Chapter 178: Seventy-four Dollars in Cash

NORA’S POV

Inside Rusty’s Diner, the air smelled rich and warm with sizzling bacon grease, fresh coffee, and sweet browned butter.

Outside, a gray morning sky spit tiny flakes of wet snow against the plate-glass windows.

Inside, the diner hummed with a steady morning rhythm. Porcelain mugs clattered against saucers, metal spatulas scraped across the hot flat-top grill, and the bell above the order carousel chimed relentlessly.

I tied the cotton ties of my green apron around my waist, tucking my order pad into the front pocket.

"Look who decided to grace us with her presence," Denise called from behind the register, her bleached blonde curls pinned up in a messy clip. A brown cigarette burned in the ashtray near the back door. "The championship baker of New England!"

"Good morning to you too, Denise," I smiled, grabbing a glass pot of decaf and a pot of regular.

"Saw your picture in the morning paper, kid," Denise said, sliding a stack of clean laminated menus onto the counter. "Front page of the lifestyle section. Holding that crystal trophy with that giant hockey captain practically glued to your hip. Half the fraternity boys on campus have been in here since six asking if you were actually working today."

"I told you I’d make up the shifts," I said, dodging behind the counter to refill two coffee cups for the elderly couple in Booth 2. "I’m not quitting."

"Never said you were," Denise chuckled, tossing a grease pencil behind her ear. "Just glad to see that fancy boy hasn’t ruined your work ethic. Table Four needs their checks, and Booth Eight wants extra syrup."

"On it."

For the next four hours, I lost myself in the comforting, mechanical grind of diner life.

I wiped down laminate tables, poured endless cups of black coffee, carried plates loaded with blueberry pancakes and crispy hashbrowns, and balanced three orders of steak-and-eggs on my arm at once. It was noisy, exhausting, and real.

It grounded me.

Yet every time I walked past the register, my gaze darted to the analog clock mounted between the pie carousel and the kitchen pass-through.

The black hands crept forward with agonizing precision.

Ten-thirty.

Eleven-fifteen.

Eleven-forty-five.

Across campus at Briar Ice Arena, Knox would be wrapping up team film review with Coach Brennan. The ice drills were finished. The locker rooms were emptying.

And somewhere in a high-rise office in Boston, Garrison Sheridan was looking at his luxury gold watch.

Twelve o’clock.

Noon.

That was the deadline Garrison had given Knox. Show up in Greenwich, put on a tuxedo for the corporate engagement gala, and bend the knee, or lose the trust fund, the credit lines, the family name, and the Sheridan backing.

A cold sweat broke out along my hairline.

I wiped down the counter near the pie case, my hands shaking so hard the damp rag nearly slipped from my fingers.

The minute hand on the wall clock ticked.

One minute past twelve.

Two minutes past twelve.

The deadline had passed.

The brass bell above the diner’s front door gave a familiar chime.

A rush of cold winter air swept into the warm entryway.

I looked up to see Knox standing in the doorway. He wore his dark winter jacket over a charcoal Briar Hockey fleece, his black knit beanie pulled low over his forehead.

A few stray flakes of melting snow sparkled in his dark curls. His broad shoulders filled the doorframe, tall and commanding, drawing the immediate stares of three freshmen sitting at the counter.

Knox didn’t look at anyone else.

His gray eyes locked onto mine the second he stepped inside.

He didn’t look broken. He didn’t look like a boy who had just lost an empire worth hundreds of millions of dollars.

His jaw was set, his expression calm, unreadable, and completely steady.

He walked past the counter, his boots squeaking softly against the wet tile, and slid into his usual spot at Booth 6 by the frosted side window.

"Go on," Denise muttered, nudging my shoulder with her elbow as she stacked clean glasses. "Take his order before the girls over in Booth One pass out."

I swallowed the lump in my throat, grabbed a clean white mug, and walked over to the booth.

"Hey," I said softly, standing at the edge of the table.

"Hey, Bennett," Knox murmured, looking up at me.

I poured hot black coffee into the mug, my hands trembling as the dark liquid filled the ceramic. I set the pot on the table, pulled my apron off over my head, and slid into the vinyl booth opposite him.

"How was practice?" I asked, searching his face.

"Fast," Knox replied quietly. "Brennan had us running neutral zone traps for an hour. Film went long."

"Knox..." I prompted, my throat tight with sudden emotion. "What time is it?"

Knox held my gaze.

Without a word, he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his phone.

He didn’t unlock it. He simply set it down flat on the Formica tabletop between us, nudging it toward my fingers.

Two automated push notifications glowed against the dark lock screen:

First National Trust: Account access suspended per guarantor instruction.

Sheridan Global Card Services: Line of credit terminated.

The breath trapped in my chest.

It was real.

Garrison hadn’t bluffed. The accounts were frozen. The cards were dead. The gilded cage that had dictated every second of Knox’s life since childhood was permanently slammed shut behind him.

I reached across the table, covering his large, calloused hand with both of mine. His skin was warm, his pulse steady beneath my fingertips.

"Knox..." I whispered, tears stinging the backs of my eyes. "I’m so sorry."

Knox turned his hand over, tangling his long fingers through mine and giving my palm a firm, grounding squeeze.

A quiet, crooked smile touched the corner of his lips.

For the first time since I’d met him in that crowded lecture corridor months ago, the shadow in his eyes was gone. The rigid tension in his shoulders had completely evaporated.

He didn’t look defeated; he looked free.

Knox leaned back against the red vinyl seat, his gray eyes holding mine with an intensity that took my breath away.

"Don’t be sorry, Bennett. The deed is done," Knox said in a low voice. "And here I am with seventy-four dollars in cash in my wallet, a quarter tank of gas, and zero Sheridan money. You sure you still want me in Oakhaven tomorrow?"