Page 15

Chapter Eight

T he morning sun filtered through the hotel curtains, casting long golden streaks across the plush carpet.

Myst adjusted the strap of her silk camisole and pulled her hair into a messy bun, her movements quick and practiced as she rummaged through her wardrobe for something professional yet chic.

Her phone buzzed on the nightstand with another reminder from Jessie about the interviews lined up for the day.

She glanced toward the bed, where George lay sprawled beneath the white duvet, one arm draped over his eyes. His dark hair was a ruffled mess against the pillow, and his usual energy seemed dulled by invisible weights. Myst hesitated, a pair of earrings clutched in her hand.

“Are you planning to stay there all day?” she asked lightly, though her voice lacked its usual teasing edge.

“Just need a bit more sleep,” came George’s muffled reply, his tone neutral, distant. “Late night, you know.”

“Right.” Myst slipped the earrings on, her fingers trembling slightly. She wanted to say more, to ask if he was okay, to explain herself, but the words stuck in her throat like stones. Instead, she busied herself with zipping up her bag, the sharp sound filling the silence between them.

“Breakfast’s in the lounge downstairs if you’re hungry,” she added, forcing a polite smile that he wouldn’t see.

“Thanks,” he said without moving, still shielding his face from the sunlight.

And that was it. No further words, no lingering looks. Just an aching emptiness that filled the room as Myst grabbed her blazer and left. The soft click of the door closing behind her felt heavier than it should have.

“Enchantée, Myst! You are magnifique, as always!” The French journalist’s greeting was effusive, but Myst barely registered it.

She sat at the centre of a semi-circle of reporters in a sleek conference room, the table gleaming under bright artificial lights.

Cameras clicked rhythmically as she fidgeted with a silver ring on her finger, twisting it back and forth until her skin turned pink.

“Your latest single has been such a succès énorme! Tell us, what inspired it?” another journalist asked, leaning forward eagerly.

“Um,” Myst began, her voice faltering. What had inspired it?

Normally, she could wax poetic about the layers of emotion and creativity behind her music.

But now, all she could think about was George’s quiet, closed-off expression that morning, and the way her chest tightened every time she pictured it.

“Love,” she stammered finally, her accent slipping into Australian despite her best efforts. “It’s, um... complicated, isn’t it?”

“Complicated love! Très romantique!” The journalist scribbled furiously in their notebook while the others nodded, seemingly satisfied. Myst forced a smile and pushed her chair back slightly. The air felt stifling, and the questions blended into a blur of chatter she struggled to follow.

“Excusez-moi,” Jessie’s sharp voice cut through the noise. Myst looked up to see her cousin standing at the edge of the room, arms crossed and eyebrows raised. “We’ll need just a moment, s’il vous pla?t.” Without waiting for permission, Jessie motioned for Myst to follow her out into the corridor.

“What’s going on with you?” Jessie demanded the second the door swung shut. Her green eyes narrowed in concern, offset by her impeccable eyeliner. “You looked like a deer in headlights back there.”

“I’m fine,” Myst said automatically, but her voice cracked on the last word. She pressed her palms against the cool wall, steadying herself. Jessie didn’t move, didn’t buy the act for even a second.

“Don’t give me that,” Jessie pressed, softer this time. “Is this about George?”

Myst exhaled shakily, her shoulders slumping.

The hall felt quieter than it should, save for the occasional clink of cutlery from a nearby catering station.

“It’s just... I don’t know if he gets it.

My world, I mean. All the chaos, the cameras, the constant pressure to be.

.. this version of me.” She waved vaguely at her designer outfit, her perfectly curated image.

“What if it’s too much for him? What if I’m too much for him? ”

“Hey.” Jessie stepped closer, putting a gentle arm around her. “First of all, you’re not ‘too much’ for anyone who actually deserves you. Got it? And second... he wouldn’t be here, dealing with all this circus, if he didn’t care about you, Myst.”

“Maybe.” Myst chewed her lip, doubt clouding her eyes. “But caring doesn’t make it easy. He looked so... closed off today. Like I’d already lost him, Jess. And I don’t know how to fix it.”

“Start by talking to him,” Jessie said simply. “Really talking.”

“Yeah,” Myst murmured, though her heart clenched at the thought. Talking meant opening wounds, admitting fears, and she wasn’t sure she was ready for that.

Myst shifted the takeout bags in her arms as she fumbled with the hotel keycard, her forehead crinkled in concentration.

The sleek, black card refused to cooperate on the first swipe, or the second.

“Come on,” she muttered under her breath, blowing a loose strand of dark hair out of her face.

On the third try, the lock beeped and clicked open. Victory.

“Room service!” she called out, stepping inside with an exaggerated chirp that echoed off the pristine walls of their hotel suite.

The scent of garlic and roasted vegetables wafted through the air as she set the bags down on the small dining table by the window.

She had gone all out with Italian from a fabulous little place just down the street, complete with tiramisu for dessert.

If this didn’t thaw the proverbial iceberg between them, she wasn’t sure what would.

George was sprawled across the couch, his tall frame nearly swallowing it whole. He glanced up briefly from his phone, his face unreadable, before his attention flicked back to the screen. “Hey,” he said flatly, his voice low and distant.

“Wow.” Myst placed a hand dramatically over her heart. “Try not to overwhelm me with enthusiasm there, mate.”

His lips twitched, but then his expression settled back into something guarded. “Sorry. Just tired.”

“Right. Tired.” She tilted her head, studying him for a beat longer than necessary. His jawline looked sharper than usual beneath the dim glow of the room’s floor lamp, tension etched into every line of his face. “Well, I brought carbs and sugar, so… you’re contractually obligated to perk up now.”

He didn’t reply, but he put the phone down, which felt like progress.

Myst took that as her cue to keep going.

She unpacked the containers with deliberate care, the clinking of lids filling the silence.

The quiet weighed heavy, pressing against her chest like a too-tight corset.

She hated this; this version of them, where every word felt like walking a tightrope over a canyon of unresolved emotions.

“Look,” she began, her voice softer now.

“I know things got messy last night. And I hate how we left it. I’ve been thinking about it all day, actually.

” She turned toward him, clutching the edge of the table like it might anchor her.

“I… I just wanted to say I’m sorry. For how I handled it. Or didn’t handle it, I guess.”

“Yeah?” George’s eyes lifted to hers, searching. They were such a deep blue tonight, like the ocean just before a storm.

“Yeah.” She swallowed hard, her throat dry despite the glass of water she’d chugged earlier.

“It’s just… this life I live, George, it’s madness.

You’ve seen it. And balancing all of it, my career, my team, the press, it’s like juggling flaming swords while blindfolded.

Half the time, I don’t even know if I’m doing it right. ”

“You’re doing fine,” he said, almost too quickly. But there was no warmth behind the words, no conviction. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “But what about me, Myst? Where do I fit in all of that?”

Her stomach twisted. She’d known this was coming, hadn’t she? Known it from the moment she said goodbye to Jessie at the interviews earlier. Still, hearing it out loud felt different. He sounded... lost.

“Of course you fit,” she said, crossing the room to sit beside him on the couch. The leather creaked softly under her slight weight. “You’re here, aren’t you? With me. That counts for something, doesn’t it?”

“Does it?” His tone wasn’t sharp, exactly, but it cut all the same.

He ran a hand through his hair, leaving it mussed in a way that made her want to reach out and fix it.

“Because sometimes it feels like I’m just…

tagging along. Like I’m some bloke who got lucky enough to ride shotgun in your world, but I don’t really belong here. ”

“That’s not true.” Her voice came out firmer than she expected, tinged with a desperation she couldn’t quite mask. “You belong with me, George. I wouldn’t have asked you to stay if I didn’t think that.”

“Then why does it feel like I’m always two steps behind?

” He looked at her then, really looked at her, and there was so much raw vulnerability in his expression that it nearly broke her.

“Like you’re running this race, and I can’t keep up.

What happens when I fall too far behind, Myst? Do you just leave me there?”

“God, no!” The thought alone sent a shiver down her spine.

She reached for his hand, curling her fingers around his larger ones.

“I’m scared too, okay? Scared of how fast this is all moving.

Scared I’ll screw it up, or that maybe I already have.

But I want this. I want us .“ Her voice cracked on the last word, and she blinked furiously to keep the tears at bay. “I don’t know how to make you believe that, but it’s the truth. ”

For a long moment, he didn’t respond. Then he sighed, pulling his hand away gently but deliberately. “I believe you,” he said quietly. “But that doesn’t make it easier.”

“Nothing about this is easy,” she agreed, her voice barely above a whisper.

The silence that followed wasn’t hostile. It wasn’t even uncomfortable, exactly. It was just... heavy. Full of things unsaid and fears unspoken. Myst stared down at her lap, feeling the sting of defeat settle in her chest. She’d tried. God, she’d tried. But maybe trying wasn’t enough.

“Let’s eat before it gets cold,” she said finally, forcing her voice into something light, though it cracked under the weight of everything else. George nodded absently, reaching for one of the containers without meeting her eyes.

The next morning, Myst stood in the middle of her dressing room, surrounded by a whirlwind of stylists and assistants. Jessie handed her the schedule for the day, her expression carefully neutral.

“Last-minute addition,” Jessie said, tapping a manicured nail against the paper. “Photoshoot with Antoine Delacourt. Shouldn’t take more than two hours.”

“Antoine?” Myst groaned, rubbing her temple. Just what she needed, a photoshoot with the infamous flirt. “Fine. Let’s just get it over with.”

“Should I…” Jessie hesitated. “Do you want me to let George know?”

“No.” Myst shook her head quickly, avoiding her cousin’s gaze. “I’ll tell him later. It’s nothing. Just work.”

“Right,” Jessie said, the single word loaded with meaning Myst chose to ignore.