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He greeted everyone, then sat down at the table and acted as if nothing was wrong—joining in on the jokes, talking about things happening at the office, even commenting on a hockey game with Nick.
And now he’s lounging back in his chair, completely at ease, a glass of whiskey loose in his hand as he talks to Colt.
From what I’ve gathered, they received proposals to turn one of the clubs into a sex club.
The wave of jealousy that hits me at the thought of Zayn stepping into a place like that should honestly be studied by doctors.
I barely manage to lift my glass of water to my lips, forcing myself to take a sip just to cool the heat spreading through my body—and to make sure none of it shows on my face.
“Why would anyone think we’d be interested in something like that?” Liam asks from his seat, looking at Zayn.
He only shrugs, smiling as though he finds the whole thing amusing.
It isn’t amusing at all.
“They probably don’t understand the concept our clubs are built around,” Aiden says from the kitchen, where he’s helping Thalia cut a cake.
“Oh, they do,” Zayn replies, typing something on his phone. “They visited our clubs and were extremely impressed by our dancers.”
Our.
The possessiveness in his tone does absolutely nothing to ease the jealousy clawing through me. My mind genuinely seems incapable of making sense of the situation we’re in.
Why am I jealous over a man I could never look at the same way again? A man I could never let touch me again?
Coming here this soon was a terrible idea. It’s obvious I can’t be in the same place as Zayn without my emotions spilling completely out of control.
How am I supposed to work with Theo for that long when I’ve been here one night and already feel like I’m suffocating beneath the weight of jealousy, frustration, and longing?
Without saying a word, I pick up my plate and rise from the table.
The others continue their conversation, but I stop trying to listen. I don’t even glance in their direction anymore.
What’s the point?
Ever since Zayn walked through the door earlier wearing dark jeans and a black button-up shirt opened at the collar, the sleeves rolled slightly up his forearms, there’s been a pressure building in my chest, growing heavier and tighter with every passing minute.
He hasn’t acknowledged me once.
Hasn’t looked at me a single time.
He’s ignored me completely—exactly like I knew he would.
“Who’s helping Selene assemble the furniture tomorrow?” Sierra asks, placing two trays of cake on the table.
I don’t move. In fact, I stop breathing, my back to them, my hand suspended in the air with the dirty plate still in it.
“If it’s being assembled in the morning, I can help,” Colt offers.
Thank God.
I set the plate in the sink, then turn to look at him.
“We can do it whenever,” I reply with a small smile, grateful he volunteered. “The walls where the furniture’s going are already done.”
“Perfect,” he says, grabbing a piece of cake. “Tomorrow at 7 a.m., I’m here.”
“At 7?” I ask, horrified, my eyes widening as the others burst into laughter.
