Page 110 of You Owe Me

And I’m here. Playing games with his enemies while he’s fighting for his life.

“What happened? Where is he?”

“Ma’am, I need you to come to the hospital.”

“Just tell me—is he okay?”

“He’s stable, but there were complications during the procedure. Dr. Patel will explain everything when you get here. Can you be here within the hour?”

“I’m already on my way.”

I end the call and get in the car, my hands gripping the steering wheel like it’s the only thing keeping me tethered to reality.

Cardiac procedure.

Maverick had heart surgery this morning. While I was planning Carter’s downfall, while I was feeling proud of myself for finally fighting back, the man I love was lying on an operating table.

And he didn’t tell me.

He let me believe he was visiting Pops, let me worry about IRS investigations and academic blackmail, while he was facing something that could have killed him.

The traffic lights blur together as I speed toward the hospital, and I can’t decide if I’m more terrified or furious. Terrified that he might not be okay, that the complications might mean something worse than they’re telling me over the phone.

Furious that he went through this alone. That he didn’t trust me enough to let me be there for him. That he chose lying over letting me love him through something difficult.

My phone rings again. Carter’s name on the screen.

I let it go to voicemail.

Whatever war we were fighting, whatever threats we were trading, all of it feels impossibly small now. Carter Mills and his daddy issues and his pathetic attempts at intimidation don’t matter when Maverick is in a hospital bed with complications from surgery I didn’t even know he needed.

The only thing that matters is getting to him.

The only thing that matters is that he’s okay.

Everything else can wait.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Rumor has it, he came back from the dead.

Maverick

The first thing I notice is the beeping.

Steady. Controlled. Mechanical.

Not the chaotic, stuttering rhythm that’s been haunting my chest for months. This is different—calm, even, like my heart finally remembered how to do its job without staging a revolt every few hours.

The second thing I notice is the pain.

Not sharp, exactly. More like a deep ache that radiates from my chest outward, the kind of soreness that comes from being meticulously poked and burned. My throat feels raw, my mouth tastes like antiseptic, and there’s an IV line in my arm that tugs whenever I try to move.

The third thing I notice isher.

Ainsley is curled up in the chair beside my bed, knees drawn to her chest, arms wrapped around her shins like she’s trying to hold herself together through sheer force of will. Her hair is a mess—not the sexy, just-rolled-out-of-bed mess, but the I’ve-been-running-my-hands-through-it-in-panic mess. Her eyes are red-rimmed and puffy, mascara smudged beneath her lower lashes.

She looks like she’s been crying for hours.

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