Zayne’s POV
I stared at it for a long moment before answering, pressing the phone to my ear.
“August,” I say coldly.
A familiar exhale greets me from the other side. The same way it has always been.
“Mr. Bellandi.”
I roll my eyes slightly, even though he can’t see it. “You know you don’t have to keep calling me that.”
“Habit,” he says simply. “And professionalism.”
That’s August. Thirty-eight years old. Former military. Been driving for the family long enough to see me transition from reckless teenager to whatever version of myself I am now.
He pauses.
“How is Italy? How was your sister’s wedding?”
I lean against the wall beside my bed, gaze drifting toward the half-packed suitcase sitting open on the chair.
“It…was great.”
There’s no accusation in his tone, just observation.
