Page 16

Chapter Nine

G eorge slouched deeper into the hotel room’s oversized armchair, his phone balanced precariously on his knee.

The half-empty cup of coffee on the table next to him had long since gone cold, but he hadn’t noticed.

His thumb hovered over the screen as if it might somehow change the image staring back at him.

There she was, his Myst, radiant as ever, the thick waves of her dark hair arranged just so, her pale blue eyes angled toward the camera with that signature mix of vulnerability and fire that had first drawn him in.

But she wasn’t alone. No, she stood beside Antoine Delacourt, the French actor-slash-heartthrob whose face could probably sell ice to a polar bear.

The two of them were laughing, their heads tilted together like some glossy magazine’s idea of perfection.

“Antoine Delacourt,” George muttered under his breath, the name tasting bitter even as he said it. His jaw tightened reflexively. The caption wasn’t helping either: “Aussie pop princess Myst and French cinema’s golden boy heat things up in Paris! Is this Europe’s newest power couple?”

The comments section below was already a feeding frenzy, fans speculating wildly, dissecting every glance, every smile.

“Heat things up,” George repeated, his voice loud in the empty room. He tossed the phone onto the couch beside him, running a hand through his hair as frustration bubbled in his chest.

He’d stayed back at the hotel all day, giving her space, trying not to dwell too much on last night’s awkwardness.

He wanted to believe they were on the same team, even if it didn’t always feel that way.

But seeing this, the photoshoot she hadn’t mentioned, the easy chemistry she seemed to have with someone who fit so effortlessly into her world; it scraped against every insecurity he thought he’d managed to shove down.

Had she really thought she could keep this from him? Did she think he wouldn’t care?

The door clicked open, and George straightened reflexively, his broad shoulders stiffening as Myst stepped inside.

She looked tired, her delicate frame wrapped in a loose cardigan, a bag slung over one shoulder.

For a split second, the sight of her softened something inside him.

But then the memory of the photo resurfaced, sharp and stinging.

“Hey,” she said lightly, setting her bag on the desk. She glanced at him, her pale blue eyes searching his face, but his expression didn’t shift, nor did he get up to greet her. “Long day?”

“Not as long as yours, apparently.” The words came out colder than he intended, clipped and sharp.

Myst paused, frowning slightly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

George leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I saw the photos, Myst,” he said, his tone carefully measured but still laced with accusation. “You and Antoine. Nice of you to give me a heads-up.”

Her brow furrowed, confusion flickering across her face before realization hit. “Oh,” she said softly, almost to herself, as she dropped her gaze to the floor. “The photoshoot.”

“Yeah, the photoshoot,” George echoed, standing now. “The one you conveniently forgot to mention.”

“George, it wasn’t…” she started, but he cut her off, the frustration he’d been bottling up spilling over.

“Do you know what it’s like to find out about your girlfriend’s day from strangers on the internet?

To see everyone else talking about her life before she even bothers to tell you?

” His voice was rising, though he fought to keep it steady.

“And don’t even get me started on the whole ‘power couple’ thing.

Do you have any idea how…” He stopped himself, shaking his head as he turned away, pacing toward the window.

The glass reflected his own scowl back at him, distorted by the city lights beyond.

“How what?” Myst’s voice was quiet but steady. There was no trace of defensiveness, only genuine curiosity, or maybe concern. It made him pause, his anger easing and his shoulders sagging slightly, though he didn’t turn around.

“How it feels,” he said finally, his voice lower now, “to feel like I’m just... standing on the sidelines of your life, waiting for you to let me in.”

Myst crossed the room slowly, stopping a few feet behind him. “It wasn’t like that,” she said gently. “George, it was just work. A last-minute shoot. And I didn’t tell you because...” She hesitated, biting her lip. “Because I knew you’d be upset.”

“Well, congratulations,” he said dryly, turning to face her. “Mission accomplished.”

She flinched at that, and for a moment, guilt twisted in his chest. But then he remembered the photo again, the way Antoine had looked at her like he belonged there, like it was so easy for him to be part of her world.

And suddenly, the guilt was drowned out by that familiar ache of not-enough-ness.

Of feeling like he’d never quite measure up.

“George,” she tried again, stepping closer, her voice softening. “You know this isn’t about…”

“Do I?” he interrupted, his eyes locking onto hers, searching for answers he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear. “Because right now, Myst, it doesn’t feel like we’re on the same page. Hell, sometimes it doesn’t even feel like we’re in the same book.”

Annoyance began to bloom on her face. “Am I supposed to run every work obligation by you now? Every photoshoot? Every meeting? Is that what you want?”

“Don’t twist this,” he countered. “You didn’t tell me about Antoine because you knew it’d look bad. You knew it’d hurt me, and you still went ahead and did it. That’s the part I can’t get past!”

“Because I’m trying to protect us!” Her voice cracked on the last word, and she crossed her arms over her chest as if to steady herself. “Do you think I enjoy walking on eggshells, worrying about how every single thing I do will affect us? Do you know how exhausting that is?”

“Exhausting?” George laughed, but there was no humour in it.

“Try being the guy who has to watch his girlfriend’s life play out in tabloids and Instagram posts, wondering where the hell he fits in all of it!

Try being the guy who feels like a ghost when she walks into a room because everyone else sees her first, and no one gives a damn about him! ”

“Jealousy,” Myst said sharply, her voice cutting through his like the crack of a whip. “That’s what this is really about, isn’t it? You’re jealous. Of my career. Of my world. And instead of figuring out how we can make this work, you keep punishing me for it.”

“Punishing you?” He stepped closer, wanting to reach for her but afraid to while he was this angry.

“I’ve been nothing but supportive. But maybe…

” he stopped himself, jaw tightening before he finally finished.

“Maybe I just can’t handle it anymore. Maybe I’m not cut out for this public circus of yours. ”

“Maybe you’re right.” Her words came out quieter, but no less sharp. The anger had drained from her voice, leaving behind something raw and hollow. “Maybe we are too different. Maybe trying to bridge this gap between us is asking too much.”

George stared at her, his hands clenching and releasing at his sides. Her gaze didn’t waver, but he saw the flicker of pain in her eyes. It mirrored his own.

“Fine,” he muttered, the word landing like an anchor between them.

“Fine,” she echoed, her voice barely above a whisper.

The silence roared louder than their shouting had.

She looked away first, swallowing hard before she grabbed her bag and headed for the door.

She hesitated for a fraction of a second, her hand resting on the handle, but then she yanked it open and walked out.

The door slammed shut behind her, the sound reverberating through the quiet room.

George stood frozen in place, staring at the spot where she’d been moments ago. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, the anger giving way to a hollow ache in his chest. Alone again, the silence pressed in on him, suffocating and unrelenting.

George sat slumped on the edge of the bed, staring blankly at the muted TV.

The neon lights of Paris blinked through the curtains, mocking him with their brightness.

He replayed the fight in his head, dissecting each line, each accusation, each regret.

His frustration had boiled over, sure, but it wasn’t just anger.

It was fear. Fear that she didn’t need him the way he needed her.

Fear that he would always be a step behind in her world, never quite catching up.

“Bloody idiot,” he muttered under his breath, scrubbing a hand over his face.

His phone buzzed on the nightstand and he picked it up to look at it, hoping against hope it was Myst, saying something that would magically make everything better.

No. Just a message from an old friend, who’d reached out to connect on hearing he was in Paris. Mate, come to Toulouse. Could use your help with some drills. Plus, Elisa misses your terrible jokes.

George exhaled, the corners of his mouth tugging into the faintest of smiles. Maybe some space was exactly what he needed, to clear his head, to figure out what he really wanted, and how to stop this spiral of insecurity before it swallowed him whole.

The next morning, he found Jessie in the hotel lobby, nursing a coffee that smelled strong enough to wake the dead. She raised an eyebrow as he approached.

“Come to grovel already?” she asked dryly, sipping her drink.

“Not yet,” he said, his tone subdued but firm. “I need to take some time, Jess. Heading to see a friend in Toulouse for a few days. Can you... can you let Myst know?”