Page 121 of You Owe Me

“Ainsley.”

I turn back.

“Come home to me.”

It’s not a request. It’s a command wrapped in vulnerability, a reminder that underneath all the planning and strategy, he’s still the man who almost died on an operating table six days ago. The man who loves me enough to let me walk into danger, even though every instinct is screaming at him to lock me away where nothing can touch me.

“Always,” I promise.

This time, he lets me go.

I walk through the apartment, where Sebastian and Rowan are waiting by the door, past Eliza, who gives me an encouraging smile, and out into the hallway, where my heels click against the marble like a countdown timer.

The restaurant Carter chose is exactly what I expected—expensive, pretentious, the kind of place where people wear their net worth like cologne. Le Bernardin wannabe with mood lighting and a wine list that I can barely pronounce.

I spot him immediately. He’s sitting at a corner table, and for once, he looks nervous. His usual smug confidence has been replaced by something more uncertain, like he’s finally starting to realize that this game is bigger than he thought.

The man sitting across from him can only be Dean Mills. Older, distinguished, wearing the kind of quiet authority that comes from decades in academia. He looks up as I approach, and I see where Carter gets his calculating eyes.

“Ainsley,” Carter stands as I reach the table, ever the gentleman. “You look… stunning.”

“Thank you,” I reply smoothly, letting him pull out my chair. “Dean Mills, I presume? Thank you for agreeing to meet with me.”

“Ms. James.” His voice is carefully neutral. “Carter tells me you have some concerns about recent… misunderstandings.”

Misunderstandings. Right.

I settle into my chair, crossing my legs and letting the dress ride up just enough to catch Carter’s attention. Not because I want it, but because distracted enemies make mistakes.

“I think we need to discuss the future.” I accept the wineglass Carter pours for me. “All of our futures.”

Dean Mills studies me with the kind of sharp intelligence that built careers and buried rivals. “I’m listening.”

And so the performance begins.

For the next hour, I play the role Carter expects—the concerned girlfriend, slightly out of her depth, willing to negotiate for the sake of peace. I let him think he’s winning, that his threats have worked, that I’m ready to sell out Maverick’s operation to protect his family.

I’m brilliant at it.

I hint at information about Maverick’s network while revealing nothing useful. I express concern about federal investigations while subtly implying that Carter’s amateur hour approach has actually made things worse. I play frightened and overwhelmed while carefully documenting every admission, every threat, every moment of incrimination.

Carter laps it up like a man dying of thirst. He gets bolder, more detailed about his plans, more specific about his threats. His father listens with growing alarm as his son reveals the scope of his activities—the IRS tips, the blackmail attempts, the systematic harassment campaign.

“Carter,” Dean Mills says quietly during a lull in his son’s gloating, “perhaps we should?—”

“No, Dad, you need to hear this,” Carter interrupts, wine making him reckless. “She understands now. The investigation’s real, the evidence is solid, and Lexington’s empire is about to crumble. All we need is her cooperation to make the transition smooth.”

The look on Dean Mills’ face is worth every uncomfortable minute of this dinner. Horror, disappointment, and the growing realization that his son has been playing with federal fire while building a case for his own destruction.

“And what exactly,” I ask carefully, “would this cooperation look like?”

Carter leans forward, eyes bright with assumed victory. “Names, methods, leverage points. Everything you know about how Maverick’s system works. In exchange, theinvestigation finds nothing actionable, your boyfriend’s family stays clean, and everyone moves forward without unnecessary complications.”

I pretend to consider this, taking a sip of wine while the recording device in my clutch captures every word.

“That’s quite an offer,” I say finally. “But I need certain guarantees. After all, I’d be taking significant risks.”

“Such as?”

---