The Billionaire's Captive: Debt Of Love

Harper didn't walk home; she ran.

The image of Finn Burke in that car chased her down the cracked sidewalks of Queens. Every black SUV that passed made her stomach lurch. Her breath hitched in her throat, a sharp, physical pain that had nothing to do with exertion.

She burst through the front door of their apartment building. The lobby smelled of boiled cabbage and mildew. She took the stairs two at a time, her boots heavy on the linoleum.

"Nana?" she called out as she unlocked the door to 4B.

Silence.

Usually, the TV would be blaring some game show. Usually, she'd hear the rattle of her oxygen tank or the hum of the kettle.

"Nana Rose?"

Harper dropped her backpack in the hallway and rushed into the small living room.

Nana Rose was on the floor.

Harper's heart stopped. Literally stopped. For a second, the blood in her veins turned to ice.

"Nana!"

She dropped to her knees beside Nana Rose. Her face was a terrifying shade of gray-blue. Her lips were parted, gasping for air that wouldn't come. A bottle of pills lay overturned on the carpet, empty.

Harper's medical instincts kicked in before her panic could paralyze her.

Airway. Clear. Breathing. Shallow, she could hear the faint, wet crackle of fluid in her lungs. Circulation. Pulse at her neck was thready and irregular.

"Stay with me, Rose. Stay with me." Harper's voice shook, but her hands were steady as she positioned Nana Rose's head.

She fumbled for her phone and dialed 911.

"41-12 12th Street. Apartment 4B. Suspected cardiac arrest. She's seventy-two. History of angina." Harper barked the information at the operator, her hand gripping Nana Rose's cold fingers.

The next hour was a blur of red and blue lights, the static of radios, and the terrifying sight of paramedics loading the only person who loved Harper onto a stretcher.

Elmhurst Hospital Emergency Room.

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, a sound that drilled into Harper's temples. The waiting room was a sea of misery-crying babies, coughing men, people holding bloody gauzes to their heads.

Harper sat in a plastic chair that dug into her spine, staring at the scuffed floor tiles.

"Family of Rose Solis?"

Harper shot up. A doctor in blue scrubs stood there, looking exhausted. He held a clipboard like a shield.

"I'm her granddaughter. Is she okay?"

"She's stable, for now," the doctor said, not meeting Harper's eyes. "But her coronary arteries are ninety percent blocked. She needs a triple bypass. Immediately."

Relief washed over Harper, followed instantly by a wave of nausea. "Okay. Do it. Please."

The doctor finally looked at Harper. His eyes were sympathetic but hard. "Ms. Solis, we checked her insurance. It lapsed three months ago. And Medicaid won't cover this specific procedure at this facility without a pre-authorization that takes weeks. She doesn't have weeks. She has hours."

"How much?" Harper asked. Her voice sounded hollow.

"The deposit for the surgery team and the OR is forty thousand. The total will be closer to a hundred."

The floor seemed to drop out from under Harper.

"I... I can pay in installments. I have a job."

"I'm sorry," he said gently. "Hospital policy. We need the deposit tonight to book the OR."

He walked away.

Harper stood there, feeling the blood drain from her face. Forty thousand dollars. She had three hundred and twelve dollars in her bank account.

She walked out of the ER, needing air. The night was humid, sticky. She leaned against the brick wall of the ambulance bay, trying to keep from vomiting.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket.

She pulled it out. Unknown number. Local area code.

"Hello?"

"Harper Solis."

The voice was distorted, metallic. A voice changer.

"Who is this?"

"The person who can save your grandmother."

Harper's grip on the phone tightened until the plastic creaked. "What do you want?"

"Check your messages."

The line went dead.

A second later, a photo popped up on her screen. It was a picture of Nana Rose, taken from inside the ER curtain just now. She looked so small, hooked up to the monitors.

Harper's stomach twisted into a knot. Someone was watching them.

A text followed: Vesper Club. Rear entrance. 9:00 PM. Ask for the Manager. The job pays $50,000. One night.

Harper looked at the time. 8:15 PM.

She didn't have a choice. She didn't have time to think about the danger, or the legality, or the fact that the Vesper Club was a notorious playground for the ultra-rich and morally bankrupt.

She ran back to the apartment.

Harper tore through her closet, bypassing the grease-stained jeans. She dug out a box from the very back, under a pile of old textbooks.

Inside was a black bodysuit. It was sleek, reinforced with Lycra, covered in subtle sequins that caught the light like embers. It was a relic from a brief stint she did with an underground circus troop in Brooklyn-one of the many odd jobs she worked to keep the lights on.

She pulled it on. It fit like a second skin.

Harper sat in front of the cracked mirror in the bathroom. She applied heavy, dark makeup, contouring her face, smoking out her eyes until the girl in the reflection looked nothing like Harper the mechanic. She looked dangerous. She looked like a creature of the night.

She reached into the hidden pocket of the bodysuit's sleeve and slid in a small, leather roll. It contained a few essential tools of her other trade. She never went anywhere without them.

She pulled a hood over her head and stepped out into the night.

She wasn't Harper anymore. Tonight, she was Phoenix. And she would burn the world down if that's what it took to save Rose.