Page 125 of You Owe Me

“No.” He pushes the card back across the table with shaking fingers. “I won’t be your fucking puppet.”

I don’t react to the profanity or the defiance. Don’t even look at the card sliding across the white tablecloth. Instead, I reach into my jacket again and pull out a black Sharpie that’s signed more surrenders than most generals see in a lifetime.

With deliberate precision, I uncap it.

Then I pick up the card Carter rejected and write three simple letters:I.O.U.

The ink is still wet when I slide it back across the table, stopping it just within Carter’s reach. “Pick it up.”

Carter stares at the card like it might bite him. “What?”

“You heard me.” My voice drops to that dangerous register that makes smart people very, very careful. “Pick up the card, Carter.”

“I’m not going to?—”

“Pick it up.”

This time, there’s no room for argument in my tone. No negotiation. No alternative interpretation. Just a command issued with the absolute certainty that it will be obeyed.

Dean Mills shifts in his seat, understanding flickering across his face. He’s seen this before—not the exact scenario, but the moment when someone realizes they’ve run out of choices. When the illusion of free will evaporates and leaves only submission or destruction.

“Carter.” His voice is heavy with resignation. “Do what he says.”

“Dad—”

“Pick up the damn card.”

The profanity from his father hits Carter like a slap. Dean Mills doesn’t swear. Doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t lose control in public settings where reputations can be destroyed with a single overheard conversation.

Except when his son’s stupidity threatens everything he’s built over three decades in academia.

Carter’s hand hovers over the card, trembling slightly. I can see the war happening behind his eyes—pride battling survival, delusion fighting reality.

“What happens if I don’t?” he whispers.

I don’t answer immediately. Just pull out my phone with the same casual precision I’ve used for everything else tonight. The screen shows that draft email again—the one that would expose every sordid detail of the Mills family’s corruption to the board of trustees, the media, and federal investigators.

My finger hovers over the send button.

“You find out what happens when someone refuses a direct order from Maverick Lexington,” I say softly.

The silence that follows is absolute. Even the ambient restaurant noise seems to fade as Carter stares at my phone, at the finger that could end his entire future with a single touch.

Finally, with movements that look physically painful, he reaches for the card.

His fingers close around it like he’s picking up a live grenade. The cardstock is heavy between his thumb and index finger—expensive, substantial, permanent.

“Good boy,” I murmur, and the condescension in my voice makes him flinch.

I cap the marker with the same deliberate precision I used to uncap it, then slide it back into my jacket. The IOU staysin Carter’s trembling grip, and that’s the moment Carter Mills officially becomes my property.

Dean Mills nods slowly, like a man acknowledging his own execution. “I’ll make sure he understands the terms. Complete cooperation. No more games.”

“I know you will.” I drop a hundred-dollar bill on the table—enough to cover our drinks and ensure the staff remembers this conversation exactly the way I want them to. “Richard, Carter, welcome to the family.”

Then I place my hand on the small of Ainsley’s back and guide her toward the exit, leaving the Mills family to contemplate their new reality.

We make it exactly three steps before Carter’s voice stops us—but not with threats this time.

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