I look out the window, watching as the streams of people go about their day. Going to work, running errands, spending time with their families. All I'm doing is watching them right now.

I should be working, not wasting time at the window. I have more than enough to keep me fully occupied. My inbox is full of paperwork that needs to be approved, questions that need to be answered, contracts that need to be signed. I've already ignored more than a few phone calls today and had my assistant reschedule meetings for me, meetings that I really shouldn't be putting off because they're time sensitive.

I just can't seem to bring myself to care.

I'm in no mood to do anything or to speak with anyone. Business dealings that usually have me excited and ready to go leave me cold. Work has always been something that I love, that keeps me excited to face the day. And I know exactly why I don't even want to look at it right now.

I have something else occupying my mind in a way that nothing but business has before.

Or, rather, someone.

Elle.

I just can't stop thinking about Elle. I made mistakes with her, not just once, but twice. How could I have been so dense that night at the cotillion? So completely unable to see the woman that had driven me crazy just a few days earlier in the woman that had so completely captured my attention in that ballroom?

Thinking back on it now, I cannot believe I missed it. My reaction alone should have clued me in. My fists clench at the thought of exactly how stupid I was.

My only defense is that the makeup and trappings involved in attending the cotillion threw me off. She just looked so different from the casual, comfortable girl I'd met walking alone in the park. Jeans and sweatshirt, no makeup. Still beautiful and perfect, but so different in how she'd presented herself.

Elle.

The girl who got away.

Twice.

The idea boggles the mind.

I want to go back in time and smack some sense into myself.

My people still haven't been able to track her down, even with a first name. Considering how many people live in the city and that I don't know if it's a nickname or even a fake name, I don't blame them.

There's only so much that can be done with the information we have.

And it's driving me insane.

I need to find her.

That cannot have been the last time I see her. The last time I hold her in my arms. The last time I speak to her. The last time I kiss her.

I refuse to let that happen.

I loosen my fist, rubbing at my face roughly. My stubble scrapes against my palm. I haven't shaved in a couple of days.

Sighing, I turn away from the window and walk over to the bookshelf, scanning the titles, more to pass the time than because I'm really interested. Work isn't holding my attention, so maybe I can find something else to distract me for now. I skip passed the biographies, the mysteries, the history books. I finally settle on Leaves of Grass. Walt Whitman.

I pull it out, careful of the fragile binding. Books are rare commodities these days and I treasure the collection I have. I could read a digital copy of whatever I want, but there's something about holding a physical copy of an Earth book that simply has no replacement.

Opening it carefully, I read the first passage my eyes land on.

I too am not a bit tamed—I too am untranslatable;

I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.

I close the book, shaking my head. I relate to that sentiment in my current frustrated state. Maybe if I shout my desires from the rooftops, my princess will come to me.

The idea doesn't sound as ridiculous as it should, which lets me know exactly how far gone I am. I'm willing to grasp at any straw, no matter how unrealistic. I can't keep going like this. I have to face reality. There are people counting on me to do my job. I should let go of my search, think of that night as a beautiful dream.

But I can’t. I simply cannot give up hope, cannot accept that this is how it ends.

Nobody has ever affected me like Elle has. No woman has been able to circumvent my jaded facade and actually touch the true me, make me care, make me feel. Ever. I don't think anyone else ever will.

My resolve strengthens once again.

I have to find her.

The book slides against my palm as I push it back into the shelf.

"There is but one for me and I will find her," I say, the words drawn out of me, a necessary declaration of my intent. They fill the silence of the room.

What do I know? What do I have to work with?

I know she must live near the park if she was walking there alone at night.

I know her foot must fit the crystal slipper I still have. I turn to the side table where I'm able to keep an eye on it while I work. I pick it up, the crystal cool and smooth against my hand. I find myself turning to it more and more, a reminder of her. Of the beautiful, intelligent, ambitious female who captured my attention so easily both times we met.

The only reminder I have of her.

She is the only one for me. I'm more certain of that now than at any time before. My resolve hardens as I stare at the delicate construction of the slipper.

I will go out and find her. Find the girl who owns this shoe, find the girl who will not allow me to sleep, who keeps me awake all night, burning.

I know I will recognize her no matter what dress she wears, what guise she is in. There will be no more near misses. No more brief encounters ending with my arms empty.

I will find her.

And I will make her mine.