Chapter 84 Charity of Vipers
The morning after Nate’s confession felt like walking through a dream. Even as I scrubbed the burnt oatmeal off the pot and packed the girls' lunches, I could still feel the warmth of his hands and the reverent way he had looked at me. For the first time, the drafty walls of the apartment didn't feel like a prison; they felt like a sanctuary.
That feeling lasted until exactly 10:15 AM.
A sharp, authoritative knock echoed through the door—not the heavy thud of a debt collector or the rhythmic pulse of Nate’s greeting. This was delicate, yet demanding. I wiped my hands on my jeans and checked the peephole, expecting a neighbor or perhaps a delivery.
My heart did a slow, sickening roll. Standing in the dingy hallway, looking like a misplaced orchid in a junkyard, was Scarlett. She was draped in a cream-colored wool cape that probably cost more than my father’s annual salary, her blonde hair perfectly coiffed despite the Brooklyn wind. Beside her sat two large, designer shopping bags.
I unbolted the door, my breath hitching in my throat. "Scarlett? What are you doing here?"
"Mila! Oh, thank goodness you're home," she chirped, her voice a polished chime. Before I could invite her in, she stepped past me with a flutter of expensive perfume, her expression one of deep, shimmering concern. "I’ve been so worried since the pool party. And then I heard whispers about... well, about your parents being away. I couldn't just sit in the Heights and do nothing."
I stiffened. "How did you hear about that?"
"Darling, in our circle, silence is the loudest thing there is," she said, setting the bags down on my cramped kitchen table. She began pulling out items: cashmere sweaters for the girls, artisanal chocolates, and a bottle of wine that looked like a museum piece sitting next to our cracked sugar bowl.
"I told the girls at the Foundation that we simply had to do something," she said, her eyes wide and seemingly soft. "We can't have one of our own struggling alone. I know it’s... modest here, but I wanted to bring a little bit of comfort."
I felt a flush of heat crawl up my neck. Part of me wanted to be insulted. Her hands were folded over her heart, and she looked around the room with a pity that I mistook for genuine empathy.
"I'm not a charity project, Scarlett," I said, my voice tight.
"Of course not! You're a friend," she said, though her eyes were busy. They weren't looking at me; they were scanning the room. She lingered on the peeling wallpaper near the ceiling, the dented iron skillet on the stove, and the lumpy pull-out sofa where I’d slept. "It’s so... authentic. Industrial-chic, right?"
She pulled out her phone, her fingers flying across the screen. "Do you mind if I take a quick photo of the 'care package' on the table? The Foundation board loves to see where their outreach goes. It helps secure the next round of funding."
"I'd rather you didn't," I said, stepping toward her.
"Just one! For the records," she insisted, snapping a photo before I could stop her. She tilted the camera slightly, and I realized too late that she wasn't just catching the bags; she was catching the background—the mismatched chairs, the generic cereal, and the sheer, desperate crampedness of the kitchen.
Grace walked into the kitchen then, stopping short when she saw Scarlett. She didn't look impressed by the cream cape or the bags. She looked at Scarlett with that unsettling, nine-going-on-forty stare that always made me nervous.
"Oh, hello! You must be Grace," Scarlett said, her voice dropping into a sweet, cooing tone. She reached out to pat Grace’s shoulder. "I brought some lovely things for you. I want you to feel special, even if things are... difficult right now."
Grace stepped back, out of reach. She tilted her head, her dark eyes narrowing as she studied the beautiful woman in our kitchen.
"Grace, say thank you," I prompted gently.
Grace didn't say thank you. She looked Scarlett right in the eye and said, "You smell like expensive lies."
The silence that followed was deafening. Scarlett’s smile didn't just slip; it froze into a hard, bloodless mask. For a split second, the sweetness vanished from her eyes, replaced by a cold, jagged flash of hatred that made my blood run cold. She looked at my nine-year-old sister like she was something she wanted to crush under the heel of her designer boot.
"Grace! Room. Now," I barked, horrified.
Once Grace scurried away, Scarlett took a deep breath, her composure returning with terrifying speed. She laughed, though it sounded like breaking glass. "Children. They have such... vivid imaginations, don't they?"
"I am so sorry, Scarlett. She’s just stressed with everything going on."
"Don't worry about it, Mila," Scarlett said, tucking her phone into her clutch. She reached out and squeezed my arm. She turned to me, her expression a mask of perfect, sugary sympathy. "Nate has been spending so much time here lately. We were all so confused. But seeing it now... I get it. He always did have a soft spot for the underdog, Mila. It’s part of his charm, isn't it? That knight-in-shining-armor complex."
The words felt like a slap. She was telling me, in the most polite way possible, that Nate was here out of pity—that I was just another dragon for him to slay before he went home to his castle.
"He’s not here for a complex, Scarlett. He’s here because he wants to be."
"Of course he is," she smiled, tucking her phone into her Dior clutch. The smile didn't reach her eyes; they remained cold, calculating the distance between my world and hers. "I should go. I have a brunch at the club. But please, keep the sweaters. The girls deserve a little luxury, don't they?"
She swept out as quickly as she had arrived, leaving the scent of expensive perfume to linger in the stagnant air. I stood in the middle of the kitchen, looking at the cashmere and the wine, feeling a deep, unsettling sense of dread. Scarlett hadn't come here to help. She had come to see if the rumors were true—to see exactly how low Nate Salvatore had traveled.