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In my case, it fits.
Perfectly.
The only other place where I reach this same state—where everything slows enough to make me breathe, where every thought settles into perfect order and I hold absolute control—is entirely illegal.
And the last time…
I promised Ethan I’d stay away from it.
So that leaves me with one option.
Work.
I scroll through the contract, my focus settling into a familiar rhythm, when a new email notification appears.
Selene.
Of course.
I open it instantly.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Re: Project schedule
Zayn,
If the schedule your assistant created for me seems so appropriate to you, I invite you to join me—both in the constant relocation from one site to another and in overseeing such a large number of workers.
First departure: tomorrow morning.
Destination: New York.
5 a.m. at the airport.
P.S. If you are not present, neither am I. I will refuse your schedule.
P.S. 2 Good luck booking hotel rooms for yourself as well. For every single trip.
Selene Diaconescu
Like the first time, I read it once.
Then again.
And a third time… more slowly.
A sharp exhale leaves me, somewhere between a scoff and a laugh.
She’s not negotiating.
She’s challenging me.
My jaw tightens as I lean back in my chair, my eyes never leaving the screen. There’s a precision to the way she wrote this—calculated, intentional. Every line placed exactly where it needed to be to provoke a reaction.
To force my hand.
