Page 92 of You Owe Me

Carter has me exactly where he wants me: trapped between the truth that will destroy Maverick’s family and lies that might save them.

And the worst part? I’m starting to think this was always his plan. Not just to take down Maverick, but to use me to do it. To turn his greatest asset—the girl who loves him enough to do anything to protect him—into his greatest weakness.

I head back across campus, already rehearsing the lies I’ll need to tell. Already building the walls I’ll need to maintain. Already becoming someone I swore I’d never be.

All because loving Maverick Lexington means accepting that sometimes, protection and betrayal look exactly the same.

And tomorrow, I’ll find out which one I’m really choosing.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Rumor has it, he's planning his own disappearance.

Maverick

The waiting room at Havemeyer Medical smells like disinfectant, which feels appropriate, considering I’m about to volunteer for someone to burn parts of my heart with a catheter.

The magazine in my hands is three months old, something about investment strategies that are already outdated. I’m not reading it anyway. Just flipping pages to give my fingers something to do that isn’t checking my phone every thirty seconds to see if Ainsley’s texted back.

She left early this morning—some bullshit about lab work that didn’t make sense because I know her schedule better than she does. But I didn’t push. After last night, after the tattoos and the intensity and the way she finally started cracking open about whatever she’s been hiding, I figured she needed space to process.

Besides, she’ll tell me when she’s ready. She always does.

“Maverick Lexington?”

Dr. Patel’s voice cuts through my distraction. He’s standing in the doorway, wearing that expression medical professionals get when they’re about to deliver news you don’t want to hear but can’t avoid.

I follow him down the familiar hallway, past rooms full of people whose hearts are also trying to kill them. The irony isn’t lost on me—I’ve spent years learning to control everything around me, and the one thing I can’t control is the organ keeping me alive.

His office is exactly the same as last time. Diplomas on the wall, family photos on the desk, a small stack of medical journals that probably contain twenty different ways my condition could get worse. He gestures to the chair across from his desk, and I sit, already bracing for whatever data he’s about to throw at me.

“Your latest readings are concerning.” No small talk, no easing into it, as usual.

He turns his computer screen toward me. Rows of numbers, charts showing spikes and valleys that represent the chaos happening in my chest. Most of it looks like gibberish, but I can read enough to know it’s not good.

He doesn’t bother with the usual breakdown this time. Just says, “It’s time.”

I glance up.

“No more stalling. No more medication adjustments. No more waiting to see if it ‘levels out on its own.’ We’re past that window.”

I nod once.

“The beta blockers aren’t sufficient anymore.” He leans back in his chair. “We need to consider more aggressive intervention.”

“Ablation.”

“Ablation,” he confirms. “Waiting any longer, and you’ll risk permanent damage.”

I’ve read enough medical journals to know what “permanent damage” means in cardiology terms. Stroke. Heart failure. The kind of complications that don’t just inconvenience your schedule—they rewrite your entire existence.

“How soon?”

“I can get you scheduled for this Friday. Morning procedure, overnight observation, discharge Saturday afternoon if everything goes smoothly.”

Friday.

My mind immediately starts calculating—what can be moved, what can be delegated, who owes me enough to cover the gaps. The poker game will have to be canceled. The meeting with the Japanese investors can be pushed to next week.

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