Page 97 of You Owe Me

“I need more time,” I say finally.

“Of course,” Carter agrees easily. “But not too much time. Federal investigations move on their own timeline, and I’d hate for circumstances to… accelerate beyond anyone’s control.”

Another threat, wrapped in concern. He’s giving me the illusion of choice while making it clear that delay isn’t really an option.

“How long?”

“Let’s say… forty-eight hours? That should give you time to consider all the variables.”

Forty-eight hours to decide whether to betray the person I love most in the world or watch his family get destroyed by federal investigators.

Some choice.

I stand up, setting the untouched water glass on his expensive coffee table. “I should go.”

“Of course.” Carter stands, too. “Thank you for coming, Ainsley. I hope our next conversation will be even more… productive.”

Fuck him and his forty-eight hours.

IRS tips or not, I will never betray my man.

I just need to figure out how to pretend that I am.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Rumor has it, they aren’t on speaking terms.

Maverick

I have surgery in forty-eight hours.

And it feels like I’ve already flatlined.

I’m sitting on the edge of the couch in sweats I didn’t realize I grabbed, staring at a bottle of water like it owes me something. The apartment’s dark except for the dull flicker from the TV—muted, forgotten, playing some nature documentary I never meant to start.

I haven’t eaten. Haven’t moved much since this morning.

I’ve just been waiting.

For her.

The pre-op instructions are burned into my brain like a mantra I can’t escape. No food after midnight on Thursday. Shower with antibacterial soap Friday morning. Arrive at Havemeyer Medical at 6:00 a.m. for a 7:00 a.m. procedure that will either fix the broken rhythm in my chest or kill me trying.

Dr. Patel’s voice echoes: “This isn’t optional anymore, Maverick. Your heart rate variability has reached a point where we’re looking at significant risk if we wait.”

Risk. Like everything in my life isn’t already balanced on the edge of a knife.

I’ve got the hotel booked. Three hours away, anonymous, the kind of place that doesn’t ask questions when you check in looking like hell and check out looking worse. The cover story is airtight—family weekend with Pops, helping with quarterly reports, the usual bullshit that everyone expects from the responsible grandson.

Everyone except Ainsley.

She’ll believe it because she trusts me. Because she has no reason to think I’d disappear for elective surgery without telling her. Because she still thinks I’m the kind of person who shares the important stuff instead of handling it alone.

The irony tastes like copper in my mouth.

Because while I’ve been planning to vanish for a long weekend of cardiac rehabilitation, she’s been vanishing piece by piece right in front of me.

Her text from this afternoon sits in my phone like evidence of how far we’ve both fallen: “Lab running really late. Don’t wait up. Love you.”

---