Page 18 of You Owe Me

I smirk, just a little. Then I turn and head for the bathroom, close the door, lock it, and lean over the sink.

I rub the heel of my hand into my chest. It doesn’t help. My chest is still tight. Still thudding like I’m sprinting when all I’mdoing is standing here, watching the empire I built collapse in slow motion.

I know what this means. I know what the cardiologist said last time I saw him.

“If the medication isn’t enough to keep your heart rate down, we’ll have to consider ablation.”

Ablation.

Just hearing it made my blood run cold. I didn’t ask many questions in the office, didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of seeing panic on my face. I waited until I got home, pulled up a dozen articles, and fell down the Google rabbit hole like a dumbass.

Catheters. Burning tissue. Heart scars. Recovery time I can’t afford.

No. Not happening.

I’ve clawed my way to the top of this university’s food chain with duct tape and blood. I’ve juggled blackmail, academic sabotage, and high-stakes poker games while running an investment firm under the radar. I’m not throwing it all away to lie in a hospital bed while people discover how replaceable I really am.

So, I don’t tell anyone. Not Ainsley. Especially not Ainsley.

Because the second she finds out, she’ll worry. And then she’ll try to fix it. And I’ll have to watch her rearrange her whole damn world around me because I’m defective.

She deserves better than that.

I pop another beta blocker, swallowing it dry, then shove the bottle back into my bag. I should’ve taken it hours ago. I should’ve been more careful.

But I’ve been too busy trying to keep my world from falling apart to remember that I’m the one actively cracking.

The email notification pings on my phone this time. I don’t check it.

Instead, I sit back and stare at the ceiling.

Ainsley will be home in twenty minutes. She’s been studying between sea lion shows, where she’s interning at the aquarium. She claims she’s not tired, but I see her falling asleep on the lumpy couch every night and waking with a crick in her neck. And I, self-appointed fixer of everyone else’s bullshit, am actively lying to the only person who makes any of this shit bearable.

The irony is poetic. If I weren’t busy trying not to die, I’d almost laugh.

My phone buzzes.

Ainsley: Be home soon. Do not eat the last brownie.

It’s dumb, it’s normal, it’s her.

My chest aches.

I pocket the phone and rest my head back against the wall. I don’t answer. I drop to the bathroom floor, lean back against the cabinet, and close my eyes. I know what to do. I’ve read every article, every forum post, every damn cardiology study written in English.

First step: the Valsalva maneuver. Forced exhale against a closed airway. It’s supposed to stimulate the vagus nerve and slow the heart rate. Trick the body into rebooting.

I pinch my nose, close my mouth, and bear down like I’m trying to blow out a birthday candle that doesn’t exist.

Thirty seconds.

Nothing.

Still pounding.

I lie back fully, legs up on the wall now, trying another Modified Valsalva version. Exhale, then quickly lie back and elevate. Gravity and pressure. Circulation shift. A last-ditchreboot sequence for the cardiac system I’m apparently too defective to run.

My pulse jumps. Then skips.

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