I consider something mindless—flipping on the TV and zoning out to some inane late-night drama—when my phone buzzes. My eyes flick toward the phone, a slow pulse of dread already curling in my gut. My men call more than they text. It could be Mom needing something downstairs. She would use the penthouse intercom, though. I lift the phone, the screen lighting my face, and frown at the message. I stare at the screen, trying to make sense of the words. Then I read it again. I read it three times, in fact. Plenty of people might call me an asshole, but I sure as hell didn’t ditch anyone at dinner.
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