Page 51 of You Owe Me

I smile wider. “Thought I’d bring someone to keep me from rolling my eyes into a coma.”

He hums like he finds that amusing, but his eyes cut to Eliza with cool calculation. “And here I was, hoping to make a proper entrance with you.”

“You still are. We’re just making it interesting.”

Carter shifts in his seat, gaze sweeping over me again, longer this time. There’s a faint crease between his brows, something sour blooming beneath the surface. He won’t say it, but I know what’s bothering him. He smells Maverick. He just doesn’t know how to name it without sounding insecure.

“You look... different,” he says finally.

“Is that a compliment or a warning?”

“It’s an observation. A sharp one.” His eyes narrow slightly, lingering at my collarbone.

I just smile and cross my legs, letting the dress shift higher along my thigh. “Sharp suits the night.”

Next to me, Eliza stifles a laugh. Carter ignores her, or tries to. “You didn’t tell me you’d be dressing to start fires.”

“I didn’t realize I needed your permission. Besides, it’s not like this is a real date.”

The silence that follows is tense enough to snap.

“I’m just saying,” Carter mutters, looking out the window now, “you’re making a statement.”

“Good. I hope it’s loud.”

Eliza shifts beside me, clearly enjoying the slow unraveling of Carter’s composure. “Relax, Mills. You should be flattered. She didn’t wear this for you, but you still get to be seen with her.”

Carter doesn’t respond directly, but his hand tightens slightly on his phone, and his lips press into a line. The rest of the drive passes with charged quiet—Eliza scrolling through her texts, me staring out the window, pretending not to notice Carter watching me from the corner of his eye like he’s trying to puzzle something out.

He knows something’s off. He just can’t place it. And that’s exactly how I want it, because the longer he’s guessing, the less control he has. And the less control he has, the easier it’ll be to take everything from him.

The car slows in front of the gala venue—a limestone monstrosity decked in white lights and ivy like it’s trying too hard to be both modern and historical. There’s a red carpet, of course, and photographers. Not paparazzi exactly, but the kind of university-affiliated press that lives for donation galas, legacy families, and capturing the perfect picture for next quarter’s glossy alumni newsletter.

Carter shifts beside me, spine straightening, chin tilting up like he’s walking into a coronation. And then he smiles—that smug, self-satisfied smile that says he’s already won. He thinks he has me, thinks this moment of stepping out with me in this dress, in front of cameras, beside his name, is proof that Maverick’s losing. That he’s getting to me.

The car door opens. Carter moves like he’s practiced this—stepping out first, fixing his jacket, scanning the crowd. He pauses just long enough to reach a hand behind him in silent invitation, palm out, expecting mine. He thinks he’s about to help me out of the car and straight into his narrative.

But Eliza moves faster. She slides across the seat with easy, catlike grace, her heels hitting pavement with purpose as shegrabs Carter’s outstretched hand like it was meant for her all along.

“Smile pretty.” She loops her arm through his before he can react.

The flash of cameras explodes around them. Carter hesitates—just a fraction of a second—but instinct kicks in. He plasters on a polished smile, letting the press catch him with what looks like confidence and charm. Eliza leans in just enough for the photos to suggest closeness.

The second they hit the carpet, the photographers start snapping in earnest.

“Carter Mills! Who’s your date tonight?”

“Smile this way!”

“Miss, what’s your name?”

Carter plays it cool because he can’t not—because walking out alone would look weak, but walking out with Eliza, calm and stunning and smirking like she’s three steps ahead, still gives him the photo he came for. Even if it’s the wrong girl.

I stay in the car for an extra beat, heart hammering. It was the plan—our plan. Eliza as the decoy, me as the ghost. Inside, but invisible. No pictures, no proof, nothing Maverick might see that would make this worse than it already is.

The driver finally looks back through the rearview mirror, trying to figure out if I’m getting out or not. I do, stepping onto the sidewalk slowly, carefully, keeping my head down just enough to avoid eye contact with the press. No one’s paying attention now anyway; all the lenses are trained on Carter and Eliza, who’s still smiling like she’s having the time of her life.

They start up the steps, and I follow a few feet behind, silent and forgettable—just another guest, background noise. And that’s exactly what I need to be tonight, because I’m not here to be seen. I’m here to get close enough to find what Carter’s hiding and take it all away.

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