Page 41 of You Owe Me

“Death,” I finish.

He nods once. Doesn’t sugarcoat it. Doesn’t look away.

“You’ll be out for at least a week. Possibly more, depending on how your heart responds. But if it works… tachycardia becomes manageable. Maybe even cured.”

A week. Might as well be a month in my world.

He says it like it’s a promise. But all I hear is a gamble.

And I’ve never been good at folding. I shift forward, elbows on my knees, fingers steepled. “What happens if I wait?”

“Episodes get longer. More dangerous. You risk permanent damage. Stroke. Worse.”

There it is. Just like I thought. No middle ground. Just a choice between calculated risk and open fire.

My brain starts sorting names. Tasks. Lies.

Who owes me. Who’ll keep quiet. Who can cover my classes, my meetings, my poker games. Who can intercept Ainsley’s questions and feed her just enough bullshit to keep her from showing up at the hospital in full-blown panic mode.

“You’ve had episodes you haven’t told me about.” It’s not a question. It’s a fact. He knows. Doctors always know.

I stand and put my shirt back on. Not because I’m ready to leave. Because I’ve heard enough. And because sitting in that chair for one more second makes me feel like a patient.

“Probably.”

“Maverick—”

“I’ll schedule it,” I cut him off, already walking toward the door. “Thanks, Doc.”

He doesn’t stop me.

He won’t.

Because I already made the decision the second he said ablation.

I’m not telling Ainsley.

Not Pops. Not Sebastian. Not anyone.

There’s a lie coming. One I’ll craft with precision. A clean story. Covered by IOUs, sealed with silence. One more con to keep everything standing.

Because I don’t get to fall apart.

Not now. Not ever.

The door clicks shut behind me, and just like that, the world keeps spinning like it didn’t just shove a scalpel into my chest and tell me to pencil it in.

Outside, the sky is that washed-out gray that looks cold even when it’s warm. The kind of light that makes everything look sterile. Fake. It fits. I walk with my hands in my pockets, keys digging into my palm like an anchor.

Every step toward the car feels heavier. Not in some poetic, emotional sense, just tactical. Like my body’s adjusting to the new weight of what I’m carrying.

Ablation.

It loops in my head, clipped and clinical. I hate the way it sounds. It’s like they gift-wrapped ‘bodily betrayal’ and slapped a pretty co-pay on it.

I slide into the driver’s seat and shut the door. The silence inside the car hits hard. Not real silence. There’s still the distant thrum of traffic, the soft creak of cooling metal. But it’s close enough. It’s the kind that makes your ears ring. My hands are steady as I grip the steering wheel. My pulse isn’t. 129 BPM and holding. A little better, but not great. My watch vibrates once, and I ignore it.

The center console still has Ainsley’s glitter-covered ChapStick in it. Probably fell out of her bag last week. I flip it open. Strawberry or some other bullshit. I don’t even smell it, just close the cap and put it back. It grounds me.

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