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Now I’m the one paying for it.

“Zayn,” someone suddenly calls out, and my entire body prickles. “We’ve been waiting for you to install the mirror wall.”

Huh?

Since when are my people asking him for help?

And why didn’t they ask me instead?

“I think Zayn is a little too exhausted to function properly today,” I hear myself say before I can think better of it.

The bitterness slips out on its own.

I’m too angry.

Too hurt.

Too worked up to hold it back.

The room falls into complete silence. And every pair of eyes shifts toward us.

Lifting my gaze from the paint color catalogue in my hand, I find Zayn already looking at me.

His expression is murderous.

I’m the only one who can see it, though. His back is turned to everyone else, shielding the fury burning across his face.

Even so, I refuse to back down.

Without acknowledging Zayn, I walk past him and address the workers instead.

“I decide what gets installed, when, and how.”

Then I head for the reception area, where the mirror wall actually needs to be mounted.

Every hour that passes pushes me another step closer to a complete breakdown.

I avoid Zayn whenever I can. But at the same time, I seize every opportunity to lash out at him.

“So we’re leaving tomorrow?” Miley asks.

“I’m sure Zayn didn’t have time to deal with insignificant details like that,” I answer, making no effort to hide the accusation in my voice.

From the corner of my eye, I notice him straighten from where he’s been kneeling beside a bag of decorative stone, turning fully to face me.

“You can’t spend every night occupied and still expect to be productive during the day.”

I know.

I know exactly how I sound. Like a jealous woman.

But I don’t care.

Because I am one.

Goddamn it, I am.

Judging by the stunned expressions around us, I’m fairly certain my coworkers haven’t missed the scene I’m making either.