Page 132 of You Owe Me

She huffs with indignation, then flounces toward the stairs, mumbling something under her breath.

I gesture toward the living room, where I’ve strategically arranged the furniture for maximum psychological impact. One chair, centered in the room, facing the couch like a witness stand in a courtroom. The lighting is perfect—bright enough to see every micro-expression, harsh enough to be uncomfortable.

“Have a seat.”

Noah does as instructed, perching on the edge of the chair like he thinks it might detonate. Smart kid. I remain standing because height advantage is a basic intimidation tactic.

Cooper leans forward with obvious excitement. “This is where the real fun starts,” he stage-whispers, earning a sharp look from me that he completely ignores.

Noah swallows hard, and I can see him trying to remember whatever coaching he received from his friends or father about surviving this encounter.

I study him for a long moment, cataloging details with the same precision I once used to evaluate business partners. His tie is slightly crooked but clearly tied by someone who knows what they’re doing—probably his father. His shoes are polished to military standards. His car is parked perfectly parallel to the curb, exactly the right distance from the fire hydrant. I can see his father’s SUV through the window, not his own vehicle, which suggests either responsibility or financial dependence.The half-empty bottle of cologne he probably panic-sprayed in the driveway is still detectable from here.

I’ve seen less preparation from people entering board meetings worth millions of dollars.

“So,” I say finally, my voice carrying the kind of casual authority that makes people confess things they never intended to share. “You’re taking my daughter to prom.”

“Yes, sir. I’m honored that she agreed to go with me.”

Good answer. Respectful without being obsequious. “She’s seventeen years old. Beautiful, brilliant, and absolutely not in need of saving, fixing, or tolerating from anyone. Are we clear on that?”

“Absolutely, sir. Vivienne is… she’s incredible. I have nothing but respect for her.”

Another good answer. The kid’s either well-coached or genuinely decent.

“And your itinerary for this evening?”

Noah reaches into his jacket with careful movements and produces a folded piece of paper. His hands are shaking slightly.

I unfold the document with deliberate precision.

It’s not just an itinerary. It’s a comprehensive operational plan. Times, locations, addresses, phone numbers of chaperones. Emergency contact information for every venue. There’s even a QR code linking to the hotel’s parking map and traffic patterns for the optimal route home.

I blink once, genuinely impressed despite myself. “You made a custom itinerary. With backup contact information.”

“I thought it might be helpful.” Noah’s voice climbs slightly in pitch. “And show that I’m taking this seriously. That I understand the responsibility.”

I glance up from the paper to study his face. “Are you? Responsible?”

He visibly tries not to flinch under my stare. “Yes, sir. I am.”

Cooper whistles low from his position on the couch. “He came prepared.”

Uh-oh, there is an after-party component to this itinerary.

I point to the 11:00 p.m. entry, reading aloud: “Millers’ house, post-dance gathering.”

“Yes, sir. Mr. and Mrs. Miller will be home the entire evening. They’ve hired additional supervision to monitor the entrances. No alcohol will be permitted on the premises. We’re planning to stay for light refreshments and group photographs before heading home.”

Right. Light refreshments and group photographs. That’s what they’re calling it these days.

I fold the paper with mathematical precision, creating sharp creases that could probably cut glass. “Midnight curfew.”

Noah nods with the enthusiasm of someone who’s just been offered a stay of execution. “Yes, sir. I’ll have her back by then. Earlier if she prefers.”

I lean forward just enough to enter his personal space, just enough to make him wonder if I’m about to whisper something that will haunt his dreams for the next decade.

“One a.m.,” I say quietly, my voice carrying the kind of controlled menace that once made board members reconsider hostile takeovers. “And she doesn’t walk up to this door alone. You walk her to the door. You speak to me face-to-face. You confirm her safe return. Or I come looking for you. And trust me when I say, you don’t want me to come looking for you. Are we perfectly clear on these terms?”

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