Chapter 79 The Silent Disconnect
The radiator continued its steady, metallic hum, a sound that felt like luxury after the hollow silence of the morning. While Theodore was deep in a debate with Grace over Gothic literature in the living room, I stepped into the kitchen to start a fresh pot of tea.
Nate followed me, the space between us shrinking the moment we were out of the others' direct line of sight. He leaned against the counter, his presence grounding and heavy. He reached out, his hand sliding around the nape of my neck to pull me into him. His forehead rested against mine, and for a second, I just breathed him in—sandalwood and the cold, crisp scent of the winter air still clinging to his sweater.
"You're still shaking," he whispered, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw before he pressed a soft, lingering kiss to my temple.
"I'm just tired, Nate. The adrenaline is wearing off."
He didn't pull away. Instead, he kissed the corner of my mouth, a gesture so tender it made my chest ache. "I'm not going anywhere, Mila. You know that, right?"
"I know," I breathed, leaning into him.
His eyes drifted toward the refrigerator. He moved as if to open it, his hand hovering over the handle. I froze, the old, sharp prickle of shame returning. I knew exactly what was in there: a half-empty carton of milk, a single jar of pickles, and a nearly empty tray of eggs. It was the anatomy of a household stretched to the snapping point.
"Nate, don't," I said, my voice low and defensive. I reached out, my hand covering his on the handle, pulling it back. "It’s enough for tonight. We’re fine."
He looked at me, his gaze searching, but he didn't push. He just turned his hand over, interlacing his fingers with mine and squeezing tight. "I know you're fine. You're the strongest person I've ever met. But you don't always have to be."
Before I could respond, the vibration of my phone on the counter made us both jump. I pulled away, hoping—praying—it was my mother. The screen showed an unknown number. I swiped it open instantly.
"Mom? Is that you?"
"Is this Mila? This is the manager over at the diner," a gruff voice answered. "Listen, your mom didn't show for her shift again. If she isn't here in an hour, she’s done. We can't keep covering for her."
"I... I understand. I'll try to find her," I stammered, my heart sinking as the line went dead.
I looked at Nate, the panic finally breaking through my facade. I immediately pulled up my mother’s contact and hit dial. I held the phone to my ear, waiting for the familiar ringtone. Instead, a flat, mechanical voice answered.
“The number you have dialed has been disconnected or is no longer in service.”
My breath hitched. I tried my father’s cell.
“The number you have dialed…”
"Mila? What is it?" Nate asked, stepping closer, his hands moving to my waist to steady me.
"Their phones," I whispered, staring at the screen. "They're disconnected. Both of them. Not just unpaid—gone. They didn't just leave for a few days, Nate. They cut the line."
The gravity of the note on the table shifted. This wasn't just a retreat; it was a deliberate blackout. They hadn't wanted the debt collectors to find them, and in the process, they had made sure their daughters couldn't find them either. I looked over at Grace and Zoe. Grace wasn't looking at books anymore; she was watching me, her face pale, sensing the shift in the room. She didn't offer excuses or words of comfort. She just looked small.
"They really left us," I murmured, the reality finally sinking in. "With no way to call them."
Nate pulled me into a hard, protective embrace, his chin resting on top of my head. "I'm here," he growled, his voice a low, steady anchor. "Theodore is here. You are not alone in this."
An hour later, Nate and Theodore prepared to leave. The atmosphere had turned somber. Nate lingered at the door, pulling me into one last, deep kiss that tasted of a promise he intended to keep. "Call me for anything," he whispered against my lips. "I mean it, Mila. Anything. And Theodore is only twenty minutes away. If the radiator so much as squeaks, you call us. Promise me."
"I promise," I said, leaning against the doorframe. "Thank you, Nate. For... everything today."
He reached out, his thumb grazing my jawline, a touch so tender it almost broke me. Then, with a final, lingering look at the apartment, he and Theodore headed down the dark stairwell.
I locked the three deadbolts and leaned my head against the wood, listening to their footsteps fade. I felt the exhaustion of the last forty-eight hours finally crashing down. I ushered the girls into bed, tucking them in with the extra blankets, and sat in the dark living room, staring at the muted streetlights outside.
Nearly ninety minutes had passed when a sudden, heavy knocking startled me. I jumped, my hand flying to my chest. Not Henderson again, I prayed.
I looked through the peephole. A delivery man in a heavy thermal jacket was standing there, surrounded by four massive, overflowing crates.
"Delivery for Apartment 3C," he called out, his breath fogging in the hallway.
"I didn't order anything," I said through the door.
"It’s already paid for, ma'am. No signature needed. I’m just supposed to leave it here."
I unbolted the door and stared in shock. It wasn't just a few bags; it was a deluge. There were gallons of milk, fresh fruit, cartons of eggs, high-quality meats, and bags of frozen vegetables. There were boxes of "essential" items—high-end detergents, toiletries, and even a new set of thermal pajamas for the girls.
Tucked into a carton of oranges was a small, plain white envelope. There was no name, no signature, and no Salvatore crest. Inside was a single, typed line:
“Stock the shelves, Mila. This isn't a gift. It’s an investment in the dragon’s flight.”
I looked down the empty hallway, but the delivery man was already gone. I pulled the first crate inside, the weight of it nearly pulling me over. Nate hadn't said a word about the empty fridge. He hadn't wounded my pride with an offer of charity. He had simply made sure that while my parents were silent, we wouldn't be hungry.