All Chapters of The Debt Collector's Price: Chapter 61 - Chapter 70

ISLA'S POVThe taxi pulls up to the curb outside Hunt Capital.Fifth Avenue is a canyon of gray steel, but the building looms like a monolith of glass. Forty-two floors of power that I technically control, even if I feel like an imposter in the backseat.I hand the driver a twenty-dollar bill. It’s the last piece of paper currency in my wallet."Keep the change," I say, though I shouldn't.I step onto the sidewalk. The morning air is exhaust and expensive coffee. Businesspeople stream through the revolving doors, a river of wool coats and ambition.I smooth the front of my suit. It’s the one I bought two years ago for a hostess interview—polyester blend, off-the-rack, the seams pulling tight across my shoulders.It feels flimsy compared to the custom silk Gabriel draped me in for weeks.But inside my bag, the Power of Attorney document feels heavy, like a loaded gun.The lobby is a high-definition nightmare.Every ticker screen above the reception desk is flashing the same red banner:

ISLA'S POVThe penthouse is still cold, but the silence has changed texture. It’s no longer the quiet of abandonment; it’s the quiet of repair.Bypassing the Sterling and Hunt maintenance crews, I called a team of my own. They arrived at 7 AM, a group of strangers paid from the operational account I now control to flash firmware and override the digital locks Sterling installed to freeze us out.By 8 AM, a low hum vibrates through the floorboards. Warm air begins to push through the vents, chasing the chill out of the marble, though the atmosphere still feels thin.Standing in the center of Gabriel’s walk-in closet, I am surrounded by two hundred thousand dollars’ worth of tailored suits I will never wear. The wool and silk hang silent and heavy, like dry-cleaned ghosts smelling of sandalwood, cedar, and ozone.I’ve inherited his space, his assets, and his enemies. Now, standing in the growing warmth, I have to decide what to do with all of it.The phone rings—an unknown number buzzin

ISLA'S POVMidnight.The SUV tears through the empty veins of Manhattan, tires humming a frantic rhythm against the asphalt. Maria Santos drives with both hands white-knuckled on the wheel. I’m in the back, my phone pressed so hard against my ear the plastic is warm."Ms. Bennett—""I need you at Hunt Capital," I cut in, my voice tight. "Now. Someone is hacking the Oblivion server. Four hours before fabricated documents destroy my father's reputation.""If Sterling's team is inside, they aren't just releasing files," Shaw says, the wind of his own movement audible in the background. "They're altering evidence.""I know. That's why I need you."Hunt Capital. 42nd floor. 12:47 AM.The office is usually a tomb of expensive silence at this hour, but tonight it hums with the aggressive whine of cooling fans running at max capacity. The wall monitors are active, casting a sick green glow over the leather furniture. Code scrolls down the screens, faster than I can read.The Oblivion server.

ISLA'S POVAntonio Castellano sits at the head of the boardroom table, his hands clasped over the full-color printout of my utility assessment. "Am I voting for a leader?" he asks, his voice stripping away the politeness of our previous dinners. "Or am I voting for a ghost Gabriel Hunt left behind to run his errands?"Every board member turns to stare as the silence in the room grows heavy and suffocating like wet wool. I don’t defend the spreadsheet; I validate it."I was 99% compliant, Antonio. The assessment was accurate." I keep my voice level, letting the admission land with the weight it deserves. I lean forward, resting my forearms on the obsidian table as the cool stone bites into my skin through the thin fabric of my cheap suit."But goals change. I achieved what I needed. The debt is voided, my mother is safe, and the compliance is over." I lock eyes with him, refusing to be the first to blink."You're not looking at a ghost. You're looking at the woman who caught Richard St

ISLA'S POVThe metallic click of the handcuffs echoes off the linoleum of Room 412, sharper than the clinical hum of the medical equipment. Special Agent Sarah Vance recites the Miranda rights in a monotone drone that signals the end of an era.Maria Castellano stands with her wrists bound behind her back, her usual elegance stripped away as she stares at the floor. Antonio watches his wife being led away, his face gray and carved from something more brittle than stone. There is no protest left in him, only the silent, crushing acceptance of a man watching his life dismantle itself.When the heavy door closes behind Maria and the agents, the silence in the room shifts. Antonio turns to me, looking decades older than he did when the hour began."I'm sorry, Isla," he says, his voice rough and scraping against the quiet. "For demanding reparations. For using you as a bridge. For not seeing what my wife was capable of".I look at my mother sleeping peacefully, the steady rise and fall of