CHAPTER 4: THE RETAIL EXTRACTION

ISLA'S POV

I'm not signing a contract.

I'm signing a ransom note for my mother's life.

The thought loops through my head, a rhythmic, sickening thrum as I stand in Mount Sinai's executive medical suite. I’m watching through the observation glass. Inside, Dr. Patricia Walsh—silver hair, designer glasses, the kind of calm competence that costs $800 an hour—is examining Mom.

Actually examining her. Sitting on the edge of the bed. Listening.

Mom throws her head back, laughing at something the doctor said.

When is the last time I saw her laugh? Not the polite, strained sound she makes when I bring groceries I can’t afford, but real laughter that shakes her shoulders.

The exam takes forty-five minutes. Thorough. Comprehensive. The kind of care I couldn't buy her if I worked three lifetimes of double shifts.

Dr. Walsh emerges, chart in hand, her expression cautiously optimistic.

"Your mother is an excellent candidate for the treatment protocol. The earlier we start, the better the outcomes."

"How soon... how soon can we begin?"

"Within two weeks," she says, clicking her pen. "Mr. Hunt has already made all the arrangements."

Of course he has.

I find a quiet corner near the elevator bank, away from the nurses' station. I pull out my phone. Stare at the business card that's been burning a hole in my pocket since Monday. The cardstock feels heavy, the edges sharp against my thumb.

My hands shake as I dial.

He answers on the first ring. Like he's been watching a timer.

"Isla."

Just my name. Nothing else. No greeting, no question.

"I'll do it." The words scrape my throat raw, like swallowing gravel. "But don't think for a second you own anything but my time."

A pause. The line is dead silent, not even static.

Then: "My driver will collect you in twenty minutes. We're going shopping."

"I don't need—"

"Yes, you do. He'll be in a black Mercedes. Don't keep him waiting."

He hangs up.

I lean against the cool plaster wall, my legs suddenly feeling like water, and try to remember how to breathe.

The Mercedes pulls up exactly twenty minutes later.

Black. Gleaming. The kind of car that costs more than most people make in five years, idling at the curb like a dark beast.

The driver gets out and opens the door without a word. Doesn't introduce himself. Doesn't make small talk about the weather.

He just waits for me to slide onto leather seats so soft they feel obscene.

We pull into traffic. The city transforms through the tinted windows, the grime and noise filtered into a silent movie. We leave the hospital district—street vendors selling stale pretzels, pedestrians jaywalking, the honest grime of people surviving. We enter Midtown's steel and glass canyons.

Then the Upper East Side.

The buildings get taller. Cleaner. Whiter. The sidewalks are swept.

Fifth Avenue.

We stop in front of a boutique with no sign. Just a brass number on a black lacquered door.

The driver opens my door. "Mr. Hunt is inside."

I step onto the sidewalk. Even the air here is different. Cleaner. Like the pollution knows it doesn't belong in this tax bracket.

The boutique is all polished wood, soft lighting that erases shadows, and the kind of heavy silence that costs money.

Gabriel stands near the back, phone pressed to his ear. He's in charcoal gray today—a suit so perfect it looks illegal, cut to emphasize the width of his shoulders.

He ends the call the second he sees me. No smile. No warmth.

"Isla. You're late."

"I was two minutes—"

"Claudette is waiting."

A woman materializes from behind a silk curtain. Mid-fifties, severe bob, a French accent I can already hear in the rigid way she holds her spine.

"Monsieur Hunt." She air-kisses near his cheek without actually touching him, preserving the distance. Then she turns to assess me.

Her eyes rake over my H&M blouse and scuffed flats. Her expression says I'm a project. A problem to be solved with fabric and structural engineering.

"This is Claudette," Gabriel says. "She'll outfit you completely. Day wear, evening wear, formal, casual. Everything."

"I don't need—"

"Yes, Isla, you do." His tone is flat, sharp enough to cut glass. "You're about to become my fiancée. You'll dress accordingly."

Claudette circles me like a scientist studying a specimen in a jar.

"Hmmm. Size two, yes? Good bone structure. But so much work. The hair. The posture. The skin." She tsks, a sharp sound of disapproval. "We have three hours. It will have to be enough."

Heat floods my face, prickling my neck.

Gabriel watches, his expression unreadable. "Price is irrelevant. Quality is mandatory."

"Naturellement." Claudette snaps her fingers. An assistant appears instantly with champagne in crystal flutes.

I don't take one. Won't accept anything else from him today. Not even bubbles.

Gabriel does. He takes a sip, studying me over the rim like I'm a quarterly report he needs to edit.

"Shall we begin?" Claudette doesn't wait for an answer. "Come, chérie."

The fitting room is bigger than my entire apartment.

Floor-to-ceiling mirrors reflect me from every angle, multiplying my discomfort. There’s a velvet bench, and lighting so flattering it feels like a lie.

They bring clothes in waves.

Dresses in silk and cashmere and fabrics I don't have names for. Shoes with the red soles I recognize from magazine ads I used to flip past. Bags that could pay my rent for a year.

I try on a navy cocktail dress. Simple. Elegant. The fabric feels like water against my skin—cool, fluid, nothing like the scratchy polyester of my Target work clothes or the stiff uniform at Aurelio's.

Claudette adjusts the hem. Pins something at my waist. "Parfait. This one, we take in six colors."

Six?

I glance at the tag discreetly while she's distracted with a pin.

$12,400.

My vision blurs. The numbers swim.

Twelve thousand, four hundred dollars. For one dress.

My brain does the math automatically. Compulsively. It’s a survival reflex.

This dress is my rent for eight months.

It is eight hundred and twenty-six hours of standing on my feet at the restaurant.

It is Mom's medication for three months.

It's everything.

The room tilts.

My throat closes up. I can't get air. I can't breathe. Can't—

I'm wearing someone's survival. I am wearing someone's medical bills, someone's entire life on my body, and Gabriel wants SIX of them like it means nothing. Like it’s just paper.

My knees give out. I grab for the wall, but the silk is slippery, and the wall is too far away.

"Mademoiselle?" Claudette's voice sounds underwater, distorted. "Are you—"

"Out. Now." Gabriel's voice. Sharp. Commanding.

Footsteps. The click of the door closing.

Then silence, except for the sound of my own frantic, ragged breathing echoing off the mirrors.

"Isla." His voice cuts through the panic, low and grounded. "Look at me."

I can't. Can't breathe. Can't—

"Eyes up. Now."

I force my head up. He's standing in the doorway. Not approaching. Respecting the distance, or maybe just wary of the blast radius.

"Breathe with me. In through your nose. Four counts. One. Two. Three. Four."

I try. Fail. My chest is a tight knot that won't expand.

"Again. Follow my voice. In—two—three—four. Hold—two—three—four. Out—two—three—four."

I lock onto his voice. It’s steady. Clinical.

I follow his rhythm. His control.

Slowly, the room stops spinning. Air reaches the bottom of my lungs.

I sink onto the velvet bench, burying my head in my hands.

"I can't do this."

"Yes, you can."

"That dress costs more than—"

"It's not your money, Isla. It's mine."

"I know." My voice cracks, small and broken. "That's what makes it unbearable."

He's quiet for a long moment. Then he moves—not closer, but to lean against the opposite wall, crossing his arms. Giving me space.

"Why?" I force the words out, looking up at him. "Why are you being patient with this? You could just tell me to suck it up and deal."

He studies me. Those dark eyes are unreadable, assessing the asset he just acquired.

Then, quietly: "Because twenty-four hours ago, you had a life. Now I'm demanding you become someone else entirely. That deserves an adjustment period."