of a news van’s siren somewhere far below on the Manhattan streets.
I looked at my sisters. Grace was holding Zoe, both of them staring at me as if I were a stranger they were afraid of breaking. I wasn't just Mila Stone anymore. I was a symbol. I was a weapon being used against a family I hated, and a shield that had finally cracked.
"I'm sorry," I whispered to the empty air. "I'm so sorry."
As I watched the "Public Storm" rage on the television screen, I realized that the truck hadn't just broken my ribs—it had shattered the wall between my world and Nathaniel Salvatore's. His world was already starting to swallow mine whole, and I was too broken to swim against the current.