"Where do you think you're going, Miss Fortunata?"
The sheer arrogance of the question caught Phoebe off guard, cutting through the quiet of her dressing room. She paused, her fingers tightening around her clutch. "And how exactly do you know I'm going anywhere? And don't even think about telling me I can't go."
A low, gravelly chuckle vibrated through the receiver. "Relax. I wouldn't dream of grounding you. I just want to know where you're going, sweetheart."
"I have a dinner date," Phoebe replied, her voice smooth, dripping with upper-class coldness. "Do not ruin it."
"A date," Raymond repeated. The warmth left his tone instantly, replaced by a dangerous, sharp edge. "With whom?"
"Since when is my schedule any of your business?!" phoebe exhaled a sharp, irritated breath. "You're not my man. Therefore, you have absolutely no right to know where I go, or who I choose to spend my time with."
