Chapter 17 The Gilded Branch
The library in the East Wing had become my only sanctuary, a silent fortress of stone and ink. I was hunched over a pile of reference books, my vision blurring after four hours of relentless studying, when a shadow fell across my mahogany desk. I didn't look up at first, instinctively bracing for the usual sneer or the sharp clatter of a group of students deliberately "claiming" the table I was using.
"Vance’s section on historical equity is a nightmare, isn't it? He writes like he’s being paid by the comma."
I looked up, startled. Theodore Beaumont stood there, looking far more relaxed than anyone had a right to look during midterms. He wasn't wearing his blazer; his crisp white shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up to reveal a watch that probably cost more than my apartment building. He held a thick, leather-bound notebook in his hand, the edges worn from use.
"It’s... dense," I managed to say, my heart doing a strange, frantic little dance. "I’ve read the same paragraph three times and I’m still not sure if he’s talking about macroeconomics or a fever dream."
Theodore offered a small, charming smile—the kind that felt like a warm hearth in the middle of a brutal Alverstone winter. "I took his class two years ago. He hasn't changed the curriculum much; he’s a creature of habit who prizes logic over clarity." He slid the notebook across the surface toward me. "These are my old notes. They might help bridge the gap between his lectures and the actual exam. My handwriting is a bit of a mess, but the logic is sound. It’s a lifeline, Mila. Take it."
I stared at the notebook as if it were a holy relic. "You’re giving these to me? After the way your friends talk about me in the lounge?"
"I’m giving them to a fellow student who clearly works harder than the people who spend their time talking," Theodore replied softly. "Don't let Nate’s mood swings dictate your success. You earned your seat here, even if he’s too stubborn to admit it."
As I thanked him, my gaze drifted through the tall, arched windows that overlooked the quad. Across the emerald grass, Nathaniel Salvatore was standing by the fountain. He wasn't talking to the crowd around him. He was just watching us through the glass, his silhouette dark and rigid against the afternoon sun. Even from this distance, I could see his jaw was set tight enough to crack bone.
Later that evening, the reality of my split life hit me as I crossed the bridge back into Brooklyn. The transition from the marble halls of Alverstone to the grit of the neighborhood cafe was jarring, like waking up from a dream into a cold room. I found Eliza behind the counter, her hair escaped from her ponytail and a smear of flour on her cheek.
As I started my shift, I noticed a familiar face at a corner table. Gavin—the silent, muscular wall who usually trailed Nate—was leaning against the brick wall, nursing a double espresso. He looked entirely out of place in a Brooklyn cafe, his expensive coat draped over a plastic chair. He wasn't with the "Princes." He was alone, his eyes fixed on Eliza as she moved between the tables.
"He's back," Eliza whispered to me as we crossed paths at the milk station. She tried to sound annoyed, but her cheeks were a faint, betraying shade of pink. "That's the third time this week. Doesn't he have a private club in Manhattan for this?"
"Maybe he likes the coffee," I teased, though I watched Gavin carefully. He was playing the part of the bored womanizer, leaning back and smirking whenever Eliza caught his eye, but there was a quiet intensity in his gaze that suggested his interest wasn't nearly as casual as he wanted it to seem.
"Careful with those types, Mila," Scarlett’s voice whispered in my mind. I had seen her earlier that day, catching me watching Theodore on the quad. She had warned me then: “He’s the Golden Boy for a reason. He’s kind, he’s noble, but he is loyal to Nate first. If Nate decides you’re a problem, Theodore will be the one to break your heart while Nate breaks your spirit.”
The warning stayed with me, but the lure of a safe place to study was too strong. Two days later, Theodore brought me to the Beaumont private library—a restricted wing of the campus funded by his family’s estate.
It was a world of mahogany, velvet, and quiet respect. There were no students blasting music here, no whispers about "charity cases." It was the first place on campus where I felt like I could actually breathe. Theodore didn't hover; he sat at a nearby table, occasionally looking up to offer an encouraging nod.
"It’s peaceful here," I whispered, looking up at the stained-glass windows. "I forgot what it felt like to study without waiting for someone to trip me."
"It’s how it should be," Theodore replied, his voice echoing softly.
The peace lasted exactly one hour.
The heavy, brass-fitted doors swung open, and the temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. Nathaniel Salvatore walked in. He didn't shout. He didn't make a scene. He simply walked to the center of the room, his presence saturating the silence like ink in clear water.
He stopped at our table, looking down at Theodore’s notes spread out between us. He didn't look at me, but his shadow fell directly over my textbook, blotting out the light.
"Theodore," Nate said, his voice a low, vibrating chord of irritation. "The Salvatore-Beaumont board meeting started ten minutes ago. Our families are waiting. Why is your chair empty?"
Theodore sighed, the "Golden Boy" mask flickering with a moment of genuine annoyance. "I told the admins I’d be late, Nate. I’m helping a classmate."
"You told them you had a pressing engagement," Nate countered, his eyes finally shifting to me—cold, sharp, and utterly dismissive. "I don't think they realized the 'engagement' was a tutoring session for the help. Let's go. We don't keep the board waiting for sentimentality. My family expects results, not charity work."
Theodore stood up slowly, giving me a pained, apologetic look. "I’m sorry, Mila. We’ll have to finish this later."
"It’s fine," I said, my voice sounding smaller than I wanted it to.
Nate didn't move until Theodore had reached the door. He lingered for a second, his hand resting on the back of my chair. He didn't say a word, but the weight of his presence was a reminder: I was a guest in a world that hated me, and any sanctuary I found could be dismantled by a single Salvatore command. He followed Theodore out, leaving the room feeling colder and more empty than it had ever been.