And when you finally show up, it won’t mean a damn thing.”

Now the text in his palm read: Don’t be late again.

Beatrice took a slow, controlled breath. “You are not going.”

Alexander looked up, his eyes cold. “What did you say?”

She caught herself. “I mean — you shouldn’t go. You’re fragile right now. The press could turn this into a scandal.”

“Since when do you care more about the press than the chance that my daughter is alive?”