A scorching tear streaks down my cheek, followed by a deluge. As my vision blurs, I sink to the floor in voiceless, gut-wrenching sobs. My chest heaves and burns, wracked with grief. God, the pain…

Unbearable.

Footsteps rush across the room, closing the distance to where I’m broken on the floor. Letting out a choked sound, Liam reaches me first and wraps me in his arms, squeezing the breath from me as if he can cast out my grief and take it on himself.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers into my hair, again and again, rocking me to the ticking of that clock. But time is sadistic, because the thought of enduring another second without Sebastian is more than I can bear.

2

The same tumultuous body of water that stole the man I love now mocks my pathetic existence beyond the windows. I’m hollowed out as I stare at the sea. Minutes bleed together, forcing me through the hours like a forgotten ghost haunting the penthouse floor. Maybe I am an apparition. Spirits don’t eat or sleep, and I haven’t done much of either since I found out Sebastian’s plane went down somewhere over the ocean.

Ghosts don’t breathe, either, and somewhere in the back of my mind, I wonder if this pain will vanish if I just…stop breathing.

The morbid notion makes me gasp, and I inhale two quick breaths before letting them out in a slow exhale.

There’s a Sebastian-sized hole in my chest, yet my stupid heart keeps beating for him. My mutinous brain won’t let go either, replaying our last phone call, tethering me to the phantom echo of his voice.

“Remember when you told me you’d never break, not for me or anyone?”

“I remember.”

“Promise you’ll stay strong, no matter what.”

“I’ll be strong when you get home.”

“Novalee,” he warns. “Promise me.”

“I’ll stay strong…as long as you promise to come back to me.”

“I promise, princess. I’ll be home as soon as I can.”

I guess we both lied.

Because he’s not here.

And I’m not strong.

The door creaks open, shattering my destructive musings, and Selma steps inside with a tray.

“Good afternoon, my queen.” Liam’s housekeeper sets my lunch on the table in front of me, her smile exuding warmth. “I hope you have an appetite. The chancellor won’t be happy that you didn’t eat breakfast.”

“Where is he today?” I ask, increasingly aware of his dwindling patience for my despondency. Each time he brings me food or tries to coax me into some semblance of myself, the worry etched on his face chips away at my defenses. He hasn’t breached my walls yet, but knowing him, it’s only a matter of time before he busts through.