Chapter 30 The Offering
The silence of the car didn’t break when the engine stopped; it just shifted, becoming more suffocating as we sat beneath the sickly yellow hum of the streetlamp outside my building. I reached for the door handle, my fingers trembling against the cool plastic, but I didn't pull it. I couldn't. I was still wrapped in his charcoal blazer, the scent of him—something sharp, expensive, and entirely unattainable—clinging to my skin like a brand.
"Thank you," I whispered, the words feeling small in the heavy air. "For the ride. And the jacket."
Nate didn't look at me. His gaze was fixed on the second-story window of my apartment. The blinds were crooked, and through the gap, the flickering blue light of the television illuminated the small, cramped living room. I saw a flash of movement—Zoe’s messy ponytail as she jumped on the sofa, and Grace sitting cross-legged on the floor, hunched over a notebook.
I saw Nate’s jaw tighten. It was the first time he was seeing the "real life" I came home to—not the scholarship student in the library, but the girl who lived in a building that smelled like damp concrete and old cooking oil.
The car door on my side suddenly clicked unlocked. But before I could step out, the front door of the building swung open.
"Mila? Is that you, sweetheart?"
My blood ran cold. My mother, Dawn, stood on the stoop, her eyes widening as they landed on the pristine, black Salvatore sedan. Behind her, my father, Mark, appeared, wiping his hands on a rag. I saw the exact moment they realized who was behind the wheel. The exhaustion in their faces vanished, replaced by a terrifying, hungry spark of opportunity.
"Oh, goodness!" Dawn scurried down the steps, her voice hitting a pitch of artificial sweetness I hadn't heard in years. "Is this... is this the young Mr. Salvatore?"
I scrambled out of the car, trying to block her path, but Nate was already stepping out of the driver's side. He stood tall, the streetlights catching the sharp lines of his face, looking like a prince who had accidentally wandered into a slum.
"Nathaniel Salvatore," he said, his voice flat, but his eyes were scanning my parents with a clinical, piercing intensity.
"Mark Stone," my father said, practically tripping over his own feet to reach Nate. He didn't offer a handshake; he offered a bow—a shallow, sycophantic dip of the head that made my stomach turn. "We can’t thank you enough, sir. For everything. For the scholarship, for the... the generosity your family has shown us."
"It's no trouble," Nate said, though his eyes flicked to me.
I looked at him and felt a sharp, icy spear of humiliation. He wasn't looking at them with respect; he was looking at them with pity. He saw the fraying collars of my father’s shirt and the way my mother was practically vibrating with greed. To him, they were just another charity case, a line item in his family’s ledger of "good deeds."
"Please, come in! Just for a moment!" Dawn gushed, her hands fluttering near her chest. "We were just about to put the kettle on. It’s so cold out, and you’ve been so kind to our Mila. We'd love to show you proper hospitality."
"Mom, no," I stepped between them, my voice cracking. "It’s late. Nate was just dropping me off. He has to go."
They ignored me. It was as if I were invisible, a mere bridge they were using to cross over into Nate’s world. Mark leaned in closer to Nate, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial, pathetic whine. "It’s been a hard winter, Mr. Salvatore. Trouble with the bank, you know? The interest rates are just... well, they're killing a working man."
"I understand," Nate said. To my horror, he didn't recoil. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a sleek, silver card case. He handed a heavy, embossed card to my father. "This is my private number. If the 'bank' becomes an issue... call me directly. I make it a point to look after the people who look after... my interests."
The way he said it made my skin crawl. He wasn't being a friend; he was buying a leash. He was handing my father the tools to hang me.
"Stop it!" I yelled, the sound echoing off the brick walls of the alley. "Stop it right now! Dad, get inside. Mom, leave him alone! Do you have even a shred of dignity left?"
Nate looked at me then. I expected to see mockery in his eyes, but I only saw that crushing, silent observation. He was watching my parents sell me for the promise of a phone call, and he was letting it happen. He wanted me to see it. He wanted me to know that no matter how much I tried to run, he could own my entire world with a single piece of cardstock.
"I'll see you at Alverstone, Mila," Nate said softly. He slid back into his car, the engine purring to life, and vanished into the Brooklyn night.
The moment the taillights disappeared, I turned on my parents, my body shaking with a fury I couldn't contain.
"How could you?" I hissed, my voice low and dangerous. "You stood there and begged. You practically offered me up on a silver platter for a phone number! Do you have any idea what you just did? He isn't a savior! He’s a man who hates me, and you just gave him the keys to our front door!"
"Mila, don't be dramatic," Mark said, staring at the card like it was a holy relic. "He’s a Salvatore. He’s trying to help."
"Help?" I let out a jagged, hysterical laugh. "He’s helping himself to my life! You’re both so blinded by the dollar signs that you don't even see how he’s looking at you. He pities you! He looks at this house and at you two like you’re something he stepped in on the sidewalk. You're pathetic! You're making me an indentured servant to his family because you’re too lazy to find another way!"
"Watch your tone!" Dawn snapped. "Between him and that Beaumont boy... we’re finally going to breathe, Mila. We’re going to be okay. You have the two most powerful names in the city calling at your door, and you’re complaining?"
"I’m not a payout!" I screamed, the tears finally breaking. "I’m your daughter! But to you, I’m just a scholarship check with legs!"
I ran past them, sobbing as I climbed the stairs. I burst through the door, seeing Grace and Zoe’s confused, frightened faces, but I didn't stop until I reached the bathroom. I leaned over the sink, splashing cold water on my face, trying to wash away the feeling of being a commodity.
Through the thin walls, I could hear them in the kitchen, their voices high and jubilant as they discussed what "favors" they could ask for first. Nate hadn't given them that number out of kindness. He had bought them. And in doing so, he had ensured that I would never, ever be free of him.