Zayn had not slept.
Not really.
For days now his body had moved on discipline alone, fuelled by black coffee, clenched jaws, and a tension that lived permanently under his skin, vibrating like a live wire that refused to cool down.
Ever since the moment he had learned that she was gone—really gone, vanished from the island like smoke—his mind had been locked in a relentless loop, replaying her face, her voice, her defiance, her softness, her anger, her tears, until it all blurred into something dangerously close to obsession.
But now—finally—he was here.
From his head of security’s report, sparse and efficient as always, he had learned that Lana Pearson had returned to work, that she was back in the air, back in uniform, back to pretending that none of it had ever happened, and when
