Page 28 of You Owe Me (21 Rumors #2)

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The magazine in my hands is three months old, something about investment strategies that are already outdated.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.

“What about recovery time?”

“Full recovery is typically two to three weeks. But you should be able to resume light activities within a few days.”

Light activities. Right. Like my life has ever involved anything that qualifies as “light.”

“Any restrictions?”

“No heavy lifting, no strenuous exercise, no… intense emotional stress.” He gives me a pointed look. “This procedure requires your heart to heal properly. That means rest, Maverick. Real rest.”

I almost laugh at that. When was the last time I had real rest? When was the last time I went a full day without fielding calls about the company or managing someone’s IOU or solving problems that other people are too lazy or scared to handle themselves?

But I nod like it’s a reasonable request. “Understood.”

“I’ll need someone to drive you home Saturday. Someone who can stay with you for at least twenty-four hours post-discharge.”

Ainsley. Of course, he wants Ainsley there. The responsible girlfriend who makes me eat kale and monitors my medication.

The same girlfriend who can’t know about this procedure.

“My grandfather,” I say instead. “He’s expecting me to visit this weekend anyway.”

It’s not entirely a lie. Pops has been hinting that I should come see him soon, make sure everything’s running smoothly with the company transition. He doesn’t know I never actually transitioned anything, that I’ve been running his business from my apartment again.

But that’s a different deception for a different day.

“Good.” He makes notes on his tablet. “Family support is important for recovery.”

He doesn’t need to know that my family support will consist of me, myself, and a hotel room somewhere far enough from campus that I won’t accidentally run into anyone who might ask uncomfortable questions.

“One more thing,” he adds, fixing me with a serious look.

“This isn’t optional anymore, Maverick. Your heart rate variability has reached a point where we’re looking at significant risk if we wait.

I’m not trying to scare you, but I need you to understand—this is happening whether you like it or not. ”

“I get it.”

“Do you? Because you have a history of thinking you can manage everything through sheer force of will. This isn’t a business deal you can negotiate your way out of. This is your body telling you it needs help.”

The lecture is unnecessary. I’ve already made the decision—made it the moment I walked into this building, really. Everything else is just logistics.

“Friday morning,” I confirm. “What time?”

“Seven a.m. Pre-op starts at six.”

Seven a.m. on a Friday. Most of the campus will still be asleep, which means less chance of anyone seeing me check into the hospital. And if I time the lies correctly, I can be on the road to “visit Pops” by Thursday night.

Perfect.

“Any questions?”

Just one: How do I disappear for three days without the people who love me realizing their trust in me is completely misplaced?

But that’s not really a medical question.

“I’m good,” I tell him.

He spends another ten minutes going over pre-op instructions—no food after midnight Thursday, shower with antibacterial soap Friday morning, and bring someone to drive me home. Standard surgical protocol for a procedure that’s anything but standard.

When I finally leave his office, my phone shows two missed calls from Sebastian and a text from Ainsley:

No thanks necessary. Love you!

The casual affection in her message makes my chest tight in a way that has nothing to do with my condition. She trusts me. Completely. The same way she trusted me last night when I told her to get in that tattoo chair.

And now I’m about to repay that trust by lying to her face for three days straight.

I sit in my car for a long moment, engine running, trying to figure out how to make this work. The story needs to be airtight—simple enough that I won’t contradict myself, detailed enough that she won’t ask too many questions.

Cooper’s baseball season is winding down. Pops has been asking me to visit. The timing works perfectly for a long weekend trip that just happens to coincide with major cardiac surgery.

My phone buzzes. Sebastian again.

“What?” I answer on the second ring.

“Poker night’s still on, right? Rowan found some fresh blood—a kid from the business school who thinks he knows how to count cards.”

“No, it’s canceled.”

Silence. Then, “Everything okay?”

“Family stuff. I’m driving out to see Pops Friday morning, probably staying through the weekend.”

Another pause. Sebastian knows me well enough to recognize when I’m not telling the whole truth, but he also knows me well enough not to push when my voice goes flat like this.

“Want company? I could drive out with you, catch up with Cooper.”

“No. Family time.”

“Right.” He doesn’t sound convinced, but he doesn’t argue. “Text me when you get there.”

“Will do.”

I end the call and immediately pull up Ainsley’s contact. My thumb hovers over her name for a solid minute before I finally type:

I need to take a trip to see Pops this Friday. I’ll be gone for the weekend. Will you be okay alone?

Her response comes back almost immediately:

That’s so sweet of you. I’ll be fine!

And just like that, the foundation is laid.

By Saturday, if everything goes according to plan, I’ll be recovering in some anonymous hotel room, fielding texts about Cooper’s games and Pops’s latest fishing stories, pretending I’m exactly where I said I’d be.

The lies come together with mechanical precision. Room reservations at a hotel near the hospital. A cover story about Pops wanting help with some quarterly reports. Backup plans for backup plans, because that’s what you do when you’re used to controlling every variable in your environment.

Except this time, I’m not controlling anything. I’m just managing the fallout from a body that refuses to cooperate with my schedule.

My watch buzzes. 138 BPM. Still elevated, but better than it was an hour ago. Three more days of this, and then hopefully, it’ll be someone else’s problem for a while.

I put the car in drive and head back toward campus, already mentally rehearsing the performance I’ll need to give.

Casual mentions of Pops wanting to see me.

Complaints about having to spend a weekend dealing with family business instead of more interesting pursuits.

Maybe even a few jokes about how boring it’ll be, stuck in the middle of nowhere with nothing to do but listen to old-man stories.

The Irony is that all of this—the lies, the deception, the elaborate cover-up—is supposed to protect the people I care about.

Ainsley doesn’t need to worry about surgical complications when she’s already stressed about whatever she’s been hiding.

Pops doesn’t need to know his grandson’s heart is acting up when he’s still recovering from his own health scares.

Sometimes protection and betrayal look the same.

The difference is intent. And right now, my intent is to come back from this weekend the same as I left—just with a heart that actually works the way it’s supposed to.

Everything else is just details.