Elisabeth's POV
Spain. We were actually in Spain.
My mind reeled as I stepped off Jefferson's private jet, the warm Mediterranean air hitting my face. This morning I had been planning to order takeout pizza from my couch. Now I was standing on a runway outside Lisbon because Jefferson Harding had decided I needed authentic Italian food.
The man was absolutely insane.
He had stormed into my apartment, practically dragged me to his car, and before I could protest, we were airborne. No discussion. No asking if I had other plans. Just his typical commanding presence steamrolling over everything in its path.
What made it worse was that I had let him. I could have fought back, could have refused to get on that plane. Instead, I had followed him like some lovesick puppy, caught up in the sheer force of his will.
