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During the first few days, I used to leave earlier with his driver whenever he stayed behind to deal with urgent work, and then the driver would come back for him later.

“I…” The words catch in my throat. How am I supposed to get there? I don’t have my car here. I’d have to find a taxi.

“I’ve got a car here. If you want, you can come with me.”

He says it as he climbs into a Mitsubishi and pulls the door shut.

I remain where I am for a couple of seconds. Then I realize there’s no point in making this any more awkward than it already is.

So I open the passenger door and get in.

Reaching for the seatbelt, I turn slightly to him. That’s when I see them.

Wrapped around the gearshift.

A pair of nude lace thong panties.

Like some obscene decoration in the dark interior of Zayn’s car.

Everything inside me goes still.

My eyes lock onto the delicate lace. They’re draped there so carelessly, as though they belong in his car. As though nothing about this is wrong.

Tears sting my eyes almost instantly. My chest tightens with such force that it physically hurts.

It fucking hurts.

When he notices I’ve stopped moving, he looks at me first.

Then his gaze follows mine.

For a brief moment, he looks just as stunned as I am. At least that’s how it seems.

But why would he be? Did he forget what he did last night?

Muttering something under his breath, he picks them up between two fingers and throws them out the window.

I can’t react.

I can’t say a word.

And I don’t want to.

My hands refuse to cooperate when I try to fasten my seatbelt. They’re shaking too badly for him not to notice.

Still, he doesn’t say anything.

Because there’s nothing to say.

And Zayn doesn’t owe me anything anyway.

SEVENTEEN

Zayn

“Yes, everything’s ready for tomorrow,” Beatrix replies, practically shouting into the phone.

“Would you mind getting a little closer to the phone instead of yelling?” I ask, exasperated.