Page 39 of You Owe Me (21 Rumors #2)

I spot him immediately. He’s sitting at a corner table, and for once, he looks nervous. His usual smug confidence has been replaced by something more uncertain, like he’s finally starting to realize that this game is bigger than he thought.

The man sitting across from him can only be Dean Mills. Older, distinguished, wearing the kind of quiet authority that comes from decades in academia. He looks up as I approach, and I see where Carter gets his calculating eyes.

“Ainsley,” Carter stands as I reach the table, ever the gentleman. “You look… stunning.”

“Thank you,” I reply smoothly, letting him pull out my chair. “Dean Mills, I presume? Thank you for agreeing to meet with me.”

“Ms. James.” His voice is carefully neutral. “Carter tells me you have some concerns about recent… misunderstandings.”

Misunderstandings. Right.

I settle into my chair, crossing my legs and letting the dress ride up just enough to catch Carter’s attention. Not because I want it, but because distracted enemies make mistakes.

“I think we need to discuss the future.” I accept the wineglass Carter pours for me. “All of our futures.”

Dean Mills studies me with the kind of sharp intelligence that built careers and buried rivals. “I’m listening.”

And so the performance begins.

For the next hour, I play the role Carter expects—the concerned girlfriend, slightly out of her depth, willing to negotiate for the sake of peace. I let him think he’s winning, that his threats have worked, that I’m ready to sell out Maverick’s operation to protect his family.

I’m brilliant at it.

I hint at information about Maverick’s network while revealing nothing useful.

I express concern about federal investigations while subtly implying that Carter’s amateur hour approach has actually made things worse.

I play frightened and overwhelmed while carefully documenting every admission, every threat, every moment of incrimination.

Carter laps it up like a man dying of thirst. He gets bolder, more detailed about his plans, more specific about his threats. His father listens with growing alarm as his son reveals the scope of his activities—the IRS tips, the blackmail attempts, the systematic harassment campaign.

“Carter,” Dean Mills says quietly during a lull in his son’s gloating, “perhaps we should?—”

“No, Dad, you need to hear this,” Carter interrupts, wine making him reckless. “She understands now. The investigation’s real, the evidence is solid, and Lexington’s empire is about to crumble. All we need is her cooperation to make the transition smooth.”

The look on Dean Mills’ face is worth every uncomfortable minute of this dinner. Horror, disappointment, and the growing realization that his son has been playing with federal fire while building a case for his own destruction.

“And what exactly,” I ask carefully, “would this cooperation look like?”

Carter leans forward, eyes bright with assumed victory.

“Names, methods, leverage points. Everything you know about how Maverick’s system works.

In exchange, the investigation finds nothing actionable, your boyfriend’s family stays clean, and everyone moves forward without unnecessary complications. ”

I pretend to consider this, taking a sip of wine while the recording device in my clutch captures every word.

“That’s quite an offer,” I say finally. “But I need certain guarantees. After all, I’d be taking significant risks.”

“Such as?”

“Academic protection, for starters. If this arrangement ever comes to light, I’d need assurance that my own standing wouldn’t be compromised.” I meet Dean Mills’s eyes directly. “I assume that wouldn’t be a problem?”

The question hangs in the air like a trap waiting to spring. Because what I’m really asking is whether Dean Mills is willing to explicitly commit to covering up academic misconduct—on tape, in front of witnesses, with his son already confessing to federal crimes.

Carter, oblivious to the landmine he’s about to step on, nods eagerly. “Absolutely. My father has considerable influence?—”

That’s when I hear it—the distinctive scrape of a chair being dragged across expensive flooring. Every head in the restaurant turns toward the sound, but my heart stops because I know that walk, that presence, that barely controlled lethality moving through space like a force of nature.

Maverick.

He appears beside our table like he materialized from the shadows, pulling an empty chair from a nearby table with casual authority. The entire restaurant seems to hold its breath as he settles into the seat, completely relaxed and in control.

Carter’s face goes from pale to gray. “What… How did you…”

“Gentlemen,” Maverick says pleasantly, as if crashing dinner parties is just another Tuesday for him. His voice carries that edge of controlled violence that makes smart people very quiet very quickly.

Dean Mills straightens in his chair, and I see something flicker across his face. Not just recognition—something deeper. Something that looks almost like fear.

Maverick reaches into his jacket with deliberate slowness, the motion making both men tense like he might be reaching for a weapon. Instead, he pulls out a single playing card and slides it across the table toward Dean Mills with the precision of a poker dealer.

An IOU.

Dean Mills stares at the card like it might explode.

“You remember our deal, don’t you, Richard?”