All Chapters of The Debt Collector's Price: Chapter 41 - Chapter 50

ISLA'S POVThe witness stand is cold wood polished to a shine that feels unnatural under my palms.I rest my hands on the rail, feeling the grain dig into my skin, grounding me against the glare of the courtroom lights. There is no jury box—bankruptcy court is a bench trial—but the gallery is full. Press. Creditors. Spectators who treat financial ruin like a spectator sport.I don’t look at Gabriel. I can’t. If I see his face, the fragile resolve I’ve built will shatter.James Whitmore stands. Marcus’s lawyer. He’s wearing a suit that whispers money and a smile that shows too many teeth. He approaches the stand with a slow, deliberate cadence, the kind of walk designed to make a witness’s heart rate spike."Ms. Bennett. Thank you for your testimony." His voice is smooth, pleasant, and entirely dangerous."You're welcome.""Let's talk about your relationship with Gabriel Hunt. Specifically, the nature of your engagement."My stomach tightens. Here we go.He pulls a document from his br

ISLA'S POVWalking back into the courtroom feels like entering an execution chamber where the gallery has already decided on the verdict.The press section is louder now, a hive of whispers and camera shutters clicking like insect wings. They aren't just looking for a scoop anymore; they’re looking for blood. Everyone knows about the "Replacement List."Everyone knows I was Option Four.Gabriel walks beside me. Steady. Professional. The perfect image of a man in control, but the charcoal suit feels less like power and more like armor today. I can't look at him. I can’t see him as a partner right now.Just a buyer who checked the specs on three other models before settling on the clearance item.We slide into the defense table. Roger Chen is already arranging documents, building a fortress out of manila folders. Elena is on her laptop, typing furiously, the clack of keys the only rhythm she has left.I sit. Fold my hands until the knuckles turn white. Stare straight ahead at the wood g

ISLA'S POVThe elevator hummed as it climbed toward the executive floors, the silence of the metal box feeling far too heavy after the cold reality of the gym. When the key card disengaged the lock with a heavy electronic clunk, the suite door swung open to reveal a space that no longer felt like luxury. It had become a bunker.Gabriel and Elena were anchored in the living room, surrounded by open laptops and a sea of documents that looked like fallen leaves scattered across the coffee table. The air was thick with the scent of stress and the dry heat of overheating processors. They both looked up the moment the door closed."Where were you?" Gabriel’s voice was tight, a wire pulled to the absolute breaking point."Gym," the lie about clearing my head sat like lead on my tongue. "Needed some air."Walking past them toward the kitchenette, my hands felt contaminated despite only having touched the treadmill and the door handle. A glass of water served as a necessary prop, giving my fin

ISLA'S POVMidnight hits the city like a physical weight.We’re moving again. Not to another hotel with room service and high-thread-count sheets. Not to the Hamptons estate with its glass walls and ocean views. We are going to a place Gabriel calls "the last resort."An industrial loft in Red Hook, Brooklyn.It’s buried under six layers of corporate shell companies. No doorman. No luxury lobby. Just concrete floors that hold the cold, exposed steel beams, and windows covered with blackout film that makes the inside feel like a submarine. There are offline servers humming in the corner and high-grade encryption protocols already running.It’s the kind of place people go when they’re hiding from governments. Or from Marcus Hale.The space is brutal in its functionality. Four military-style cots. A folding table. Camping chairs. It looks like a bunker disguised as an apartment.Elias sets down our bags. The sound echoes against the cement."Perimeter is secure. No digital footprint. Cas

ISLA'S POVThe Temple of Dendur was more than a room; it was a monument to endurance transplanted into a glass cage. The sandstone glowed under the museum lights, two thousand years of history overlooking Central Park, reflected in the dark, still pool of water. Five hundred of New York’s wealthiest people were waiting for us, a sea of black ties and couture gowns that cost more than my mother’s lifetime of medical care.The sound hit us first—not applause, but the low, insect-hum of whispers. "That's her. Option Four," someone hissed, followed by a murmur about the waitress wearing Victoria’s dress. The words were physical things, little knives slicing through the recycled air as they realized I was wearing a hand-me-down life.Gabriel’s hand was a steady weight on the small of my back, the heat of his palm burning through the midnight blue silk. He guided me forward with a measured, unhurried stride, ignoring the judgment radiating from the crowd. We descended the stairs into the gr