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Only then do I remember the email I fired off last night, fueled by frustration over the way he communicates.

Demanding.

Harsh.

“I don’t think that’s a question I need to answer,” he says, clearly unimpressed.

Right then, the boarding announcement for my flight echoes through the terminal, and the crowd around us shifts into motion, passengers hurrying to their gates.

Zayn barely glances at them. His expression hardens with irritation at the growing chaos.

Without a word, he takes my hand and starts pulling me after him.

“Where are we going?” I ask, struggling to keep up. “Can you let go of my hand and stop?”

“No,” is all he says—like he’s been given a daily word limit and refuses to waste any of it at once.

What a jerk.

The moment we reach one of the exits, he turns right and leads me down a corridor secured by a keypad.

Okay.

I really don’t like this.

“Zayn,” I try again. “Can you let go of my hand? I’m not going anywhere unless you tell me where you’re taking me.”

“Where exactly do you think I’d take you, Selene?” he asks, amusement threading through his voice. “Do you think this is a movie and I’m kidnapping you? Or that I’m some trafficker who’s been tracking you this whole time?”

Annoyed, I tug my hand, but his grip remains firm.

“We’re almost there,” he says, continuing down the hallway.

Another coded door unlocks ahead of us.

A second later, we step outside.

Onto the runway.

And right in front of us sits a massive private jet with HARTHO printed across the side.

“Of course Zayn Thomas doesn’t fly commercial,” I mutter under my breath.

The brief glance he sends my way tells me he heard every word.

But he ignores the comment, releases my hand, and heads to the aircraft stairs, signaling to a man waiting nearby. The man approaches immediately, takes my suitcase, and disappears with it without saying a single word.

Apparently, neither he nor the people who work for him believe in basic politeness this early in the morning.

Actually…

He’s like this no matter what time it is.

Inside, Zayn is already seated, looking perfectly at ease in one of the leather chairs, his phone resting casually in his hand.

I decide to ignore him entirely and move farther into the cabin, choosing a seat on the opposite side.

I place my coffee in the holder, set my phone on the table in front of me, then slide my bag off my shoulder and search for my Kindle and headphones.