ISABELLA
The plane was small — private, sleek, and absolutely not something I should’ve been stepping into without a full mental health evaluation.
“Adrian,” I whispered as we boarded, “this is insane.”
“You’re still here,” he said, guiding me inside with a hand on my lower back.
“I’m reconsidering.”
“No, you’re not.”
I hated that he was right.
We took our seats, and before I could spiral further, the flight attendant brought water, blankets, and a tray of fruit I absolutely didn’t need after the pancakes.
I leaned back, arms crossed. “You still haven’t told me where we’re going.”
“And I won’t.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s a surprise.”
“I hate surprises.”
“You don’t.”
“I do.”
“You don’t.”
I glared at him.
He murmured something but I didn’t catch it. His eyes flicking to my mout
