The arrogant man who had spent ten years telling me I didn’t understand finance was suddenly struggling with basic terms.

“You have nothing left, Graham,” I said.

“Not the firm, not the money, and certainly not this house.”

He took a step toward me, his hands curling into fists.

“You set me up,” he hissed.

“I did nothing but watch you make your own choices,” I said.

Suddenly, the screen of his phone lit up on the kitchen counter behind us.

The blue light cast a sharp glow against the dark granite.

It began to vibrate, its buzz echoing against the tile walls.

The caller ID showed an unknown number with a Washington, D.C. area code.

We both looked at it.

The vibration didn’t stop.

It was the third time that number had called since dinner.

I walked past him and picked up the phone, holding it out to him.

“I think you should answer that,” I said.

Graham stared at the screen, his chest rising and falling beneath his tailored dinner jacket.

He snatched the phone from my hand.