Page 39 of You Owe Me

“I’m counting on his reaction,” Carter says with disturbing confidence. “The more aggressive he becomes, the more evidence for my case. A man with his condition shouldn’t be under that kind of stress, should he?”

He knows about the heart condition, too. Of course, he does. This isn’t a hastily assembled plan; it’s a carefully constructed trap, with contingencies for every possible reaction.

I need time. Time to think, to plan, to figure out a counter-strategy. Time that I don’t have if I just refuse outright.

“When is this gala?” I hate myself for even considering it.

“Saturday at 8:00 p.m. I’ll pick you up at 7:30.” He says it with such assurance, as if my agreement is already secured.

“I haven’t said yes,” I remind him.

“But you will.” His confidence is maddening. “Because you care about Maverick more than you care about one uncomfortable evening.”

He’s right, and we both know it. The thought of sacrificing my Saturday night is nothing compared to the potential devastation Carter could unleash on Maverick.

“I need to think about it,” I say finally, buying myself some time. “And I’ll need proof that you’ll actually drop this if I agree.”

“Of course.” Carter reaches into his expensive messenger bag and pulls out a folder, handing it to me. “This is a copy of what I have. Not everything, mind you, but enough to show I’m serious.You agree to the gala, and these copies are yours to destroy. I keep the originals as... insurance.”

I take the folder without opening it, not trusting myself to keep my composure if I actually see the evidence he’s compiled against Maverick.

“You have until tomorrow to decide.” He makes a show of checking his watch. “Though I don’t see why you need the time. We both know what your answer will be.”

“Maybe I need time to plan the perfect way to accidentally spill something on your custom tuxedo.”

He laughs, and the sound is so normal, so human, that for a second, I almost forget he’s essentially blackmailing me. “Wear something blue,” he suggests. “It complements your eyes.”

“I’ll wear whatever I damn well please,” I snap, suddenly furious at his presumption. “If—and that’s a big if—I agree to this, it’s under duress. Don’t pretend this is a date.”

“Call it whatever you want.” He shrugs. “The appearance is what matters.”

With that, he turns and walks away, his posture relaxed as if we just had a pleasant chat about class assignments rather than a thinly veiled blackmail negotiation.

I stand there clutching the folder, feeling sick to my stomach. What am I supposed to do now? Tell Maverick, whose heart already can’t handle normal stress levels? Keep it a secret and somehow explain why I’m suddenly attending a formal gala with the guy who’s been stalking me? Neither option seems viable.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. A text from Maverick:

Lunch? I’m at the café near the science building.

Perfect timing, as always. How am I supposed to face him with this folder burning a hole in my bag and Carter’s ultimatum hanging over my head?

I take a deep breath, channeling every bit of acting skill I’ve ever possessed. Just get through lunch without arousing suspicion, then figure out a plan. Maverick reads people like books, but I have one advantage: He trusts me. He won’t be looking for lies because he doesn’t expect them from me.

The thought makes me feel even worse, like I’m betraying him just by considering Carter’s offer, even if it’s to protect him. But what choice do I have? If Carter shows the dean those IOUs and the evidence of exam impersonation, Maverick’s entire future is at stake. Not just his reputation or his business, but his actual degree, his ability to ever work in finance again.

I wish Maverick had never told me about those test stand-ins. At the time, he’d confessed it with a mixture of pragmatism and regret—a necessary evil to keep his grandfather’s company from collapsing while maintaining his academic standing. He’d been so matter-of-fact about it, explaining how he’d created the IOU system partially to have trusted people for situations exactly like this. Now that same system might be his downfall.

As I walk toward the café, I shove the folder deep into my backpack, buried beneath textbooks and loose papers. I plaster on a smile that feels like it might crack my face in half. This is fine. Everything is fine. I just need to have lunch with my boyfriend while hiding the fact that his nemesis is blackmailing me and threatening his academic future.

No problem at all.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Rumor has it, he's dying.

Maverick

Sitting in a paper gown with wires strapped to my chest and a heart monitor chirping doesn’t exactly scream invincible.

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