My stomach drops. Margie doesn’t send messages like that without reason. I almost open it—then I see the next notification, and nothing else matters.
One message from Tessa. Sent five days ago.
Hey. I know this is probably weird, but I’ve been staring at my phone trying to figure out what to say. So I’m just going to say it: I can’t stop thinking about you. About Valentine’s night. About where you disappeared to. What happened? Is everything okay?
The knot in my gut releases so fast I have to press my fist against my thigh.
She reached out. Even after what I did, she put herself out there. And her words aren’t angry—she’s reaching out across the distance I created.
My thumbs find the keyboard.
Tessa. I’m so sorry. I’ve been on a work assignment with no phone access for the past week. I’m sorry I didn’t have time to explain. Being with you at the Conservatory was amazing. I’mon my way back to Cupid City right now. I need to see you. Please.
I hit send. The message shows delivered. I lean my head back against the seat and exhale—a long, shaking breath from somewhere deep. Whittaker catches my eye from across the cabin and raises an eyebrow. I nod.Sent.
I watch the screen. Waiting for the dots.
The dots don’t come.
After we’ve droppedoff Moorfield, we touch down on the helipad at HQ, and I’m unstrapped before the skids settle.
Still no response.
I check the screen when I’m clear of the helicopter. No dots. No read receipt—and Tessa has read receipts turned on. I noticed it when we were messaging before the gala: the littleReadtimestamps under every message. My reply has been sitting here for over an hour, markedDelivered, and she hasn’t opened it.
She’s not the kind of person who ignores her phone on a Monday afternoon.
Dread coils in my gut.
I pull up her contact and hit call.
One ring. Straight to voicemail.Hey, you’ve reached Tessa. Leave me a message, and I’ll get back to you!
I hang up. Redial. Voicemail again.
I keep trying to call and keep getting voicemail. The short, truncated redirect that means the call is going to a phone that’s been turned off or a number that’s been blocked.
Tessa strikes me as the kind of woman who puts her phone on silent, not the kind who turns it off completely.
Dammit. I think she blocked my number.
I stand on the helipad with the rotor wash dying around me and my phone showingcall endedfor the third time, and the relief I felt twenty minutes ago turns to fear.
She reached out five days ago and got silence. Then she did the only sane thing a woman in her position could do: she protected herself. Closed the door.
I can’t blame her. I know about walling yourself off after you’ve been hurt. It’s exactly what I did after Rachael.
I open Margie’s text again.What the fuck did you do?
My sister doesn’t come at me like this unless something is seriously wrong.
I start to type a reply and stop. What would I say? The truth is just as damning as whatever Tessa thinks happened.
Whittaker appears beside me. He takes one look at my face, and the humor drops from his.
“She’s not answering?”
“I think she blocked me.”
