Page 23 of You Owe Me

“Because loyalty”—he slides his phone back into his pocket—“makes for excellent leverage.”

And just like that, he walks away, clean, polished, and unbothered, leaving the scent of smugness and expensive cologne behind like it’s a calling card.

I sit there, fuming, iced coffee melting beside me, heart pounding so hard I can barely hear myself think.

He’s not just trying to dismantle Maverick’s empire.

He’s trying to recruit me.

Like I’m just another pawn on his board.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Rumor has it, he kidnapped a child at the park.

Maverick

I should’ve drugged her.

Nothing dangerous, just enough melatonin to knock her out until the delivery window closes and the new couch is already bolted to our floor. Instead, I brought her to the furniture store awake and opinionated.

“Why are we even here?” She groans. “You said this was a coffee run.”

“We got coffee,” I say, sipping mine calmly. “This is the second part of the errand.”

“The part where you betray me? Great. Just what I need after a shitty day.”

“It’s Saturday, and you literally woke up like two hours ago. How shitty could your day have been?”

She fixes me with a glare. “Do not try and make sense when I’m upset. I won’t tolerate it.”

I would laugh, but she turns, making a slow circle as she takes in the sea of staged living rooms and color-coordinated pillows. “I don’t like any of these.”

I sigh. “You also haven’t sat on any of them to know if they have potential.”

She huffs but knows I’m right. She also knows that I was not joking when I said our sofa was on the way out, whether she agreed or not. I’m tired of being poked in the ass.

The first sofa we pass is an off-white sectional with tufted buttons and a ridiculous name tag: Seaside Dusk.

Ainsley stops in front of it and crosses her arms. “This couch looks like it doesn’t allow snacks.”

I ignore her and keep walking.

It’s not like I love furniture shopping either, but we have to buy a new couch. It’s not enough. Not for both of us. Not for the life we’ve built since she moved in.

It was already falling apart when she moved in. When she was heartbroken and furious and too proud to take the bed. She bonded with it instantly.

I get it. I do.

But I’m tired of playing Russian roulette with my ass.

“This one’s decent,” I say, stopping at a slate gray couch with clean lines and actual lumbar support. “Big enough for both of us. No exposed metal.”

She side-eyes it. “That couch would correct your posture and your personality.”

I sit anyway. Solid frame. No squeaks. I bounce once. “This is a step up from the SpongeBob Band-Aids holding together our couch.”

Her jaw drops. “You did not just disrespect him like that.”

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