Chapter 105 The House of Cards
The stairs felt like a grueling ascent up a vertical cliff face. Every step sent a dull, rhythmic throb through my temples, a lingering souvenir from the toxins that had sat in my blood only hours ago. I gripped the banister, the wood rough and peeling under my palm, and forced myself upward, one agonizing stair at a time.
I was wearing a brand-new set of high-end joggers and a soft cashmere hoodie—clothes Nate had sent his personal shopper to procure before I even had the chance to ask for my old jeans. The fabric was too soft, too perfect. In my hand, I gripped a new phone, already synced to my old cloud and glowing with a sleekness that felt entirely foreign to my palms.
I should have been grateful. Honestly, I was grateful. But there was a prickly, restless irritation buzzing under my skin, an itch I couldn't scratch. Every gift felt like another layer of the "Salvatore Shield," another reminder that the world I had built for myself—with its grit and its hard-earned survival—had been effortlessly replaced by the one Nate provided. I needed to feel the cracked linoleum of my kitchen under my feet. I needed to breathe in the scent of burnt toast and cheap dish soap to remind myself who I was when I wasn't being protected by a man who could dismantle empires before breakfast.
I reached the top landing. The hallway was quiet, the dim yellow light overhead flickering with a dying buzz. I knew the schedule by heart: Grace and Zoe were safely tucked away in their middle school classrooms, and Eliza had messaged me saying she’d picked up a double shift at the cafe. For a moment, I stood there, letting the silence settle over me.
I fumbled with my keys, my hands still a little shaky. I just wanted a shower. I wanted to scrub the feeling of that storage room and the lingering, floral scent of Scarlett’s perfume off my body with the hottest water my temperamental, clanking boiler could provide. I wanted to be Mila Stone from Brooklyn again, a girl with a clear path and a simple set of problems.
I reached for the handle, but something stopped me.
Taped to the center of the door, at eye level, was a bright, fluorescent yellow slip of paper.
NOTICE TO QUIT: EVICTION PROCEEDINGS COMMENCED.
The words didn't make sense at first. I blinked, my vision blurring as I leaned in closer, my breath hitching in my throat. My heart, which had just started to find a steady, safe rhythm in the sanctuary of the penthouse, began to gallop.
"No," I whispered. "No, no, no."
I ripped the paper from the door with a trembling hand. I scanned the fine print, my eyes darting over the cold, indifferent legal jargon. This wasn't just a late notice. It wasn't a warning about a missed payment. It was a final, irrevocable decree. The rent hadn't been paid in three full months. Not a single cent had reached the landlord’s hands since I started my semester at Alverstone.
A cold, hollow sensation opened up in the pit of my stomach, spreading through my limbs. Every month, I handed my parents the bulk of my paycheck from the cafe. Every month, I had stood by and watched as Nate’s legal team transferred the generous "stipend" meant to ensure my sisters had a stable, safe roof over their heads while I attended the university. I had done the math a thousand times in my head; we should have been ahead. We should have had a surplus. We should have been comfortable for the first time in our lives.
I pushed the door open, the apartment greeting me with a stale, heavy silence. I didn't head for the shower. I didn't even take off my shoes. I headed straight for the kitchen table, where my father usually kept his "filing system"—a chaotic, greasy pile of junk mail, beer coasters, and empty lottery tickets.
I began tossing envelopes aside with a growing sense of desperation. I was searching for the ledger, for a receipt, for anything that would prove this was a clerical error. Beneath a stack of colorful takeout menus and a half-empty bottle of bourbon, I found the truth. Hidden utility bills, final notices for credit cards I didn't even know they had, and a bank statement from last week that showed a balance so low it was an insult to the work I had put in.
They had spent it. Every dollar of my hard-earned tips. Every cent of the money Nate had provided for the girls. They had taken the Salvatore's generosity and my own sweat and blood and poured it into a void I couldn't even see. It was gone.
I sank into a rickety kitchen chair, the yellow eviction notice fluttering from my nerveless fingers to the floor. The irony was a bitter pill to swallow. I had been so consumed by the vipers in the Alverstone garden, the foundation of my own home had been eaten away by the people who shared my DNA. I wasn't just facing a social war at the university. I was about to be homeless, and my sisters—my beautiful, innocent sisters—were going to pay the price for my parents' bottomless greed.
I looked at the new, expensive phone sitting on the table, its screen reflecting the cracked ceiling above. One call. That’s all it would take. I could call Nate right now, and this problem would vanish before the sun went down. He would buy the building. He would pay the back rent and fire the landlord with a single email. He would wrap me in that Salvatore shield again and tell me I never had to worry about a bill for the rest of my life.
But as I stared at that fluorescent yellow paper on the floor, a different kind of resolve hardened in my chest. I couldn't do it. I couldn't let him fix this. If I let Nate pay for my parents' sins, I wouldn't be his partner; I would be his project. I would be exactly what Scarlett said I was—a charity case.
My parents were gone. Likely hiding out at some dive bar or a friend's house, waiting for the storm to blow over so I could "fix" it like I always did. But I was done fixing things for them.
I had twenty-four hours and exactly zero dollars in my pocket and parents that had abandoned me to the wolves. I didn't know how I was going to find the money, but I knew one thing: I was going to find a way out of this on my own. I had to. Because if I didn't, I would never truly belong anywhere—not in Brooklyn, and certainly not at Alverstone.
I stood up, the chair scraping harshly against the linoleum. I didn't have a plan yet, but I had a direction. I walked to the bathroom and turned the shower on, watching the steam rise, preparing to wash away the last of the girl who relied on anyone else to save her.