Page 52 of You Owe Me

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Rumor has it, she's dancing with the devil.

Ainsley

The Dean’s Gala is exactly what I expected: all crystal chandeliers, overpriced champagne, and people wearing the kind of jewelry that could fund Greg’s entire aquarium for a year. The ballroom reeks of old money and older secrets, with enough donors and board members to stock a small country’s worth of tax write-offs.

I grab a glass of champagne from a passing server, more for the prop than the alcohol, and scan the room. Carter’s already working the crowd like the practiced politician he is, Eliza still attached to his arm and looking like she’s enjoying every second of making him uncomfortable. Good. The longer she keeps him distracted, the more time I have to figure out what exactly I’m looking for.

“Ainsley!” A familiar voice cuts through the classical music and polite chatter. “What a surprise to see you here.”

I turn to find Dr. Paulson approaching, looking elegant in a navy dress that probably costs more than my textbooks. Behind her is a woman I don’t recognize—silver hair, sharp eyes, and wearing the kind of confidence that comes with decades of academic warfare.

“Dr. Paulson,” I say, forcing a smile. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”

“Marine conservation gets excellent representation at these events,” she replies, then gestures to her companion. “This is Dr. Elizabeth Warren—no, not that one—from the MacArthur Foundation. She funds some of the most important marine research on the East Coast.”

My pulse quickens. This is exactly the kind of connection Carter was talking about—the kind that could actually advance my career if I weren’t here under completely false pretenses.

“Ms. James is one of my most passionate students,” Dr. Paulson continues. “She’s doing fascinating work on pinniped cognitive behavior.”

“Sea lions,” I clarify, trying not to sound like a complete fraud. “I’m particularly interested in their problem-solving capabilities and social learning patterns.”

Dr. Warren’s eyes light up. “How refreshing. Most students your age seem more interested in the flashy megafauna research. Tell me, what drew you to pinnipeds specifically?”

And just like that, I’m off and running, talking about the sea lions I work with and their remarkable intelligence, about the research opportunities at the Atlanta Marine Center, about the potential applications for conservation efforts. For a few minutes, I almost forget why I’m really here. This is real—my passion, my future, the life I want to build.

Then an unfamiliar hand lands on my lower back.

“Ladies.” Carter’s voice cuts through my explanation, smooth as poisoned honey. “I hope you don’t mind if I steal Ainsley for a moment.”

Dr. Warren glances between us, clearly reading the dynamics. “Of course. Ms. James, please reach out to my office. I’d love to discuss potential funding opportunities.”

She hands me her card, and I pocket it like treasure, knowing full well I may never get to use it. Carter’s already steering me away, his hand burning against my back through the thin fabric of my dress.

“Networking already?” His voice is deceptively casual. “I’m impressed.”

“That’s what you wanted, isn’t it? Me making connections?” I step sideways, breaking his contact. “Though I notice you’ve been monopolizing Eliza all evening. Should I be jealous?”

His jaw ticks. “Your friend is… entertaining. But she’s not why I’m here.”

“Right. You’re here to show me off like a trophy.” I take a sip of champagne, watching him over the rim. “How’s that working out for you?”

Before he can answer, Eliza appears at my elbow like a guardian angel in navy silk.

“Sorry to interrupt.” She doesn’t sound sorry at all. “But I need to borrow Ainsley for a minute. Girl stuff.”

Carter’s smile turns brittle. “Of course. Don’t be long.”

Eliza loops her arm through mine and steers us toward the ladies’ room, her heels clicking against the marble floor like a countdown timer.

“Damn,” she mutters once we’re safely behind the ornate bathroom door. “That guy’s as handsy as a TSA agent. I’ve spent the last twenty minutes dodging his attempts to feel me up while he asks invasive questions about you.”

“What kind of questions?” I check under the stalls to make sure we’re alone.

“Your schedule, your classes, your relationship with Maverick. He’s fishing hard.” She pulls out her phone, then looks up at me with a triumphant grin. “But I got his passcode. He checked his messages right in front of me—apparently, subtlety isn’t his strong suit. 051295.”

I blink at her. “Wait. You what?”

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