CHAPTER 7: FORENSIC VALUATION

ISLA'S POV

"Can I trust you, or are you my latest liability?"

The question hangs in the cold, recycled air of the hallway, heavier than the marble floors. Gabriel looms over me, the light from his office cutting a sharp line down his face, casting half of him in shadow. He looks ready to evict me. To sue me. To dismantle me like a failing subsidiary.

My heart hammers against my ribs, a frantic, wet thudding, but the survival instinct that’s kept me alive through unpaid bills and eviction notices kicks in.

"I’m not a liability." My voice comes out steadier than I feel, though my hands are ice cold. "And I’m not a spy. I’m someone who just saved you from overpaying by forty-seven million dollars."

Gabriel’s eyes narrow. He doesn't step back. The air between us feels pressurized. "Explain."

"The Milan portfolio." I gesture toward the laptop screen glowing faintly through the open door. "You’re valuing the Via Monte Napoleone properties based on 2023 projected yields. But the comps below it—the ones for the surrounding retail spaces—are trading at eighteen percent less because of the new zoning restrictions passed last month."

He stares at me. The silence stretches, heavy and dangerous, filled only by the distant hum of the penthouse climate control.

"Zoning restrictions," he repeats, the words flat.

"Yes. The historical preservation ordinance. It caps retail expansion in that district. It means the revenue projections in your spreadsheet are impossible to hit because you can’t expand the square footage." I take a breath, the air tasting of sterile luxury. "Whoever did your due diligence missed the ordinance filing. It was buried in municipal code updates."

Gabriel studies me for a long moment. It’s the same look he gave me when I corrected him about the wine label—calculating, reassessing, stripping away the surface to see the mechanics underneath.

"Show me."

It’s not a request; it’s a command delivered at volume one.

He turns and walks back into the office. I follow him to the desk, the plush carpet swallowing the sound of my footsteps. He sits, tapping a few keys to bring the spreadsheet back into focus, the blue light harsh on his features.

"Where?"

I lean over the desk, hyper-aware of the boundary between us, careful not to touch him. I point to the column in question. "Here. Row 42. The yield assumption is 6.4%. But if you factor in the square footage cap from the ordinance, the max yield is 4.8%. Apply that across the portfolio..."

"And the valuation drops by forty-seven million," he finishes.

He leans back in his leather chair, the material creaking softly. His eyes stay fixed on the screen as he runs a quick calculation of his own, fingers flying over the keyboard with brutal efficiency.

A moment later, he stops. The room is silent except for the faint whir of the laptop fan.

"You’re right."

It’s an admission, not a compliment. He spins the chair slowly to face me.

"You said you studied economics. You didn't mention you specialized in forensic accounting."

"I didn't. I just know how to read the fine print." I cross my arms, a defensive reflex. "When you’re poor, you learn to look for the trap in every contract. The detail that’s going to screw you out of a security deposit or add a f*e you can't pay."

Gabriel looks at me—really looks at me—in a way he hasn't since he bought my debt. He’s not looking at a waitress. He’s not looking at a distressed asset he acquired to fix a public relations problem. He’s looking at a variable he miscalculated.

"My team of analysts—men with MBAs from Wharton and Harvard—missed that."

"Maybe they were too busy looking at the big picture to notice the cracks in the foundation."

He stands, closing the laptop with a snap. The sound echoes like a gunshot in the large, sterile room.

"This changes the negotiation strategy for tomorrow." He walks to the window, looking out at the glittering grid of the city. "If I bring this up, Antonio will think I’m trying to undercut him at the eleventh hour. It could look like bad faith."

"Or," I say, the words slipping out before I can second-guess them, "it could look like you’re protecting the future entity. If you catch it now, you save the merged company money later. Frame it as partnership, not antagonism."

He turns back to me, a flicker of something like amusement lightening the dark weight of his eyes.

"Is that advice, Ms. Bennett?"

"It’s an observation. The Castellanos value family and stability, right? Protecting the family money is about as stable as it gets."

Gabriel walks toward me, his stride eating up the distance until he stops just inside my personal space. The scent of him—sandalwood, expensive scotch, and the crisp smell of a shirt worn for sixteen hours—wraps around me.

"You continue to surprise me, Isla."

"Is that a good thing?"

"In my world, surprises are usually expensive. This one..." His gaze drops to my mouth, lingers for a heartbeat, then snaps back to my eyes. "This one was profitable."

He checks his watch. 11:15 PM.

"Go to sleep. Tomorrow is the engagement party. You have hair, makeup, and media training starting at 8 AM."

"Media training?"

"Vanessa will drill you on the backstory. The Hamptons proposal. The six months of secret dating. You need to be flawless."

"I’m always flawless," I lie, though my hands are trembling slightly at the proximity, the adrenaline crash starting to set in.

"We’ll see." He moves to the door, holding it open for me. "And Isla?"

I pause at the threshold, the cool air of the hallway hitting my face. "Yes?"

"Thank you."

The words are quiet. Rare.

"Don't get used to it," he adds, the mask of the ruthless CEO sliding back into place, sealing the cracks. "You’re still under contract. Now you’re just a slightly more valuable asset."

"Good night, Gabriel."

I walk down the long, cold hallway toward the guest wing. My heart is racing, slamming against my ribs, but for the first time since I signed the paper, it’s not from fear.

I found an error his Harvard MBAs missed. I saved him millions.

I enter my room—the massive, impersonal suite that feels like a high-end hotel where guests are afraid to touch the towels—and close the door. I lean against the wood, letting out a breath I didn't know I was holding.

I’m not just a prop in a dress anymore.

I’m a player in the game.

I look at the closet where the navy silk dress is waiting for tomorrow night. $12,400 of armor hanging in the dark.

Tomorrow, I meet the Castellanos. Tomorrow, I perform for the vultures.

But tonight, I know something Gabriel Hunt doesn't.

He thinks he owns me. He thinks he bought a desperate waitress with a dying mother and a balance sheet of zeroes.

But he just gave a weapon access to his war room.

And I’m starting to learn how to use it.