All Chapters of The Debt Collector's Price: Chapter 21 - Chapter 30

ISLA'S POVThe green room door seals us in with a heavy, expensive click.Silence hits like a change in cabin pressure. The air conditioning hums, aggressive and cold, scrubbing the studio heat from my skin, but it doesn't stop the shaking.My hands are vibrating. Not a subtle tremble, but full-body tremors that rattle my bones. It’s the adrenaline crash, violent and sudden, now that the red light is off.I sink into the leather sofa. It’s cream-colored, soft as butter, and I catch myself thinking that this piece of furniture probably costs more than my old apartment’s annual rent. I’m afraid I’ll sweat through the silk of my dress and ruin that, too. Everything I touch costs more than my life is worth.Gabriel stands by the door, watching me unravel."Breathe, Isla.""I can't." My voice sounds thin, distant, like it’s coming from someone else. "I just lied. On national television. To forty million people.""You saved us.""I lied." The word tears out of me, louder than I intended, sh

ISLA'S POVThe elevator vibrates beneath my feet, a low hum that travels up through my soles and settles in my teeth. It’s a forty-seven-second ride to the fourth floor, but in the silence, it feels like hours.Gabriel stands rigid beside me. He has a phone pressed hard against his ear, his knuckles white as he grips the device. He’s coordinating security protocols with Elias like he’s planning a military invasion, not a hospital visit."—triple the guards. I want four in her room, not two. And I want facial recognition at every entrance upgraded to military grade..."The elevator chimes, a cheerful, artificial sound that clashes with the dread pooling in my stomach. The doors slide open.The fourth floor has been transformed.It doesn’t look like a luxury care wing anymore; it looks like a DMZ. Six security personnel in full tactical gear line the hallway, their presence jarring against the cream-colored walls and soft lighting.Sarah, the nurse, stands behind the high counter of the

ISLA'S POVThe Atlantic sounds like fury.We arrive at the Hamptons fortress just as the nor'easter hits—rain lashing the glass walls so hard I'm sure they'll shatter. The helicopter pilot barely got us down, fighting wind shear that made the landing feel less like an arrival and more like a controlled crash.Inside, the house vibrates with each gust. Thunder rolls across the ocean like artillery fire, a deep, resonant boom that rattles the floorboards beneath my feet.Gabriel moves through the space checking windows, testing locks, his body language screaming tension. He’s not checking for leaks; he’s checking for breaches."It's just a storm," I say, wrapping my arms around myself against the sudden chill."Storms cause power outages. Power outages mean security systems go offline. Offline means vulnerable."He's spiraling.I've never seen him like this. The control—that terrifying, absolute stillness he wears like a suit—is fracturing."Gabriel, we have backup generators—"The ligh

ISLA'S POVThe penthouse feels less like a home and more like a crime scene.Security personnel in tactical gear stand at every entrance, their presence jarring against the minimalist luxury. Evidence bags sit on the dining table where we used to eat breakfast. The living room—the space where we sat across from each other, unaware that cameras were blinking in the dark—now feels violated.It isn’t a fortress anymore. It’s a compromised box of glass and steel.Marco sits in one of the cream leather chairs. His hands are zip-tied behind his back. Two guards flank him, their posture rigid.He isn't defiant. He isn't angry.He just looks broken.Mid-fifties. Graying hair. The kind, efficient face I remember serving us meals for weeks. The man who asked how I liked my eggs.The man who betrayed us for two hundred thousand dollars.Gabriel stands in the doorway. He doesn’t enter. He just stares, his stillness more terrifying than any shout.Elias stands beside him, tapping a tablet. "We hav

ISLA'S POVThe phone screen glows in the pitch-black bedroom, a square of artificial light that makes Gabriel’s nakedness look stark and vulnerable.He stands frozen, the device held out like a grenade with the pin pulled. I pull the sheet up around my chest, shivering against a sudden, violent drop in temperature that has nothing to do with the air conditioning."Don't watch it," he says, his voice quiet, stripped of the gravelly confidence from ten minutes ago. "Whatever this is—Marcus is playing mind games. We don't have to—""Play it.""Isla—""Play. It."He hesitates, his thumb hovering over the glass. Then he taps the screen.The video loads. The blue-white glow illuminates both our faces, casting shadows into the hollows of his eyes.Grainy security footage. Black and white, high contrast, the kind that turns people into ghosts before they’re even dead. The date stamp in the corner reads: June 28, 2019. 6:47 PM.Morrison Construction Site. I recognize the chain-link fence, the