Leon's office was dead quiet except for the tick of the wall clock. The files on his desk might as well have been in another language—his eyes skimmed them, but nothing stuck. The same thought kept looping in his head like an irritating song: Ayla still hasn't texted.
Seven days.
Seven days since that short message telling him she was going on a vacation with Damien. Seven days since he told himself to respect her space. Seven days of fighting the urge to text her again.
At first, he'd convinced himself she was just busy, maybe even happy. That was the lie he fed himself so he wouldn't spiral into imagining worse scenarios. But today, the lie felt thin.
His pen stopped mid-stroke.
What if something's wrong?
The thought snapped through him like lightning. He pictured her—laughing with Damien, leaning against him in some overpriced resort. Jealousy burned fast and mean in his chest. His jaw tightened.
He tossed the pen aside and leaned back, forcing his eyes shut. She's with him. That's all. She's with him, and maybe she's even choosing to be. The bitterness in that thought was enough to smother the worry for now. He straightened the stack of files, pushed the knot in his throat down where it belonged, and forced his attention back to the day's contracts.
If she needed him, she'd call. He'd just have to believe that.
Ayla's plan had been simple. Act cheerful. Ask for a day out. Make it sound like a harmless shopping trip—new dresses, new shoes, maybe lunch in the city. It would get her out of the house, maybe give her a few stolen moments to talk to someone, anyone.
So she put on the smile she'd been rehearsing all week and floated the idea over breakfast. "I was thinking… I'd like to go shopping today. Just for a few hours. It's been so long since I picked out anything new."
Damien looked at her across the table, spoon stilling mid-air. For a moment, she thought he might refuse outright. Then his lips curled into that unreadable half-smile that made her skin crawl.
"Shopping?" he repeated. "We can do better than that."
Her pulse quickened. "What do you mean?"
Instead of answering, he pulled out his phone, murmured something into it, and ended the call with a satisfied nod. "Pack a bag. We're leaving in an hour."
She blinked. "Leaving? Where—"
"You'll see." He didn't elaborate.
An hour later, Ayla stood at the edge of an airstrip, staring at the sleek white shape of Damien's private jet. The sun flashed off its polished surface, making her squint.
"This isn't shopping," she said carefully.
"No," he agreed smoothly. "It's better. We're going away. Just the two of us. No distractions."
He guided her toward the steps with a firm hand at her back, his touch too possessive to refuse. She glanced over her shoulder—no one else on the tarmac but two silent crew members who avoided her eyes.
Once inside, the cabin was cool, luxurious, suffocating. Cream leather seats. A long table set with wine glasses. Thick curtains over the oval windows.
Damien handed her a chilled drink and watched until she took a sip. Then, with casual precision, he collected her phone from her bag.
"You won't need this," he said, slipping it into his pocket. "This trip is about us, Ayla. No interruptions. No outsiders."
Her mouth went dry. "I wasn't going to—"
"I know," he said, cutting her off with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "But let's keep it that way."
The engines roared to life. The vibration thrummed through her bones as the jet began to move.
She forced herself to keep her expression soft, her posture easy, even as the sinking truth spread through her chest: she wasn't going shopping. She wasn't even going somewhere she could plan an escape.
Damien had just made sure of it.
And somewhere back in the city, Leon was telling himself she was fine.