Chapter 22 — Lisabet

I keep busy.

It’s the only way I can distract myself and stop thinking about him.

Whenever I stop to catch my breath, I’m suddenly reminded of the gaping hole in my chest where my heart’s supposed to be.

The second I land back in New York, I find myself a cheap Airbnb. As cheap as they come in Manhattan, that is. I have enough in my savings account to get me through to next month, and by then the orchestra will have returned to start their North American tour where I’ll be able to join up and get back to work.

He’s tried calling me, but I don’t answer.

He’s sent me a few emails, but I don’t have it in me to take a peek.

I know that the second I do, I’ll cave. I’ve somehow managed to keep from crumpling into a wallowing ball, a sincere improvement from when my divorce from Robert was finalized. I’ve managed to keep everything in. All of my anger, all of my sadness. I’ve collected every ounce of it, mashed it into a tight ball, and swallowed it whole. Robert made an absolute fool of me.

I’m not about to let Miles do the same.

But there’s no denying how much this hurts.

I miss him, but I’m also upset that I miss him. After everything that’s happened, he shouldn’t occupy my mind as much as he does now. I had an easier time forgetting all about Robert. Maybe it was because I caught him in the sheets with my best friend in the middle of a truly horrendous act.

With Miles, I was blindsided.

Maybe that’s the difference. All of the what if’s keep me up at night, constantly mulling things over even though I want nothing more than to let go. I’m numb at this point, and I’d take a blank mind over this personal hell any day.

It doesn’t help that Miles is still very much the talk of the town. I can’t go one night without hearing about Prince Miles on the radio or on crappy late-night television shows or seeing his chiseled jawline grace the corner of every gossip magazine I come across. He’s everywhere.

Taunting me.

Because I know. The smile that graces editorial covers isn’t his real smile. It’s all fake. Miles’s real smile is inexplicably sweet, the corners of his eyes crinkling as his whole face lights up. What’s captured on camera is something practiced, stiff. It’s believable, but I know the truth. It’s a front. The real Miles is vibrant, so full of life and fire that he could light up every room. The man I see everywhere on the front page is Prince Miles; stuffy, a carefully curated image.

In the quiet hours of the morning, or in the weary hours of the night, I’ll find my mind wandering to memories of us together in Paris. On the yacht. Bowling and getting overly competitive with one another, but in the best of ways. Hidden away in the summer palace, just the two of us. I remember the way he made me feel warm inside, made me believe I was special and the center of his world.

And then I remember arriving at the airport. Learning the truth. All of the harsh things the King said to me. I start wondering if I made a mistake, start regretting leaving him behind.

I have to pinch myself to regain focus.

It’s done. We’re over.

It’s just as I thought: I’d never fit into his world.

A pile of empty sheet music sits before me on the coffee table, where I’ve pretty much been the entire morning trying to translate notes in my head to dots on the page. These songs aren’t for SM Records. Even though the deal still stands, I don’t think I want to have anything to do with it. Not after I learned Miles went behind my back to pull some strings. I know without a doubt that I’m a capable musician, that I would have gotten to record my own album one day if I kept at it.

I don’t need handouts.

I’m going to write this music because it’s what I want.

I’ve got quite the collection going. From technique exercises to mini-operatic numbers, it’s been an amusing experience. The songs all have a tinge of sadness to them, and I have no doubt that it’s because of everything going on in my life. I don’t feel like writing anything happy or uplifting. Sometimes it’s just best to write from experience. It’s more authentic that way.

It isn’t until the sun starts to set, painting the sky a mix of muddy orange and dull yellow that I realize I’ve been working away for the entire day. My stomach grumbles in protest. My fingers are cramped and sore. My eyes are beginning to strain because of the lack of proper lighting.

I should get something to eat.

Maybe go for a walk and get some fresh air.

I know a little pub not too far from here that Miles will love—

I shake the thought from my mind. Thinking about him is just too painful.

To a tourist, I suppose New York at night must seem like a wonder. Big billboards, flashing lights, the constant noise of busy city life. I used to think making it out to New York was a dream, a goal to always strive and reach. But what people don’t tell you is how quickly the city can turn on you, hit you in the face with a generous dose of reality.

I keep my eyes on the ground, determined to go to the pub, pick up my order that I placed over the phone, and then head right back to the Airbnb where I can eat and compose in silence.

A dog barks loudly, followed by the happy clicking of his nails on the pavement.

I look up to find a beautiful Golden Retriever running up to me, leather leash trailing behind him while attached to his teal collar with mint green stripes.

My heart skips a beat as I look around for the dog’s owner.

Could it be?

Is he here?

I shouldn’t feel this excited.

I check the dog’s tag. It doesn’t read Jingles.

“So sorry,” says a woman, rushing up to me and the dog. “Jasper, what are you doing?”

Jasper barks, blissfully unaware of the trouble he’s put his owner through. The woman smiles apologetically. “Sorry again, miss. I knew I should have gotten a smaller dog. Who knew he’d drag me around like this? Sometimes I can barely keep up.”

The level of disappointment that settles in my chest surprises me. I fight through it and force a polite smile.

I hand the woman the leash. “That’s all right. I’m sure he’s just excited.”

A flash of recognition passes over her face. “Oh, you’re—”

“Do we know each other?”

She shakes her head. “I…I don’t know. Your face just seems really familiar. I can’t quite figure it out.”

I shrug. “I must have one of those faces.”

“I guess.” After another moment of consideration, she decides to let things go, walking away briskly with her dog leading the way.

When I get to the pub, it’s abuzz with energetic conversation. It’s a Tuesday evening, so I’m surprised to see how busy it is. Every table is full, and there’s a large group of people gathered together by the bar. All of them appear to be watching the television screen mounted there, whispering amongst themselves in amazement.

I pay them no mind, choosing instead to walk right up to the counter to ask for my order.

“I’m here for a pick-up.”

“Sure,” the bartender nods. “Name?”

“Lisabet.”

One of the bar goers turns to look at me, jaw dropping. “Lisabet?” he echoes. The guy points at the screen. “That Lisabet?”

On TV, a familiar late-night entertainment host stands in center frame, glammed up for this evening’s broadcast. Floating directly to the right of her head is an image of two people on a yacht. The picture is grainy, but I’m still able to identify the individuals in an instant. It’s me and Miles, photo taken from a large distance.

My heart stops beating.

Sounds from the bar drown out into nothing.

I’m suddenly stuck in a bubble, afraid that at any second, its flimsy protective layer is going to pop.

Another image comes up on screen, also not the clearest, but higher quality than the first. They’re once again taken at a distance. This time, Miles and I are in Paris, walking hand in hand and clearly enjoying each other’s company.

“Who exactly is Prince Miles’s mystery woman?” the host questions, sounding rather amused. “Not much is known about Lisabet Thompson, but one thing’s for sure: she’s definitely captured our favorite prince’s attention, as well as our own. Things seem to be pretty steamy between the two, which leads many of us to wonder if she’s the reason for Prince Miles’s sudden disappearance.”

My breath gets caught in my throat.

“Disappearance?” I echo in disbelief. “What does she mean?”

The guy next to me shrugs. “He hasn’t been seen in a couple of days,” he explains. “Everyone either thinks that King Albert has him locked away, or Prince Miles has run away. Probably to find you. Is it true? Is he with you?”

I shrink away slightly, not used to being surrounded and out in the open like this. “No, he’s not. This is the first I’ve heard of any of this.”

“What? Do you live under a rock?”

People starts to circle me, suddenly intrigued. Their eyes are on me, heavy and judging and curious.

“How did you meet the prince?” one person asks me.

“Are you two dating?”

“What do you do for a living?”

“What’s Prince Miles really like?”

“Do you know where he is?”

It’s a sudden onslaught of questions, voices piling onto other voices to create an incomprehensible cacophony. My gut reaction is to run, to shrink away. But at this point, I’ve had enough of people treading all over me.

“My personal life is none of your business,” I say clearly, but politely. “I’d appreciate it if you respected my privacy. I’m only here to grab my food and leave. Have a good day.”

I pay the bartender and leave without another word.

“She’s got spunk,” I hear someone mutter as I walk through the pub’s front doors. “I like her.”

Even though I appear calm and collected, my walk home is anything but. This new information that Miles is missing has my nerves fraying and my heart beating so hard it might burst. My first and immediate reaction is to want to panic. I may be upset with him, but I still care.

Where is he? Is he OK? Is he safe?

The TV host said that it’s been a number of days since anyone’s seen or heard from him, which has me incredibly worried.

A pang of guilt pierces my chest. Miles has been trying to call me non-stop, but I haven’t answered once. He hasn’t tried calling me these past couple of days, and now I realize that it’s because he’s vanished.

What if he needed my help?

What if he needed me and I totally ignored him?

When I get home, I all but throw my food onto the dinner table and hastily pull out my phone, shaky fingers entering the password to my voicemail. They’re all unheard messages, fresh to my ears.

“Lisabet, I’m really sorry about everything. Please pick up so that we can talk.”

The next message plays without skipping a beat.

“Lisabet, it’s me. You’re right. I should have told you the truth about the record deal. It’s not that I didn’t believe you couldn’t make it on your own. I just wanted the best for you. Please call me when you get the chance.”

“Lisabet, I love you. Please answer. It’s killing me not being able to talk to you.”

The next message he’s left me sounds a bit muffled, like he’s hidden away somewhere. He sounds defeated.

“Hi, Lisabet It’s me again. You probably know that, though. My father’s invited Caroline Raines to stay at the palace. She’s apparently going to stay until I pick a wife.”

My heart sinks into the pit of my stomach at the news. It hurts to hear. It’s even more painful to listen to the strain in Miles’s voice. The pang in my chest is unbearable.

“I’m not going to go through with it, Lisabet. I can’t. Not when I’m in love with you. I know I messed things up, and I know that being together might be difficult, but I don’t care. Please call me, Lisabet. At least tell me that you’re somewhere safe. I love you.”

My eyes grow bleary with the threat of tears. He sounds so sincere that it breaks my heart. A part of me wonders if I overreacted, if I made a mistake that day when I got on the plane. I was just so angry that I couldn’t think straight. But Miles’s persistence, the sweetness of his words tells me he means well. That he always meant well.

And now, I have no idea if I’ll ever see him again.

It’s wishful thinking, but I’m praying that he’s somehow made it out of Oxland. Now it’s a question of where on Earth he could be, especially considering just how far-reaching King Albert’s spies are.

I don’t own very much property, but I do have a penthouse suite in Manhattan that’s totally out of the King’s reach.

I gasp, epiphany finally coming to me.

I know what I need to do. There’s no telling if he’s actually there, but I know I have to try.