The Debt Collector's Price

ISLA'S POV

The smell hits me before I even push through the kitchen doors—a heavy, humid wall of garlic, searing onions, and the sharp, chemical tang of lemon-scented cleaning fluid that never quite masks the grease. It coats the back of my throat, a taste I can’t scrub off.

Six hours into my shift and the arches of my feet are screaming, a hot, throbbing ache that shoots up my calves with every step.

I balance four plates on my left arm—the heat of the lobster risotto seeping through the ceramic, the seared duck sliding dangerously, two filet mignons heavy as bricks—and navigate the maze of tables at Aurelio's. Friday night. The dining room is a sea of noise and movement, packed with Manhattan's elite celebrating the end of another week they didn't have to struggle through.

My phone buzzes against my hip bone, muffled in my apron pocket. Once. Twice. Third time.

The hospital. Again.

I reach down and silence it without looking, my fingers slick with condensation from a water pitcher. I can't deal with Mom’s overdue medical bills while carrying $340 worth of entrées that cost more than my rent.

Table 12 barely glances up when I slide their food onto the white tablecloth. The husband doesn't acknowledge my existence, his eyes fixed on his wine glass. The wife inspects her filet like I might have poisoned it, her nose wrinkling slightly.

I’m furniture. Breathing, walking, sweating furniture.

My reflection catches in the mirrored wall as I turn back toward the kitchen—the black polyester uniform clinging to my skin, trapping the heat, hair scraped back in a bun so tight it gives me a headache, the faint sheen of kitchen sweat on my forehead despite the dining room’s aggressive air conditioning.

I smell like the kitchen. Like someone else’s labor. The contrast between me and the diners—their silk, their cashmere, their ease—is so sharp it could draw blood.

Paolo, the manager, snaps his fingers from the host stand. The sound is dry and impatient. His face is flushed, eyes wide and almost manic with excitement.

Great. Either I’m in trouble or some VIP needs babysitting.

The energy in the room shifts before I even see him. It’s physical—a sudden drop in volume, a collective intake of breath. Conversations drop to murmurs. Heads turn. A woman at Table 4 straightens in her seat, instinctively smoothing her hair.

He walks in like he owns the air itself.

Tall. Dark-haired. Mid-thirties, maybe. His suit is charcoal, cut so perfectly it looks like it was sewn onto his body—and knowing this crowd, it probably was. Sharp jaw. Darker eyes that scan the room without landing on anything. It’s the kind of handsome that feels aggressive, like a weapon you aren’t allowed to touch.

But it’s not his looks that command the room. It’s the power that radiates from him like heat off asphalt in July.

Chef André actually leaves the kitchen. I’ve worked here two years, through grease fires and health inspections, and I’ve never seen him leave the line during service. He wipes his hands on his apron and greets the man with the kind of deference usually reserved for visiting dignitaries or mob bosses.

Other servers huddle near the bar, whispering behind their trays.

I walk past him to get to the water station, and the air smells different where he stands. Not kitchen grease or recycled ventilation. Something expensive. Sandalwood and cedar, maybe. Clean rain on wool. The crisp, electric scent of ozone before a storm.

The smell of money I’ll never have.

Paolo leads him to Table 7—the prime spot, isolated, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the glittering city grid. Then Paolo turns to me, practically vibrating.

"Table 7. Be perfect. That’s Gabriel Hunt."

The name means nothing to me. Should it?

I grab a pitcher and menus, my hands shaking just slightly from caffeine withdrawal. I approach. He’s on his phone, thumb scrolling, head down. He doesn't look up. Doesn't acknowledge my existence.

I stand there. Wait. The water pitcher heavy in my hand.

Thirty seconds pass. The silence stretches, uncomfortable and deliberate.

Finally, without lifting his eyes: "Water. Wine list. The Barolo 2015."

Not "please." Not "thank you." Just commands delivered to the air, like I’m Alexa.

I bring the wine, cradle the bottle to show him the label—standard protocol for anything over $200. He waves me off with a flick of his wrist, eyes still glued to his screen.

Fine.

I uncork it, pour the taste, and escape to my other tables where at least the rudeness is familiar.

Twenty minutes later, he deigns to taste it. I’m clearing plates from Table 4 when I see his expression shift—displeasure darkening features that were already cold. He signals me over.

"This isn’t the 2015."

My stomach drops. I double-checked the vintage in the cellar. I know I did.

"I’m sorry, sir. Let me verify—"

"I said it’s wrong." His voice isn't loud, but it could freeze water. "The vintage is incorrect. Are you incapable of reading a label?"

Every survival instinct I have screams: apologize, grovel, fix it, keep your job.

But I’m so tired.

Six hours on my feet. Three missed calls from the hospital. I checked my balance before my shift: $14.22 until next Friday. I’m holding this man’s $200 bottle of wine—more than I make in two shifts—in hands that smell like industrial dish soap and onions.

And I know I’m right.

I don’t choose defiance. I just run out of the energy to fake deference.

I pick up the bottle. The glass is cool and heavy. I turn it. Point to the year printed clearly on the label.

"This is the 2015 Barolo you ordered, sir." My voice is steady. Dead steady. The kind of steady that comes when you have nothing left to lose. "Printed right here. Perhaps if you spent less time intimidating your servers and more time reading labels, you’d notice you’re drinking exactly what you asked for. But I suppose when you’re used to everyone agreeing with you, facts become optional."

The words are out before I can stop them. They hang in the air, vibrating.

The entire section goes silent. Clinking forks stop. The background hum vanishes.

His companion—an older man in an equally expensive suit—looks genuinely shocked, his mouth slightly open.

Gabriel Hunt’s eyes snap to mine for the first time. Really see me. Not the uniform. Not the furniture. Me.

Dark. Calculating. Dangerous.

And something else. Something that looks almost like... amusement?

"You’re right," he says softly. Too softly. "My mistake. The 2015 is perfect."

I nod, heart hammering against my ribs so hard I feel sick, and turn away before my shaking hands betray me.

Behind me, I hear his companion murmur: "No one talks to you like that."

Gabriel’s response is quiet. Thoughtful.

"No. They don’t."

End of shift. 11:38 PM.

The kitchen lights are harsh, buzzing overhead. I’m counting my tips on the stainless steel counter—$127 for six hours of labor. Enough for the electric bill, maybe a quarter of the groceries.

Paolo appears. His face has gone pale, sweat beading on his upper lip.

"Mr. Hunt wants to see you before you leave."

The floor drops out from under me. The $127 suddenly feels like severance pay.

I approach Table 7 on legs that feel like water. The dining room is empty now, shadows stretching long across the floor. His companion is gone. Gabriel Hunt sits alone, a glass of amber whiskey catching the low light, watching me approach with those unsettling dark eyes.

"Sit down, Isla."

He knows my name. How does he know my name? I didn't tell him. My nametag is barely legible from that distance.

I sit. The chair feels too expensive for me. My cheap flats—the ones I’ve glued back together twice with superglue that irritates my skin—look pathetic next to his Italian leather shoes. I smell like garlic and desperation.

He smells like sandalwood and power.

He slides a business card across the white tablecloth. It moves with a soft hiss.

GABRIEL HUNT Founder & CEO, Hunt Capital Private Equity | Distressed Asset Acquisition

"Monday. 9 AM. My office." His voice is velvet over steel. "Don't be late."

"I don't understand. Is this about the wine? I was right—"

"This is about your father's debt," he interrupts.

The world tilts. The air leaves my lungs.

"All $250,000 of it. I acquired the portfolio six weeks ago. You came with it."

My vision blurs. The restaurant spins, the lights smearing into streaks.

"I own your debt, Isla Bennett."

He leans back in his chair, backlit by Manhattan's glittering skyline, a dark silhouette against the city that crushed my father.

"Which means I own you."