Chapter 48 The Advance
The air at Alverstone felt different today. It wasn’t just the cold snap that had followed the storm; it was the way the atmosphere curdled whenever I walked into a room. The "Spotted" photo was still the top story, but now it had been bolstered by a new, uglier rumor: that the Salvatore checkbook had officially opened for the Stone family.
I could feel the weight of Nate’s money on me like a physical shroud. It was in the way my clothes felt cleaner than they should, the way my stomach didn't growl for the first time in weeks, and the way the silence in the hallway felt like a baited breath. Every step I took felt heavier, as if the soles of my shoes were leaden with the debt I hadn't asked for but was now forced to carry.
I didn't head for the library. I didn't head for the cafeteria. I went straight for the North Suite. I knew he’d be there. Nate Salvatore was nothing if not a creature of habit and dominion. I bypassed the lingering groups of students, ignoring the way Bianca and Savannah Cole whispered behind their hands as I passed. I didn't care about their petty barbs anymore; I had a monster to face.
I slammed the heavy oak door behind me, the sound echoing off the vaulted ceilings like a gunshot in a cathedral. Nate was sitting at the long mahogany table, a single lamp illuminating the scattered papers of his senior thesis. He didn't look up, but I saw his hand pause over his fountain pen, the nib hovering just millimeters above the expensive parchment.
"Get out, Mila," he said, his voice a low, steady thrum that vibrated in the quiet room. "You’re late for our session. I don't pay for empty chairs, and I certainly don't pay for dramatic entrances."
"You don't pay for anything of mine ever again," I spat, walking over to the table and slamming my hand down on his notes, crinkling the edge of his research. "How dare you. How dare you talk to my parents. How dare you let them believe they could use me to get to your bank account."
Nate finally looked up. His eyes were dark, unreadable pools of shadows. He looked perfectly composed—every hair in place, his silk tie knotted with lethal precision. He looked like the boy who had everything, staring at the girl who had just realized she had nothing left to lose. The contrast between us was staggering; I was a whirlwind of raw, messy emotion, and he was a fortress of polished stone.
"Your father called me," he said simply, leaning back in his chair as if we were discussing the weather. "He told me your sisters were sitting in the dark. He told me they were cold, and that their 'hero' sister had abandoned them to play house at a friend's place. Was he lying, Mila?"
"That’s not the point! The point is that it was my problem to solve! My life, my mess!" My voice cracked, the fury I’d been nursing since I saw that steak on the kitchen table finally boiling over. "You didn't do it for them. You didn't do it out of the kindness of your heart because you don't have one. You did it to own me. You did it so that the next time I look at you and tell you that you’re a cold, arrogant prick, I have to remember that I’m standing in a house paid for by your 'mercy.'"
Nate stood up slowly. He was much taller than me, his presence filling the space between us until I felt the heat radiating off his skin. He didn't back down. If anything, he leaned in, his gaze dropping to my lips for a fraction of a second—a flicker of something primal—before locking back onto my eyes with chilling intensity.
"You have a very high opinion of your own importance if you think I’d spend nine hundred dollars just to hurt your feelings," he whispered, his face inches from mine. "I don't play games that small, Mila. If I wanted to hurt you, you’d know. You wouldn't be standing in a heated apartment; you'd be looking for a new school."
"Then why did you do it? Why the extra money? Why the 'stipend'?" I demanded, my breath hitching.
"It wasn't charity, Mila. Don't flatter yourself by thinking I pity you." He walked around the table, his movements fluid and predatory, like a wolf circling a cornered deer. "I don't give gifts. In my world, everything is a transaction. Everything has a price and a return on investment. Think of that money as an advance."
"An advance?" I asked, a chill running down my spine.
"An advance on your tutoring fees," he said, stopping just inches from me. He reached out, his fingers hovering near my jaw but never quite touching. The restraint was almost more intimidating than a touch would have been. "You’re going to be very busy over the next few months. I have midterms, three gala appearances where I’ll need your 'intellectual' briefings, and a research project that will require your undivided attention. I’ve simply secured your time. I’ve ensured that the 'variable' isn't distracted by something as mundane as a power outage or a hungry sibling."
"You bought my time," I whispered, the reality of it sinking in like a weight in my stomach. "You didn't help me. You just bought a subscription to my life. You made sure I'm available whenever you decide to snap your fingers."
"I bought the results I want," Nate corrected, his voice dropping to a dangerous, silken register. "And what I want, Mila, is for you to stop looking at Theodore Beaumont like he’s your exit strategy. You belong at this table. You belong in this suite. And as long as my name is on your utility bill, you’ll be exactly where I put you."
I wanted to hit him. I wanted to scream until the windows shattered. But more than anything, I wanted to cry because he was right. I was trapped by the very light I had prayed for. I couldn't walk away. I couldn't hand him a thousand dollars and tell him to go to hell. I was outplayed by the King, and the worst part was that he knew I had no move left to make.
"I hate you," I breathed, the words trembling with the weight of my utter humiliation.
Nate leaned down, his breath warm against my ear, sending a traitorous, sickening shiver through my body. "I know. But you’ll still be here tomorrow at four. Don't be late."
He turned back to his desk as if I were already gone, as if I were just another piece of furniture he had recently acquired for the suite. I walked out of the room, the heavy doors clicking shut behind me like the tumblers of a high-security lock. I had gone in to demand my freedom, and I had left with a contract I didn't know how to break. I was no longer a tutor; I was a debt.