CHAPTER 6: THE MUSEUM OF EXCESS

ISLA'S POV

Everything I own fits in three suitcases.

That’s the volumetric measure of twenty-six years. I stand in the center of the studio apartment one last time, the air already smelling stale and unlived-in. The packed bags sit on the futon, looking like they don't belong to me anymore.

The landlord was thrilled when I called to break the lease. One less struggling tenant to chase for rent. One more opportunity to jack up the price in a market this desperate.

I donated most of the furniture to Goodwill. The lumpy futon, the particle-board bookshelves that wobbled if you looked at them wrong, the mismatched kitchen supplies I’ll never need again.

None of it was worth the haulage f*e.

But the books stayed. I kept every single paperback, their spines cracked and pages yellowed, guarding them like gold bars. My literature degree might be unfinished, but these are mine. My laptop. The clothes I haven’t surrendered to Claudette yet. Photos of Dad. Mom's old watch ticking against my wrist.

That's it. That's everything that matters.

Gabriel's driver arrives at exactly 3 PM. He loads my pathetic luggage into a trunk designed for Louis Vuitton sets without a word. I climb into the back seat, the door thudding shut with a heavy, expensive silence, and I don't look back when we pull away.

The penthouse elevator opens directly into his home.

No hallway. No door. No buffer between the outside world and this.

I step out and the space swallows me whole.

Floor-to-ceiling windows wrap around three sides, turning Manhattan into a silent, glittering circuit board below. Central Park cuts a dark green rectangle into the north, vast and distant.

The apartment is enormous. Maybe 10,000 square feet? My brain can't scale it. I’ve never been good at estimating space I can’t afford.

Everything is monochrome. Black leather that looks cold to the touch. White marble that reflects the recessed lighting. Chrome fixtures. Glass tables that look like they'd shatter if you breathed on them wrong.

No color. No warmth. No photographs or art or anything that suggests a human being lives here.

It's a museum. A showroom.

Not a home.

My footsteps slap against the marble, a hollow, wrong sound that echoes too long.

"Your room is this way."

Gabriel materializes from somewhere. He’s wearing black pants and a white shirt, top button undone, no tie. I’ve never seen him without the armor of a full suit.

He's just as devastating.

I follow him down a hallway that could fit my entire apartment. He pushes a door open.

The bedroom is an aircraft hangar. King bed crisp with white linens. Modern furniture that belongs in a design catalogue. Floor-to-ceiling windows with views that probably cost extra even at this altitude.

My three suitcases sit on the bed, looking like dirty snow on a pristine drift.

"The closet." He gestures. "Already stocked with yesterday's purchases. More arriving tomorrow."

"Thank you." The words feel thin.

Awkward silence stretches, pressurized by the room's perfection.

"My room is at the opposite end of the hall. You have complete privacy." He pauses at the door. "Dinner is at seven. My chef prepared something."

"You have a chef?"

"Marco comes three times a week. He's excellent."

Of course he has a personal chef. He doesn't cook. He acquires food.

The door closes. I'm alone in a bedroom bigger than any apartment I've ever lived in.

Gabriel disappears into his office for a call, his voice a low rumble through the walls.

I explore, mostly to verify the absurdity of the contract.

Six bedrooms, just like Elena said. Each one could house a family. Three bathrooms with marble and rainfall showers and floors that radiate heat against my soles.

A kitchen with stainless steel appliances I wouldn't know how to use. Professional grade everything.

Then I find it.

The library.

Wall-to-wall shelves. A rolling ladder. Two leather chairs worn soft and pale at the armrests. The smell hits me instantly—old paper, binding glue, leather. It’s the first real smell in the entire place.

And books. Hundreds of them.

Not decorator books arranged by color. Real books. Worn spines. Dog-eared pages.

I run my fingers along the shelves. Financial theory. Biographies of Carnegie and Rockefeller. Philosophy. History.

And fiction.

I pull out a copy of The Count of Monte Cristo. The spine creaks. Pages are yellowed, soft as cloth. I flip through and stop at the margin notes inked in neat, sharp handwriting.

"Revenge consumes the avenger," written next to a passage about Edmond Dantès.

"Is justice the same as vengeance?" scribbled further down.

Gabriel reads. He thinks. He questions.

I sink into one of the leather chairs. It hugs my body, worn in specific places—his favorite spot.

For a moment, I can picture him here after a brutal twelve-hour day of acquiring debt. Reading about a man who built an empire on retribution and wondering if the cost was worth it.

He's not just a ruthless debt collector.

He's human. Complicated. Damaged in ways I don't understand yet.

The thought should comfort me.

Instead, it terrifies me.

Dinner is absurd.

Three courses. Marco prepared duck confit that falls off the bone, risotto heavy with the scent of truffle oil, and some kind of chocolate dessert with a name I can't pronounce.

For two people.

We sit at opposite ends of a table that seats twelve. The distance between us feels intentional. Symbolic.

"Friday," Gabriel says, slicing his duck with surgical precision. "The announcement party. Fifty guests. Business associates, key investors, select media."

"Sounds intimate."

"It's strategic. Vanessa will brief you tomorrow on acceptable talking points."

"Vanessa?"

"My publicist. She'll be managing all media interactions related to our engagement."

Right. Because even our fake intimacy requires professional management.

"What do I need to do?"

"Stand beside me. Smile. Act like you chose this." He takes a sip of wine, his eyes tracking me over the rim. "The story is we've been dating privately for six months. Kept it quiet to avoid media scrutiny. I proposed last weekend."

"Where?"

"My house in the Hamptons."

"I've never been to the Hamptons."

"You have now. Memorize the details. Vanessa will provide photos."

The clinical efficiency of it makes my skin crawl. It’s not a relationship; it’s a script.

"And after Friday?"

"We play the part. Public appearances. Social functions. Convince the Castellanos—and everyone else—that we're genuinely in love."

"Easy," I say flatly. "Nothing says romance like a contractual obligation."

His lips quirk. Almost a smile. "Your cynicism is refreshing."

We eat in silence. The food is incredible, rich and savory, but I barely taste it.

After dinner, Gabriel retreats to his office.

I wander. Restless. My body is exhausted but my brain is wired, buzzing with caffeine withdrawal and adrenaline. It’s past ten, but I can’t sleep.

I pass his office. The door is cracked open, a slice of light spilling onto the hallway floor.

I should keep walking.

I don't.

Through the gap, I see his desk. A laptop sits open on a side table, the screen glowing against the dark glass of the window. Gabriel is pacing near the view, phone pressed to his ear, his back to the door.

The laptop screen is visible. A spreadsheet. Dense columns of numbers.

CASTELLANO INDUSTRIES—DUE DILIGENCE SUMMARY

My eyes scan automatically. I've always been good with numbers; when you live on the edge of zero, you learn to spot discrepancies instantly. Financial reports are just puzzles with higher stakes.

And this puzzle has a glaring error.

Milan Property Portfolio: Valued at $247M.

But the comparable market analysis listed right below it shows similar properties trading at $200M.

A $47 million discrepancy.

Either the Castellano properties are wildly overvalued, or someone made a massive mistake in the assessment.

My breath catches in my throat.

This is the deal. The $2 billion merger. The whole reason I'm here wearing silk instead of polyester.

And there's a $47 million error in the foundation.

"Isla."

I jump, spinning around.

Gabriel stands in the hallway behind me. I didn't hear him move. His expression is dark. Dangerous.

"I was just—"

"Looking at confidential documents?" His voice is quiet. Lethal.

"The door was open. I didn't mean—"

"You saw it." Not a question. An indictment.

I swallow hard, my throat dry. "The valuation discrepancy."

He steps into my personal space. "The Castellano deal is the only thing keeping my board from staging a coup. They think I'm too aggressive. Too reckless. This merger was supposed to prove I can handle legacy acquisitions."

Another step. He towers over me, radiating heat and anger.

"You just saw a $47 million error that could tank the entire deal if it leaks. If Marcus Hale finds out. If the Castellanos think I tried to hide it."

He's inches away now. Those dark eyes bore into mine, stripping away the "fiancée" title and leaving only the risk assessment.

"So I need to know right now, Isla. Can I trust you, or are you my latest liability?"