Zander’s POV.
I didn’t bother glancing back at Aria as I turned away from her, pulling the flight attendant with me into the small bedroom at the back of the cabin. But I didn’t need to look to know her eyes were on me.
I could feel the searing heat of her glare, like flames licking at my back, daring me to turn around and meet her fury head-on. The tension in the air was suffocating, so thick it seemed to press down on every surface, every breath, every thought. And I reveled in it. I thrived on it. She hated this.
She hated me. And that was the whole point, wasn’t it? To push her, to make her feel the weight of her emotions, to remind her that no matter how much she resisted, I was the one in control.
I left the door ajar on purpose. Just enough for her to see, just enough for her to hear. It wasn’t an accident-it was deliberate, calculated, cruel. I wanted her to feel every second of it, to hear every sound, every sigh, every gasp. I wanted her to imagine what was happening in vivid, excruciating detail.
I wanted to test her limits, to see how far I could push her before she snapped. And maybe, deep down, a part of me wanted her to care. To feel something-anything-beyond her cold defiance. Whether it was anger, jealousy, or pain, I didn’t care. I just needed her to react, to acknowledge that no matter how much she hated me, no matter how much she fought me, I could still get under her skin.
The flight attendant responded eagerly to my touch, her hands trembling slightly as she fumbled with the buttons of my shirt. Her movements were clumsy, rushed, her cheeks flushed as she looked up at me with wide eyes that sparkled with awe.
She stared at me like I was a god, like I was something to be worshiped, desired, revered. It was intoxicating in a way, but also completely hollow. Her touch meant nothing to me. Her gaze, her desire, her excitement-they were meaningless. This wasn’t about her. It was about control. About power. About proving a point. And every move I made, every word I whispered, was meant for one person and one person only: Aria.
I made sure she heard everything. Every little sound, every soft gasp and moan that escaped the flight attendant’s lips. I made sure the door stayed open just enough for Aria to know exactly what was happening on the other side. And when it was over, when the flight attendant’s flushed cheeks and trembling hands no longer held any interest for me, I didn’t even spare her more than a passing glance.
I zipped up my pants with calm, deliberate movements, ignoring the way she looked at me with wide, expectant eyes, and strode out of the bedroom without a word.
Aria was still sitting in her seat when I entered the main cabin, her posture even stiffer than before. Her arms were crossed so tightly against her chest that her knuckles were white, and her jaw was clenched with such force that I thought she might crack a tooth. Her entire body was rigid, vibrating with barely-contained rage. But it was her eyes that struck me the most. The moment they locked onto mine, I felt the full force of her fury. They burned with a wild, untamed fire, full of anger, hatred, and something else-something raw and unspoken.
I smirked, making sure to let the expression linger as I walked toward her. When I stopped in front of her, I deliberately reached for the button on my pants, fastening it slowly, purposefully, knowing full well she was watching. Her glare intensified, her chest rising and falling rapidly as she struggled to keep her emotions in check. But she wasn’t as composed as she wanted to appear. I could see it in the slight tremble of her hands, in the way her lips pressed together so tightly they turned white.
“You’re heartless,” she spat, her voice trembling with barely-contained anger. Her words were sharp, venomous, and filled with a hatred so pure it almost made me laugh. “I hate you.”
Her words hung in the air between us, heavy and sharp, cutting through the tension like a blade. I didn’t respond immediately. Instead, I let the silence stretch, let it grow until it was almost unbearable. I studied her carefully, taking in every detail. The way her cheeks flushed with anger. The way her hands gripped the armrests of her seat so tightly it looked like she might snap them in half. The way her eyes, so bright and fierce, shone with unshed tears she stubbornly refused to let fall.
Finally, I leaned down, closing the distance between us until my face was mere inches from hers. I could feel the heat radiating off her skin, could see the tiniest flicker of uncertainty in her gaze before she masked it with anger. “Hate me all you want, Aria,” I said, my voice low and dangerous, each word deliberately slow. “But don’t forget who you belong to.”
Her lips parted, and for a moment, I thought she was going to lash out, to throw another venomous retort my way. But whatever she was about to say died on her tongue. I saw the conflict in her eyes-the battle raging within her. On one side, her anger, her hatred, her defiance. On the other, the pull of the bond that tied us together, that tethered her to me in ways she couldn’t escape, no matter how much she wanted to.
I straightened slowly, taking a deliberate step back, my eyes never leaving hers. Her gaze faltered, and she turned her head sharply, staring out the window as if the clouds outside could distract her from the tension crackling in the air between us. Her silence was louder than any words she could have spoken, and for the first time that night, a flicker of something unfamiliar stirred deep in my chest. Guilt? No. It couldn’t be guilt. Regret, maybe. But I shoved it down, burying it beneath the layers of arrogance and indifference that had served me so well over the years.
Aria was mine. Whether she liked it or not, whether she accepted it or not, it didn’t matter. She belonged to me. And I would do whatever it took to remind her of that, to make her understand that there was no escaping me.
Even if it meant breaking her completely in the process.