Page 106 of You Owe Me

Because when I came back—if I came back—there would be questions. About where I’d really been, why I’d needed to disappear, what else I’d been hiding. And I wasn’t sure our relationship could survive the answers.

But I couldn’t tell her. Not tonight. Not when she was already drowning in whatever Carter had done to her.

So, I held her tighter and pretended that love was enough to bridge the gap between truth and protection.

Pretended that we weren’t both lying to each other with every breath.

Pretended that tomorrow wouldn’t change everything.

“Mr. Lexington?”

The nurse’s voice pulls me back to the present. She’s young, efficient, holding a tablet and wearing scrubs covered in cartoon hearts that somehow make the whole situation more surreal.

“Dr. Patel will be in shortly to discuss the procedure.” She checks my IV line with practiced precision. “Is your ride here yet? You’ll need someone to drive you home and stay with you for twenty-four hours post-discharge.”

My throat goes dry. “She’s running late. Traffic.”

The lie comes out smooth, automatic. Just another piece of the elaborate deception I’ve constructed to keep everyone from knowing their invincible bastard is about to be filleted like a fish.

“Of course,” the nurse says with understanding sympathy. “These early morning procedures are tough on family. She’ll make it before you go back, I’m sure.”

She won’t. Because she doesn’t know I’m here. Because she thinks I’m driving to see Pops right now, probably stopping for coffee and complaining about having to spend a weekend doing family obligations instead of more interesting things.

Because I chose lies over truth, control over trust, and now I’m about to go under anesthesia with the weight of those choices sitting on my chest like a concrete block.

My heart monitor starts beeping faster.

The nurse glances at the machine, then at me. “Nervous? That’s completely normal. This is a routine procedure, Mr. Lexington. Dr. Patel has performed hundreds of these ablations.”

Routine. Right.

Nothing about having your heart’s electrical system deliberately burned feels routine. Nothing about lying unconscious while strangers thread catheters through your arteries feels normal. Nothing about waking up alone because you were too proud to admit you needed someone feels manageable.

148 BPM. 152.

The beeping gets more insistent.

“I’m going to give you something to help you relax.” She’s already preparing a syringe. “Just a mild sedative to take the edge off.”

I want to tell her I don’t need it. That I can handle this the same way I handle everything else—through sheer force of will and carefully controlled breathing. That I’ve been managing crisis situations since I was nineteen, and this is just another problem that needs solving.

But my heart rate keeps climbing—158, 162—and I know that if I don’t get it under control, they’ll delay the procedure. Start asking questions about stress levels and emotional support and whether I’m really ready for this.

Questions I can’t answer without revealing that I’m here alone by choice, not circumstance.

“Go ahead,” I say.

The medication hits my bloodstream like warm honey, and the sharp edges of panic start to soften. My heart rate begins to drop back toward something resembling normal, and the beeping becomes less urgent.

Better. More manageable.

But it doesn’t change the fundamental truth of what I’ve done.

I’m about to undergo major cardiac surgery, and the person who loves me most in the world doesn’t even know I’m in danger.

“Much better.” She checks the monitors. “Dr. Patel will be right in.”

She leaves, and I’m alone again with the steady rhythm of machines and the growing haze of sedatives that make thinking feel like swimming through molasses.

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