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Even Miley is staring at me with wide eyes.

I can’t decide whether they’ve figured out something happened between Zayn and me or if they’re simply shocked that I have the nerve to speak to him like that.

Either way, I couldn’t care less in this moment.

“We’re leaving for London tonight,” he says calmly, his voice perfectly polite despite the tension simmering in his eyes. “Your tickets have already been taken care of. You’ll receive them sometime today from my assistant.”

Thank God for his assistant.

That poor woman probably doesn’t have a personal life anymore. She must spend every waking hour cleaning up the endless messes he leaves behind.

“Good thing you have an assistant to handle everything you don’t,” I mutter as I brush past him.

I’m not sure I intended for him to hear me.

But he does.

The instant his hand closes around my wrist, my breath catches as he turns me to face him.

The sudden movement draws everyone’s attention again. Work comes to a halt, and every single person is watching us.

One sharp look from Zayn is all it takes to remind them why they’re here.

Almost immediately, they return to work, pretending not to notice us, even though I know every one of them is listening.

The two of us remain standing in the middle of the noise surrounding us.

The warmth of his hand wrapped around my wrist sends electric shivers racing through my body, and the intensity of his gaze steals every coherent thought from my mind.

For one dizzying second, I forget how to speak, how to breathe.

What were we even arguing about?

“What the fuck is your problem?” he asks through clenched teeth.

Every word lands like a blow.

Part of me wants to wrench free, to rip my wrist from his grasp, but I’ve already made enough of a spectacle in front of our people.

So I stay where I am, my pulse pounding as I struggle to decide if answering is even worth it.

Apparently, he loses patience.

Without warning, he pulls me against him. Hard.

“Did you fuck him?” he demands, venom dripping from every syllable, disgust flashing across his face beneath the fury blazing in his eyes.

The question knocks the air out of me.

A violent tremor runs through me as my lungs refuse to cooperate, the crushing pressure inside my chest becoming almost unbearable.

At this point, I probably need a doctor.

“Are we fixing the wall or not?” one of his men interrupts, dragging me back to reality.

I’m at work.

Surrounded by the team I’m supposed to lead. People who should see me as approachable, but still trust, respect, and listen to me.