Chapter 30 NINETEEN-DOLLAR FEAST
POV SYLVIE
The sound of my dorm room door closing wasn't just a click tonight; it was a barricade. Outside, the world was still screaming about the Cavill rebellion. Inside, there was only the hum of my mini-fridge and the smell of Nathaniel’s expensive cologne mixing with the scent of my lavender laundry detergent.
Nathaniel was standing in the middle of my room, and for the first time, he looked truly, hilariously out of place. This was a man who grew up in rooms where the ceilings were high enough to have their own weather systems. My dorm room was approximately the size of a walk-in closet in the Cavill estate.
"So," I said, dropping my backpack on the floor and kicking off my sneakers. "Welcome to the glamorous life of the 4.0 scholarship student. Don't touch the wall near the desk; it leaks when it rains."
Nathaniel turned in a slow circle, his head nearly brushing the low-hanging fluorescent light. "It’s... efficient, Sylvie. Very compact."
"It’s tiny, Nate. You can say it. You’ve had bathrooms larger than this."
"I’ve had bathtubs larger than this," he corrected with a faint, tired smile. He sat on the edge of my twin bed, and the springs let out a groan of protest. He froze. "Is it supposed to do that?"
"It’s a vintage dormitory mattress. It’s supposed to make you feel like you’re sleeping on a pile of angry wire hangers. It builds character."
I sat down next to him, our shoulders brushing. The adrenaline of the courthouse, the cameras, and the confrontation with Elena was fading, leaving behind a hollow, gnawing hunger.
"Okay, former billionaire," I said, pulling out my phone. "We have a problem. I checked my bank account after I sent that money order to my mom. Between my savings and what’s left of my weekly food stipend, I have exactly nineteen dollars and forty-two cents to my name until my next shift at the library."
Nathaniel pulled out his own wallet—a sleek, black alligator-skin thing that probably cost more than my tuition. He opened it and stared at the empty slots where his titanium credit cards used to live. They were all frozen. Arthur had been thorough.
He pulled out two crumpled twenty-dollar bills and a handful of change. "I have forty-three dollars and... a nickel."
"Total budget for the 'New Empire': Sixty-two dollars and forty-seven cents," I calculated, leaning my head on his shoulder. "We are officially the poorest powerful couple in the history of Astoria."
"What can we get for nineteen dollars?" he asked, looking genuinely curious. "Does that cover a steak? Or perhaps a decent bottle of wine?"
I couldn't help it. I burst out laughing. "A steak? Nate, for nineteen dollars, we can get two orders of 'Midnight Mystery' tacos from the truck behind the engineering building and maybe a shared soda if the guy is feeling generous."
"Tacos from a truck," he mused. "Is that safe? Biologically speaking?"
"It’s a risk we have to take for the revolution, Cavill. Put on your hoodie. We’re going on a budget date."
Walking across campus at night felt different now. We weren't the "Strategic Alliance" anymore. We were just two kids in hoodies, keeping our heads down as we trekked toward the smell of grease and grilled onions. The Engineering Truck was a legend at Astoria—mostly because it was the only thing open at 2:00 AM and the prices hadn't changed since 2005.
"Two 'Mystery Special' combos, please," I said to the guy behind the window, sliding my last twenty-dollar bill across the counter.
"You got it, Belrose. Who's the new guy? He looks like he’s never seen a taco before."
"He’s in training," I joked, nudging Nathaniel.
We sat on a cold concrete bench near the fountain, the only two people in the world under the pale yellow glow of a streetlamp. Nathaniel stared at the taco in his hand as if it were an unexploded device.
"You eat it from the side, Nate. Not the top."
He took a bite. His eyes widened. He chewed slowly, a look of profound realization crossing his face. "Sylvie... this is... why didn't Silas ever tell me about this? The flavor profile is... chaotic but effective."
"It’s grease and salt, Nate. It’s the fuel of the working class."
"I think I love it," he whispered, taking another massive bite. "I think I love everything about this. The cold bench, the terrible coffee from earlier, the fact that I don't have to check a schedule to see who I’m supposed to be today."
We sat there in the quiet, sharing a lukewarm soda and a pile of napkins. For a moment, the weight of the lawsuits and the conservatorship felt a million miles away. We were just nineteen and eighteen, having a late-night snack on a Tuesday.
"My grandfather is going to find out we stayed on campus," Nathaniel said, his voice dropping. "He’ll think it’s a provocation. He’ll think we’re rubbing his nose in the fact that he couldn't drive us away."
"Let him think what he wants," I said, leaning my head on his shoulder. "He’s lost the narrative, Nate. The more he fights us, the crazier he looks. We just have to keep being... us."
"And who is 'us' tonight?"
"Tonight? We're just two students with a combined net worth of a medium-sized pizza."
He laughed and pulled me closer, his arm wrapped around my waist. The cold Astoria wind bit at my nose, but I felt warmer than I ever had in the Cavill mansion.
When we got back to the dorm, the reality of "living small" hit again. We had to share a single, narrow twin bed. It was a logistical nightmare involving a lot of tangled limbs and whispered apologies as Nathaniel tried to find a way to fit his six-foot frame onto a mattress designed for a much smaller human.
"Your elbow is in my ribs, Cavill."
"Your hair is in my mouth, Belrose."
"Move to the left."
"There is no left! There is only the wall or the floor!"
Eventually, we found a rhythm—me tucked against his chest, his chin resting on the top of my head. It was cramped, it was uncomfortable, and it was the best sleep I’d had in weeks.
In the middle of the night, I felt him stir. "Sylvie?" he whispered into the darkness.
"Mmhmm?"
"I’m scared," he admitted. The honesty of it pierced through my sleepiness. "I’ve never had to worry about money before. I’ve never had to worry about where I’ll be in a month. What if I’m not good at being 'nothing'? What if I fail you?"
I reached up, finding his hand in the dark and interlacing our fingers. "You aren't 'nothing', Nate. You're the guy who out-argued me in Econ for three years. You're the guy who played the piano like the world was ending. Money was just the background noise. Your brain is the signal."
"And if we lose the scholarship? If the DA doesn't take the case?"
"Then we work," I said, my voice firm. "We work, we study, and we fight. I’ve been doing it my whole life, Nate. I’ll teach you. It’s a different kind of empire, but it’s ours. And Arthur can’t touch it."
He squeezed my hand, a silent thank you. "I love you, Academic Weapon."
"I love you too, Prince of the Taco Truck."
As I drifted back to sleep, I realized that the "unwritten rules" had been replaced by something much simpler. There was no contract, no brand, and no legacy to protect. There was just a nineteen-dollar feast, a lumpy mattress, and the terrifying, beautiful freedom of having everything to lose and choosing to keep each other anyway.
The sun would rise in a few hours, and with it, the lawyers, the news vans, and the fury of Arthur Cavill. But for tonight, the blue house was a memory, the loft was a dream, and this tiny dorm room was the only castle we needed.