Page 95 of You Owe Me

Rumor has it, she walked into the lion's den.

Ainsley

Carter’s apartment building looks exactly like what you’d expect from the dean’s son—all glass and steel and expensive landscaping that screams,My trust fund is bigger than your student loans.I stand on the sidewalk for a full minute, staring up at the fifteenth floor, where a warm glow spills from floor-to-ceiling windows, and try to convince myself I have any other choice.

I don’t.

The IRS investigation is real. The threats are real. And Maverick is completely oblivious, texting me sweet messages about missing me while I’m about to sell pieces of his empire to keep federal investigators from destroying his family.

My phone buzzes with a text from him:

Dinner when you get home?

The casual domesticity of it makes my throat close up. He’s planning dinner while I’m planning treason.

I type back:

Lab running really late. Don’t wait up. Love you.

Each word feels like swallowing glass, but what else can I say?“Actually, I’m about to walk into your enemy’s apartment and discuss the best ways to dismantle everything you’ve built.”

Yeah, that would go over well.

The lobby is all marble and intimidation, with a concierge who looks like he moonlights as a bouncer for exclusive nightclubs. He barely glances up when I give him Carter’s name and apartment number; he just waves me toward the elevators like wealthy students entertaining guests is the most normal thing in the world.

Maybe it is, in his universe.

The elevator ride to the fifteenth floor feels like ascending to my own execution. My reflection in the polished steel doors shows someone who looks calm and composed—jeans, sweater, hair pulled back in a simple ponytail. I look like any other college student heading to a study group or casual dinner.

I don’t look like someone about to commit academic treason.

The hallway is hushed, carpeted in something that probably costs more per square foot than most people’s rent. Carter’s apartment is at the end, and I can hear voices through the door—low conversation punctuated by occasional laughter. The “small gathering” he mentioned.

Perfect. An audience for my humiliation.

I knock before I lose my nerve.

The door opens immediately, like Carter was waiting right on the other side. He’s in a button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up just enough to look casual without actually being casual.

“Ainsley.” He greets me with that smile I’m starting to hate more than seafood poisoning. “Right on time. I appreciate punctuality.”

“I appreciate not having my boyfriend’s family destroyed by annoying pricks,” I reply sweetly. “Funny how different we are.”

His laugh is genuine, which somehow makes it worse. “I do enjoy your directness. Please, come in.”

The apartment is exactly what I expected: glass walls, furniture straight out of aVogueshoot, and art so dead inside it could be Carter’s Tinder profile pic.

There are four other people scattered around the living room, and I recognize two of them from around campus. The others could be students or young professionals—it’s hard to tell when everyone’s wearing the same expensive casual uniform.

“Everyone,” Carter announces, “this is Ainsley James. Marine biology, very passionate about sea lions, and the woman who’s going to help us understand some fascinating aspects of campus… economics.”

The way he says it makes my skin crawl. Like I’m a specimen he’s presenting to his colleagues, something interesting he’s captured for their entertainment.

“Ainsley, can I get you something to drink? Wine? Something stronger?”

“Just water,” I say, because I need every brain cell I have left for whatever comes next.

He disappears into what I assume is the kitchen, leaving me standing awkwardly in front of his friends. They’re all watching me with the kind of polite curiosity that makes me feel like I’m being evaluated for something I don’t understand.

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