Chapter 130 The Carpeted Throne
Mila’s POV
The morning had been a grayscale blur. Waking up in the sprawling, silent expanse of Nate’s master suite felt like waking up inside a museum—precious, cold, and heavy with the weight of things that weren't mine. I had gone through my morning lecture at Alverstone with a phantom pressure at the back of my neck, acutely aware of Nate’s driver parked at the curb and the way the shadows in the hallways seemed to linger a second too long. The transition from the high-velocity fear of the night to the mundane routine of a sociology lecture was jarring, leaving me feeling untethered, like a ghost haunting my own life.
But Nate had kept his word. At 5:15 PM, his SUV pulled up to the university gates. He didn’t send a driver to get me; he was standing by the door himself, his eyes scanning the crowd with a predatory sharpness that only softened when they landed on me. He didn't say a word as he helped me into the car, but the way his hand lingered on the small of my back told me he hadn't slept a minute since I’d woken him with my screams.
Now, the cold steel of the city felt a world away.
"You need to carry the three, Grace," Nate’s voice drifted into the kitchen, low and patient. "If you don't, the whole equation collapses. It’s like a bridge—if one bolt is missing, the cars go into the river."
I paused, a head of lettuce halfway to the colander, and looked through the archway into the living room. Mrs. Jones was humming beside me, stirring a pot of sauce, but I barely heard her. My entire focus was on the man sitting on the faded, floral carpet. It was a sight I never thought I’d see: the king of a multi-billion-dollar empire reduced to a humble tutor on a floor that needed vacuuming.
Nate had discarded his suit jacket on the sofa. His white dress shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up to his elbows to reveal the corded strength of his forearms and the expensive watch that probably cost more than this entire house. He was hunched over Grace’s third-grade math workbook, his expensive fountain pen looking absurdly out of place against the cheap, recycled paper.
Grace was chewing on the end of her pencil, her brow furrowed in concentration. She wasn't intimidated by him. She wasn't seeing the Salvatore heir or the man the newspapers called the "Ice King of Manhattan." To her, he wasn't a headline or a threat; he was just Nate, the man who brought her sister home and knew how to handle long division. She leaned into him, her small shoulder pressing against his expensive cotton shirt, and for a moment, the air in the room seemed to settle.
"Like this?" Grace asked, scribbling a number with confidence.
Nate leaned in, his dark head bent close to hers. "Exactly. See? You’re smarter than the problem. Don't let the numbers bully you. They’re just tools, Grace. You’re the one who decides what to do with them."
On his other side, Zoe was leaning heavily against his arm, her small face inches from the screen of his work phone, which he had surprisingly handed over. I watched as she scrolled through emails and encrypted messages with the reckless abandon of a child, her sticky fingers leaving smudges on the glass that would probably give his IT department a heart attack.
"Nate, why is this man’s face a triangle?" Zoe asked, pointing at a complex analytical chart on the screen.
"That’s a graph, Zoe," he said, not even looking away from Grace’s math. "It shows how much money a company is making. The higher the point, the more toys they can buy."
"It looks like a mountain," she decided, swiping her finger across the glass. "I want to color it blue. Can I make it a blue mountain?"
"Go ahead," he murmured, actually letting a six-year-old smudge a multi-million-dollar data stream. "Just don't delete the mountain. I need that mountain for a meeting tomorrow."
I watched them, a lump forming in my throat. I had spent so long thinking of Nate as a protector, that I had forgotten he was also a man who had grown up in a house where the silence was a weapon.
My mother had called the Salvatores "gods." She spoke of them with a reverence that bordered on fear. But as I watched Nate reach out and playfully ruffle Zoe’s hair, I realized he wasn't playing a part or trying to impress me.
He was hungry for this.
He was sitting on that carpet, surrounded by mismatched furniture and the smell of simmering tomato sauce, trying to build the childhood he had been denied. He wasn't just protecting my family; he was trying to join it. He was assuming the role of the big brother my sisters had never had, providing the stability and the presence that my father had gambled away years ago.
He looked at home. He looked... peaceful, as if the noise of the Jones household was the only thing that could finally quiet the static in his own head.
Mrs. Jones nudged my elbow, a knowing smile playing on her lips. "He’s a good man, Mila. A bit stiff around the edges but he’s got a heart that’s looking for a place to land."
I nodded, unable to find my voice. I walked to the doorway, leaning against the frame, just soaking in the sight of him. As if sensing my gaze, Nate’s head turned.
For a split second, the mask dropped entirely. His expression softened into something so tender that it made my heart ache. In that look, he wasn't a billionaire or a savior. He was just Nate—a man who loved me enough to let my little sister turn his business plans into a blue mountain.
Then, just as quickly, the softness vanished, replaced by the instinct that had kept him alive in the boardroom for years.
His gaze darted past me, snapping toward the living room window. His eyes narrowed, scanning the darkening street outside, searching for a charcoal coat or a bald head in the twilight. The peace was gone, replaced by the jagged, hyper-vigilant energy of a man who knew that the "mountain" Zoe was coloring was built on a fault line. He was a sentinel again, his body tensing as if he could sense Vane's presence through the very walls.
He caught my eye again, and this time, there was a silent apology in his gaze. He was back on guard. The big brother was gone, and the predator was back.
"Done," Grace announced, slamming her book shut and jolting us both back to the present. "Can we eat now? Nate’s stomach made a noise like a bear."
Nate stood up, his movements fluid and precise once more. He reached down, scooped Zoe up with one arm, and offered his other hand to Grace. "The bear requires sustenance," he said, his voice returning to that low, authoritative rumble, but his eyes stayed on the window until the curtains were finally drawn shut.