CHAPTER 3: THE $250K ULTIMATUM

ISLA'S POV

Eighteen months.

The words hang in the recycled air of the office like a sentence handed down from a judge's bench.

Gabriel opens a leather folder on his desk. He slides a stack of papers across the mahogany surface toward me. The sound is crisp, final—the friction of expensive paper on expensive wood.

"Your father, Patrick Bennett. Small construction company. Five employees. Specialized in residential renovations."

Each word is a scalpel, stripping away the privacy I’ve tried so hard to maintain.

"Six years ago, his business partner Richard Morrison embezzled $180,000 and disappeared. Your father was left holding the loans. The stress caused a fatal heart attack. You were twenty-three."

My throat closes up, tight and hot. I say nothing. I can’t.

"You co-signed three loans trying to save him. Total debt: $250,847.36."

He recites my failures like he’s reading a quarterly report. Clinical. Precise. There is no judgment in his voice, just a recitation of facts, which somehow makes it worse than mockery.

Mockery I could fight. Mockery is emotional. This is just... truth. Cold, hard data.

"You've been making minimum payments of $800 monthly while working two jobs—Aurelio's five nights a week, catering on weekends. Your credit score is 511. You have $14.22 in your checking account. Your mother's medical bills are three months overdue."

My stomach twists. How does he know all this? The $14.22—that’s barely a MetroCard refill and a sandwich. It’s the number I stare at on my banking app at 3 AM.

"At your current income and payment rate, you'll finish paying at age sixty-seven." He pauses, letting the number settle in the room like a stone. "If you live that long. Your mother's MS treatment costs $96,000 annually. Insurance covers $57,000. You're personally liable for the remaining $39,000."

The math is crushing. It’s a physical weight on my chest.

I want to scream that it's not my fault. That I was trying to save my father. That I'm doing everything I can, scraping tips off sticky tables and standing until my feet bleed.

But pride is the only asset I have left that he hasn't itemized.

So I lift my chin and force myself to meet his eyes.

"Is there a point to this humiliation, or are you just enjoying the view from up there?"

His expression doesn't change. But something flickers behind those dark irises.

Respect, maybe? Or just interest in a variable that talks back.

"The point, Isla, is that you're drowning. And I'm offering you a life raft."

"Funny," I say, my voice tight. "From where I'm sitting, you look more like the anchor pulling me under."

He stands. Walks to the window.

The movement feels strategic. Calculated to show me the city he owns and I just survive in.

"I'm in negotiations to acquire Castellano Industries. Italian luxury hotel conglomerate. Family-owned for three generations. The deal is valued at $2 billion."

I don't understand what this global finance lesson has to do with my $14.22 balance.

He turns. The aggressive morning light behind him turns him into a silhouette—powerful, untouchable.

"The Castellanos are traditional. Old world. They believe business partnerships should reflect personal values. Honor. Family. Stability."

"And you're none of those things."

"Correct." No defensiveness. Just acknowledgment. "They've expressed concern about my reputation. The media calls me ruthless. A corporate raider. The man who destroys companies for profit."

"They're not wrong."

"No. But it's bad for this particular deal." He returns to his desk and sits, the leather chair creaking softly. "My board is pressuring me to... soften my image. The Castellanos specifically requested to meet my 'significant other' before finalizing terms."

Oh.

Oh no.

"You don't have one."

"I don't do relationships, Isla. They're inefficient. Messy. Built on emotions that inevitably change."

"So hire an actress," I snap.

"I considered it. But the Castellanos built a hotel empire on reading people. They'd detect a performance in minutes."

He looks at me then. Really looks.

Not like I'm a piece of meat. Not even like I'm a woman. He looks at me like I'm a solution to a complex equation he's been trying to solve for months.

"They need someone real. Someone who doesn't reek of polish and coaching. Someone from outside this world who chose me anyway."

I laugh. It comes out bitter, broken, a sound that scrapes my throat.

"You want me to pretend to be your girlfriend for a business deal."

"Not girlfriend." He opens the leather folder again. "Wife."

The word punches the air from my lungs.

"Eighteen months. Contractual marriage. Public appearances, social functions, convince the world we're in love. In exchange, your debt is cleared in full. You receive a monthly stipend. Your mother gets the medical care she needs."

I stare at him. The room feels too quiet, the air conditioning humming a low, expensive note.

This can't be real.

"You're insane."

"I'm practical." He slides a stapled document toward me. "Read it."

I don't touch it. I don't want to make this real by touching the paper.

"Why me? You could have anyone. Someone from your world. Someone who actually... fits."

"Because everyone in my world wants something from me. Money. Access. Power." His voice drops, losing some of its boardroom polish. "You already hate me. That makes you honest."

I process this. My brain scrambles to find the flaw in his logic.

"If I already hate you, why would anyone believe I married you?"

He pauses.

I've surprised him.

"Because you're a good actress. Friday night proved that."

"I wasn't acting. I was exhausted."

"Exactly. Authentic exhaustion reads as honesty. Authentic anger reads as passion." He leans forward, encroaching on my space. "Most people in my world are so calculated, they've forgotten how to be real. You're real, Isla. Even when you're furious. Especially then."

The compliment feels like a trap. A snare laid in the grass.

"I need time to think."

"You have twenty-four hours."

"That's not—"

"Twenty-four hours. After that, I proceed with legal debt collection."

My hands clench in my lap, nails digging into palms. "You're blackmailing me."

"I'm giving you a choice. A generous one." His voice is clinical again. Cold. "Your current path ends in bankruptcy and your mother losing access to treatment. My offer ends in freedom."

"Freedom? I'd be selling myself—"

"You'd be entering a business arrangement. One that benefits us both."

I stand. The chair scrapes loudly against the marble floor, a jagged sound in the perfect room.

"No."

His eyebrows rise, just a fraction. "No?"

"I won't do it. Find someone else." I grab my purse, the strap worn and fraying. I head for the door.

My hand is on the cold metal handle when he speaks.

"Sit down, Isla."

"I'm leaving—"

"Your mother has an appointment at Mount Sinai tomorrow. 2 PM. Dr. Patricia Walsh. The leading MS specialist in North America."

I freeze.

I turn slowly, the blood draining from my face.

"What did you do?"

"I made a phone call. Dr. Walsh reviewed your mother's case over the weekend. There's an experimental treatment protocol. Early trials show significant improvement in progressive MS cases."

My heart hammers against my ribs. "How much does it cost?"

"$8,000 per session. Twice monthly. So $192,000 annually."

The number is astronomical. It’s more money than I could save in twenty years.

He stands and walks around the desk, moving toward me.

"I've already paid for tomorrow's appointment and the initial evaluation. Regardless of your answer."

Wait. What?

"If you walk out that door, the appointment still happens. Your mother still gets evaluated." He stops in front of me. Too close. I can smell the sandalwood again. "But the treatment itself—the ongoing care that could actually help her—that only happens if you accept my offer."

My vision blurs at the edges. "That's not generosity. That's leverage."

"It's both." His voice is quieter now. Almost gentle, which is terrifying. "I'm giving you a choice, Isla. But I'm making sure you understand what you're choosing between."

He reaches past me and opens the door.

"Twenty-four hours. The appointment is at 2 PM tomorrow. Go. Be with your mother. See what Dr. Walsh says. Then decide."

I should spit in his face.

I should tell him to go to hell and take his money with him.

Instead, I hear my own voice, small and broken: "Why her appointment? Why pay for it if I haven't agreed to anything?"

Something crosses his face. A flicker of something almost human.

"Because watching someone you love suffer while being powerless to help—that's its own kind of death. Your father knew that. You know it now."

He steps back, leaving the door open.

"Choose wisely, Isla. Your mother's life depends on it."