Page 19 of You Owe Me (21 Rumors #2)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Rumor has it, she broke into the wrong phone.

Ainsley

The fire station smells like burnt coffee and diesel fumes, which is weirdly comforting when you’re about to commit digital breaking and entering with your boyfriend’s best friends.

I’m sitting cross-legged on the concrete floor, Carter’s stolen phone clutched in my hands like it’s about to explode, while Sebastian paces behind me like a caged tiger and Rowan hovers over my shoulder, breathing down my neck.

“Okay,” I say, taking a deep breath. “Here goes nothing.”

I punch in the passcode Eliza gave me: 051295. The screen unlocks immediately, and I exhale in relief. “We’re in.”

“Thank goodness,” Sebastian mutters. “I was starting to think we committed felony theft for nothing.”

“It’s not felony theft if we’re borrowing it,” Rowan points out unhelpfully. “We’re gonna give it back.”

“Eventually,” I add, already swiping through Carter’s home screen. “After we find whatever dirt he’s hiding.”

The phone is exactly what I expected from Carter Mills—pristine organization, color-coded apps, and a wallpaper that’s literally just his own face. Because of course, it is.

“Narcissist.” Sebastian peers over my other shoulder. “Who makes their own face their wallpaper?”

“Someone who hasn’t been punched enough,” Rowan replies grimly.

I start with his messages, scrolling through what has to be the most boring text history in existence.

It’s all formal crap—meeting confirmations, dinner reservations, messages to his father about “strategic opportunities” and “networking initiatives.” Nothing remotely interesting, let alone incriminating.

“This is painful,” I mutter, scrolling faster. “It’s like reading a LinkedIn post that learned how to text.”

“Check his photos,” Sebastian suggests. “Rich boys always have embarrassing photos.”

I swipe over to the camera roll and immediately regret it.

“Oh my gosh,” I breathe, staring at the screen in horror. “There are so many selfies.”

And there are. Hundreds of them. Carter posing in mirrors, Carter at the gym, Carter in different lighting, Carter trying out various smoldering expressions that all look like he’s constipated.

“Is that… Is he flexing in a bathroom?” Rowan asks, squinting at the screen.

“Multiple bathrooms,” I confirm, scrolling through what appears to be a comprehensive tour of every mirror on campus. “This one’s in the library. This one’s in the business building. Oh, goodness, this one’s in what looks like a Starbucks.”

Sebastian starts laughing—the kind of uncontrolled laughter that borders on hysteria. “He’s documenting his own face like it’s a historical monument.”

“Wait, it gets worse,” I say, landing on a particularly tragic photo. “Is he… Is he trying to look mysterious while eating a salad?”

The photo in question shows Carter gazing pensively into the distance while stabbing a piece of lettuce with a plastic fork. The caption reads: Contemplating life’s complex flavors. #ThoughtfulTuesday #IntellectualEating #Blessed

“I’m gonna throw up,” Rowan announces.

“Keep going,” Sebastian urges, wiping tears from his eyes. “This is better than reality TV.”

I scroll deeper into the abyss of Carter’s self-obsession. There’s a series titled “Casual Friday Moods,” where he’s apparently photographed himself in seventeen different blazers. Another collection called “Golden Hour Greatness” features Carter posing dramatically during various sunsets.

“Oh, no,” I whisper, stopping on a particularly disturbing image. “He has an entire album called ‘CEO Mindset.’”

The photos show Carter pointing at whiteboards, Carter typing intensely on his laptop, Carter staring out windows while holding a coffee cup like he’s in a stock photo about business success.

“This is what evil looks like,” Sebastian says solemnly. “Not torture chambers or world domination plans. Just… this.”

“I feel violated just looking at these,” Rowan adds. “And we’re the ones who stole his phone.”

“Look at this one,” I say, stopping on a photo of Carter in a full three-piece suit, sitting in what appears to be the campus library, pretending to read a book titled Advanced Economic Theory while staring intensely at the camera. “He’s literally posing with homework.”

“Wait, scroll back,” Rowan says. “Was that… Did he take a professional headshot in the dining hall?”

I scroll back to find Carter in business attire, standing next to the soft-serve ice cream machine with his arms crossed, looking like he’s about to negotiate the purchase of a small country. The lighting is perfect. He definitely had someone else take this.

“He paid someone to photograph him next to dairy products,” Sebastian wheezes. “I can’t… I literally cannot.”

“Oh, no, there’s more,” I groan, finding an entire folder labeled “Workout Inspiration.” It’s just Carter. Lifting weights. Doing push-ups. Running on a treadmill. All clearly staged, all with that same intense expression like he’s saving the world through bicep curls.

“Is he making a fitness documentary about himself?” Rowan asks in disbelief.

“Worse. I think he’s making a Carter Mills documentary. About Carter Mills. Starring Carter Mills.”

I keep scrolling, hoping to find something—anything—that might actually be useful.

But it’s just more of the same narcissistic nonsense.

Carter at fancy restaurants, posing with his food before eating it.

Carter in different cars that probably belong to his friends, pretending they’re his.

Carter wearing sunglasses indoors and calling it “executive energy.”

“This is useless.” I sigh, slumping back against the concrete wall. “It’s just a shrine to his own face. There’s nothing here we can use.”

“What about his apps?” Sebastian suggests. “Maybe he’s got some secret villain software hidden behind the calculator or something.”

I check his apps, but it’s all standard stuff. Banking, social media, fitness tracking, food delivery. Nothing suspicious. Nothing helpful.

“His social media?” Rowan offers hopefully.

I tap through to his Instagram, which is exactly as horrifying as expected. Every single post is a carefully curated image of Carter looking important, successful, or deep. The captions are even worse—pseudo-philosophical rambling about “excellence” and “vision” and “optimizing life potential.”

“Listen to this caption,” I say, reading aloud. “ Success isn’t just a destination, it’s a mindset. Today, I chose to elevate my personal brand through intentional networking and strategic relationship building. The grind never stops. #Blessed #CEO #Mindset #Excellence #Carter ”

“He hashtagged his own name,” Sebastian points out.

“Multiple times,” I confirm, scrolling through more posts. “Oh, look, here’s one where he hashtagged #CarterMills #FutureLeader #AlphaMale #Successful.”

“Alpha male?” Rowan snorts. “The guy probably asks permission to use the bathroom.”

I spend another twenty minutes scrolling through every app, every folder, every possible hiding place for incriminating evidence. But there’s nothing. Just Carter’s obsessive documentation of his own perceived greatness and a workout playlist that’s 90 percent motivational speeches.

“This is pointless.” I slump forward in defeat. “He’s either way smarter than we thought, or way more boring than we thought.”

“Maybe both,” Sebastian says. “Smart enough to keep the real stuff somewhere else, boring enough to fill his phone with this garbage.”

“So, what now?” Rowan asks. “We broke into his phone for nothing?”

I stare at the device in my hands, frustration bubbling up in my chest. We went through all this trouble—the gala, the fire alarm, the theft—and for what? To discover that Carter Mills is exactly as shallow and self-obsessed as he appears to be?

“At least we know he’s not some criminal mastermind,” I say weakly. “Just a really, really vain business student with delusions of grandeur.”

“And terrible taste in hashtags,” Sebastian adds.

“And an unhealthy relationship with mirrors,” Rowan chimes in.

I lock the phone and shove it into my bag. “Well, this was a spectacular waste of time. I committed multiple felonies to steal the most boring phone in existence.”

“Hey.” Sebastian drops down to sit beside me on the concrete. “At least we tried. And now we know Carter’s not some master manipulator. He’s just an entitled rich kid who thinks the world revolves around him.”

“Which makes him predictable,” Rowan points out. “Predictable is manageable.”

I nod, trying to convince myself that’s true. But I can’t shake the feeling that we’re missing something. That Carter’s real plans aren’t documented in selfies and workout photos.

Which means we’re back to square one.

“Come on,” I say, standing up and brushing concrete dust off my jeans. “I need to return Carter’s coat and phone before he gets suspicious.”

“How are you gonna explain keeping Carter’s jacket overnight?” Rowan asks.

I shrug. “I’ll tell him I was too busy dealing with the sprinkler chaos to find him after the gala. That I took it home to get it dry-cleaned as an apology for leaving so quickly.”

“You’re scary when you’re scheming,” Sebastian observes.

“Good,” I reply. “Maybe that’ll come in handy when dealing with Mr. CEO Mindset.”

Because even if his phone was a bust, I’m not giving up. Carter Mills thinks he can intimidate me, manipulate me, and use me to get to Maverick.

He’s about to learn just how wrong he is.

Even if I have to figure it out one boring selfie at a time.