Page 54 of You Owe Me

We exit the bathroom like nothing’s brewing, like we didn’t just agree to fake an emergency to commit a light felony for the greater good.

Carter spots me instantly, because of course, he does. His eyes drag down my dress, up again to meet mine, and it takes every ounce of strength not to stab him with a toothpick.

“Everything okay?”

“Perfect,” I chirp, latching on to his arm. “We were just debating whether hot flashes can be triggered by bad cologne.”

He chuckles smugly. “Care for a dance?”

“I’d love to,” I lie.

We step onto the dance floor. He pulls me into a practiced, too-close hold, and the music drips elegance. I smile like I’m not actively plotting arson in my head.

And right there—pressed against his jacket pocket—I feel it.

The phone.

My golden ticket.

Okay, showtime.

I let a delicate shiver ripple through me. “It’s freezing in here.”

He glances at me, then—right on cue—shrugs off his jacket and drapes it around my shoulders like I’m a prized show pony and not a human crowbar about to pry open his digital secrets. “There. Better?”

“Much.” I smile sweetly, tucking the coat closer like it’s a love token instead of evidence.

He keeps dancing. I keep pretending not to be vibrating with adrenaline. All I have to do is wait. Let him get distracted. Then… chaos.

I grip the lapel of Carter’s jacket and lean close. “I’m going to powder my nose,” I purr. “Be right back.”

He looks mildly disappointed but nods. “Don’t keep me waiting.”

I flash a flirty little smile that belongs in a true crime doc and slip away, coat still wrapped tight around my shoulders.

And then?—

All hell breaks gloriously, soakingly loose.

The classical music screeches to a halt. Lights strobe. Alarms blare.

And then?

The sprinklers go off.

Not metaphorically. Literally. With the fury of a thousand plumbers.

Freezing water explodes from the ceiling in a synchronized downpour, instantly drenching designer gowns, rented tuxes, and at least three wigs. People scream. Someone slips. A waiter faceplants into a tray of stuffed mushrooms.

“Fire?” someone yells. “Where?”

“Is this a drill?”

“Do I need to save the shrimp?”

I’m blinking through wet lashes when the bathroom door slams open.

Eliza barrels out like a dripping, chaos-born goddess, holding one ruined heel in her hand and her purse above her head like it’s a newborn child.

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