Page 89 of You Owe Me

Check your email. We need to talk. -CM

I’m still lying in bed, Maverick’s arm draped across my waist, our new tattoos tender against the sheets. The morning light filtering through the curtains should feel peaceful. Romantic, even. Instead, it feels like the calm before a hurricane.

My stomach drops as I carefully extract myself from Maverick’s embrace and pad to the kitchen, phone clutched in my trembling hand. He doesn’t stir—exhausted from last night’s intensity, his breathing deep and even.

I open my email with shaking fingers, and there it is. A message from Carter Mills with the subject line:Regarding Recent Activities.

My blood turns to ice water.

Ainsley,

I trust you enjoyed your evening of… self-expression. Charming ink work, by the way. Very permanent.

I have to admit, I’m disappointed. When you left the gala in such dramatic fashion, I assumed you were simply overwhelmed by the evening’s chaos. But matching tattoos? Really? How wonderfully… possessive of him.

Since you seem determined to make our arrangement more complicated than necessary, I’ve decided to demonstrate exactly how serious I am about our continued cooperation.

I hope Maverick’s grandfather is keeping his financial records in order. Anonymous tips to the IRS about potential tax irregularities at small investment firms can be so… disruptive. Especially when they involve family businesses with student-aged operators.

I also have photos from last night. Your celebration was quite public and quite permanent. I’d hate for the timing to raise uncomfortable questions about what exactly you were commemorating.

I’ll be in touch shortly with revised terms. In the meantime, consider whether permanent declarations of loyalty are wise when the object of that loyalty is under federal scrutiny.

Best regards,

Carter

P.S. - Some fires, once lit, are very difficult to extinguish.

The phone slips from my numb fingers and clatters onto the kitchen counter. My legs give out, and I sink onto one of the barstools, struggling to breathe around the panic constricting my chest.

He knows about the tattoos. And he’s angry.

More than angry—he’s escalating. He’s targeting the one thing that could destroy not just Maverick, but his entire family.

The IRS. Carter sent an anonymous tip to the IRS about Pops’s investment firm.

Shit. An IRS audit could uncover everything. Maverick’s been running his grandfather’s investment company while technically being a full-time student. And Pops doesn’t even know. He thinks Maverick stepped back when he caught him the first time. If auditors show up asking about transactions Maverick authorized, about decisions he made, about money he moved…

It would kill him. Literally. The stress of learning that his grandson has been lying to him while potentially exposing the family business to federal charges? Pops’s heart couldn’t handle it.

My hands shake as I scroll through the rest of my emails, and there they are—two attachments from Carter.

The first is a photo of Maverick and me leaving the tattoo parlor. His shirt is off, my wrist is bandaged, and we’re pressed against his car in what could generously be called a compromising position. The angle is perfect, clearly taken by someone who was waiting for the right moment.

The second attachment makes my blood freeze entirely.

It’s a screenshot of what looks like an IRS tip submission form. Most of it is blacked out, but I can see enough—references to “undisclosed student management,” “potential income tax evasion,” and “unreported business operations.” The timestamp shows it was submitted this morning at 6:45 a.m. Fifteen minutes before Carter sent me his email.

Carter wasn’t just threatening me. He was watching me. Following me. And when I made the choice to get that tattoo with Maverick, to permanently bind myself to him, Carter interpreted it as a declaration of war.

My phone buzzes again. Another text from Carter’s number.

IRS investigations can take months. Or they can be resolved quickly if the tip turns out to be baseless. Funny how these things work. Coffee in 20 minutes. The Daily Grind on campus. Come alone.

Twenty minutes. That’s barely enough time to get dressed and make it across campus, let alone figure out how to handle this without making everything worse.

This isn’t about academic irregularities or campus politics. This is about Carter realizing that I chose Maverick. Permanently. Publicly. And now he’s showing me exactly what that choice costs—not just for us, but for Pops, for Cooper, for everyone who depends on Maverick running the investment firm.

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