Chapter 3: Lisabet

Saturday mornings are supposed to be reserved for sleeping in.

I’m not that lucky.

My phone goes off at eight a.m. sharp. I instinctively slap my phone and press the decline button, ignoring the call. I’m awarded with thirty seconds of rest before the device starts chiming again, vibrating violently on the motel’s nightstand.

I sigh, pressing my face into the pillow that smells faintly of cigarette smoke and cheap fabric softener.

“Hello?” I answer groggily.

“Mrs. Carol—”

“Miss,” I correct immediately. “It’s Miss Thompson now.”

The man on the other end of the line pauses. “All right, my apologies, Miss Thompson. I’ll be sure to update your contact information right away. Um, anyway, this is Brian calling from Platinum Eagle Bank. I’m sorry to disturb you this early, but our system has made us aware that you’ve missed three of your last credit card payments.”

I struggle to sit up in bed. The mattress is lumpy in places, so my back’s sore like no one’s business. I attempt to run my fingers through my hair, but the strands are all tangled. My eyes are puffy and nearly swollen shut from all the crying I did last night, my mouth is dry, and my head is pounding. And to make matters worse, I have to deal with this collections call.

What a fantastic way to start the day.

I sigh. “I’m sorry, Brian. I really am. I just need a bit more time…My husband—ex-husband. Sorry. I’m still getting used to that. He ran up my credit card and then skipped town with my ex-best friend.”

There’s a brief pause over the phone.

“I’m sorry to hear that, Miss Thompson. I, uh…I see here that the credit card is only in your name. May I ask why he had access to your credit card if that’s the case? We typically don’t advise the use of credit cards by anyone other than an assigned card holder.”

The frustration that rises into my chest is nothing new. It’s all I’ve been feeling as of late.

“Believe me, I know,” I grumble. “I…I shouldn’t have given him my PIN. But he was my husband. When he told me he needed to borrow the card to buy us groceries, I believed him. I didn’t expect him to buy himself a brand-new fucking TV and guitar and waste it all on drinks.”

“According to our bank’s fraud policy, there’s unfortunately very little that we can do if you willingly give out PIN.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Oh, I know. I’ve been over this a hundred times with you guys. Look, I swear I’m going to make my payments. I’m just in a jam right now. Work’s been steady, but I don’t make enough to pay my bills and take care of Robert’s tab.”

“Are you able to make a small payment at all today? I’m afraid after three missed payments, the policy is to send this to collections, which will negatively impact your credit score.”

I really want to scream, but the motel walls are thin, and I don’t want to disturb my next-door neighbors. The walls feel like they’re caving in, and I’m seconds away from having to hold the roof up by myself. My shoulders are tight to the point of painful, the spot between my shoulders tingling from all the stress I’ve been carrying.

These last couple of months have been a nightmare. I can’t even begin to describe the hurt, the anger, the utter despair that’s crushing my lungs into dust.

Robert and I…I thought we were a team. We understood each other in more ways than one. He’s the lead guitarist in an Indie rock band, and I’m the cello soloist for the New York Golden Philharmonic.

Music’s our life.

The notes are our words, our instruments are our bodies, and the rush of performance is our blood.

The career of a professional musician isn’t as glamorous as it seems. It’s highly competitive, sometimes to the point of soul crushing. Not everybody lands a stable position like me. I had to go through years upon years of training, hours upon hours locked in a rehearsal room with nothing but my cello and bow to get where I am today. I practice until my fingers blister and until my eyes grow bleary from reading sheet music without a break.

And I love every second of it.

Robert and his band haven’t been so lucky. It’s hard to grow an audience without industry representation. That’s kind of the point of being independent.

But I saw his drive, his love and passion. It’s what I fell in love with in the first place.

Now I just feel like a fool for falling so hard so quickly.

Eighteen months.

We were married eighteen months.

Even though I’m still upset, I can’t help but mourn what could have been. I can’t stop blaming myself.

Could I have done things differently? Maybe if I paid Robert more attention, he wouldn’t have run off with Trisha. Maybe if I’d been a better wife—

Stop.

He was the one who cheated.

Brian clears his throat and pulls me from my thoughts. “I really do want to help you, Miss Thompson. It brings me no pleasure to have these kinds of calls. Do you have anything at all in your savings? All I’d need is a minimum payment of three-hundred dollars to pull the credit card from delinquency.”

“If I had that kind of money lying around, I would have paid the fucking thing already.”

“Miss Thompson, I’m going to have to ask you to watch your language. These calls are recorded for review purposes.”

I sigh and immediately feel guilty. “I’m sorry. Shit, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you. You’re just doing your job. I…No, I don’t have the money on me right now. But I do get paid tomorrow. I’ve got a performance in Tenebrae with the orchestra, so I should be getting a check soon.”

I hear the clicking of keys over the receiver.

After a brief pause, Brian pipes up. “That’ll work, Miss Thompson. I’ve left a little note on your profile. Since it’s the weekend and processing won’t happen until Monday, that’ll give you a couple extra days to get the payment in, all right? Anything after that, and I’m afraid the bill will go to collections.”

My lungs finally expand and allow me to breathe.

“Thank you,” I say shakily. “Thank you, Brian. I appreciate that.”

“Try and have a good day, Miss Thompson,” he says before hanging up the phone.

I fall back into bed and pull the covers over my face.

God, I wish I were rich.

Rich like all those pretty royal ladies at the mixer for the prince.

I roll onto my side and stare at the bedside alarm clock’s glowing green digits.

What’s your name?

Prince Miles’ voice rings in my ear. Low, deep, commanding. I could practically feel the vibration of his words through my bones, filling me with a warmth I haven’t felt in almost eighteen months. The way he looked at me was mesmerizing.

Hungry.

I almost didn’t answer him, but I knew I’d be in trouble if I didn’t. He’s a prince, after all. Refusing to answer would have been disrespectful. Though, I’m pretty sure he thinks poorly of me after the way I scurried off like a mouse hiding from the house cat. I felt utterly pathetic after I ran off.

Especially considering how I desperately wanted to stay.

I’ve heard of him. It’s kind of hard not to hear about him these days. He’s all anyone talks about: the most eligible, handsome bachelor in town. His face graces every magazine cover, billboard, random online advertisement trying to sell you whitening toothpaste so that ‘you too can get Prince Charming’s smile.’

But after everything that’s happened with Robert, I’m nowhere near ready to even think about getting out there again. I’m still reeling from the damage he’s done. Robert stole my money and my best friend, who I suppose wasn’t such a friend after all.

Besides, I’m nobody.

He’s a prince.

He wouldn’t be interested in me even if I was the last woman on earth.

My phone dings loudly, nearly startling me out of my skin. Wilma, the orchestra’s conductor, has just shot all one hundred of us a message. She could have just sent us an email, but Wilma marches to the beat of her own baton. None of us, not even our percussion section, would dare tell her otherwise.

There’s a reason she stands up front and leads.

She takes no shit.

[Wilma] Heads up! There’s been a change in our touring schedule. We’re still on track to go through Europe and Asia until the end of the year, but we’ve been requested for a last-minute private event booking.

I raise an eyebrow. This strikes me as incredibly odd.

New York Golden Philharmonic has been booked solid since the announcement of our tour last year. I can’t imagine the kind of money someone had to offer to convince Wilma of all people to shoehorn in another performance before the tour’s supposed to begin.

Several orchestra members shoot her confused responses.

[Damian] Who are we performing for?

[Larry] Are our travel expenses going to be covered for it?

[Beatrice] Remember to take out trash. And remember to take your undies from off the clothesline or the neighbors are going to riot again.

[Beatrice] Oops, sorry. Wrong thread.

An onslaught of messages come pouring in, but I don’t have the energy to read all of them. It gets pretty repetitive. Where are we going? Who are we playing for? What kind of undies are we talking about here?

[Wilma] Calm down, calm down. All travel expenses have been covered by King Albert. We’ve been invited to the Oxlandian court to perform for his Majesty. Now quit your sniveling and pack your things. We get on the five p.m. flight tonight.

My heart races, pounding so hard against my ribcage I’m scared it’s about to dislodge itself. Surely this is some kind of coincidence, right?

My thumbs shakily fly over my screen.

[Lisabet] Will the prince be there?

I don’t get a reply. My message is lost somewhere in the avalanche that is the group chat.

Maybe he isn’t.

He’s in New York right now, apparently, trying to find himself a wife through that famous Caroline Raines lady.

I force myself out of bed and start packing. I don’t have very much. The house, the car, and pretty much everything else was under Robert’s name. It’s the whole reason I’m camping out in a seedy motel. Not that I’d want to be in my bed back home where I found them, knotted up in my sheets on my pillows.

I squeeze my eyes shut and force myself to stop thinking about it.

If I start spiraling, I’m never going to stop.

Think of something else. Anything else.

The low murmur of Prince Miles’ voice whispers in my ear.

What’s your name?

A shiver trails down my spine as I recall his dark brown eyes, the sharp line of his jaw, the broad strength of his shoulders. I’d be lying if I said a small, tiny sliver of hope deep inside me wishes Prince Miles will be at the performance.

Of course, the louder, more cautious part of me is screaming for it to not be true.

He’s probably already forgotten all about me.