It’s been a week since Jessica left.

Seven interminable, agonizing days.

I didn’t realize how much having her here in Saintland meant to me—until she was gone. I don’t know how many times I’ve headed for the queen’s rooms without thinking, only to stop halfway there when I remember that no one is there. They’ve been cleared of everything…all the clothing I had sent there for her, the sheets and bedding, and even the paintings I hand-picked from the royal collection especially for her have been taken back to storage. There’s no longer a single trace that Jessica was ever here.

Every day, I wait for the gnawing pain from her absence to subside. But every day, the pain only gets stronger and stronger until it affects every part of me. My muscles ache, my head aches, my entire body hurts. I’m in agony.

For lack of anything better to do, I throw myself into my work as the crown prince, more determined than ever with a dogged insistence on doing everything my father suggests to the letter. I schedule more media appearances—the summer festival starts in two weeks, and we’ll be welcoming tourists from all over Europe.

I don’t care about the festival.

I care about it in that it’s always a boost for the Saintlandian economy and without a doubt our nation’s biggest event of the year, for tourists and citizens alike. But mostly, I’m only putting so much energy into the minute details of my appearances, into the plans for Sainthall Palace, into other random aspects of it because I have to focus on something other than the fact that Jessica isn’t here.

I’m sure everyone notices my joyless participation, but I only realize how obvious it is during a meeting with my father at which he brings up something entirely unrelated to the summer festival.

We’re sitting in his council chamber, he with his papers, me with the portfolio of notes I’ve taken to carrying to every meeting. Scribbling down important points gives me something to keep my mind from wandering back to Jessica, Jessica, Jessica.

That’s who I’m thinking about when my father says, “I’ve scheduled a social outing for you with a woman named Mariana Moretti.”

“What kind of social outing?” I say hollowly while I scribble the name Mariana Moretti into my portfolio.

“Dinner and drinks,” he says, his voice cautious.

“The Diamond Circle, I assume?” I write that down, too.

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Next week. I had to rearrange one of your media appearances, but I assumed you wouldn’t mind.”

“Not at all. Did you have anything else on your agenda? Points of conversation that I should bring up with her?”

I finally look up from the portfolio when it occurs to me that my father has been silent for too long. He’s peering at me, his hands folded on the desk.

“Alexander.”

“What?”

“Are you going to tell me what’s going on with you?”

I shoot him a look. “I’m meeting my obligations as crown prince. Is something wrong with what I’ve been doing?”

“No,” he says with the hint of a sigh as he slips off his reading glasses. “I’m a bit alarmed by your reaction to this conversation.”

I quickly glance back over the notes. “Why is that?”

“Alexander,” he speaks again, looking at me like I’ve lied to him about sneaking out through the basement window and he knows the truth. “You’re going to blithely accept that I’ve scheduled a date for you? Not long ago, this same kind of discussion had you fleeing the country.”

I shrug one of my shoulders. “Things have changed since then.”

“And you’re completely satisfied with that?”

“Yes.”

He puts both hands on the surface of his desk and cocks his head. “Are you sure?”

“Of course.”

“If that’s the case, why are you walking around with a stone-cold face like you’ve had an overdose of Botox? Why is every word out of your mouth flat and sad unless you’re giving an interview in front of a news crew?”

I look away. I don’t want to admit my answer out loud.

“Does this have to do with Jessica?” he asks point-blank.

Whipping my head back toward my father, I open my mouth to protest, but he cuts me off.

“Don’t try to tell me it doesn’t, son. It’s written all over your face. One minute she’s here, the next she’s back in New York and I’m having the public relations team issue a statement that she’s gone to visit family and didn’t want to make a fuss.”

“She didn’t want to stay anymore. What was I supposed to do, lock her in her rooms?”

“I don’t believe it was that simple.”

“You can believe what you want, father,” I say, tired of this discussion already.

“Alec,” he says, and I look back into his eyes. “First—it’s only a matter of time until we need to announce that Saintland’s Sweetheart isn’t your sweetheart anymore if she’s truly not planning to return. Second—you’re not required to tell me, but I sense that something happened between you two that you feel is irreparable.” He pauses. “I saw the way she looked at you whenever you were together.”

“It is irreparable.”

“If I can offer you one piece of advice, Alexander…” He glances at the wall to his left, where a framed picture of my mother hangs among several other family photos. “I would try to repair things before it’s too late. You can’t go on like this.”

“I won’t,” I say, trying to sound confident and reassuring, but failing miserably. “Someone else will come along.”

“Do you really believe that?”

“Who knows? It could even be Mariana Moretti.”

My father doesn’t take the bait. Instead, he gives me a sad smile. “I don’t believe she wanted to leave your side.”

“It’s all right,” I say, standing up to go. “She was too good for me anyway. It’s better this way.”

As I leave the council chamber, it stabs me like a knife in the heart. I felt so happy having her by my side, and I’d never been happier when I was kissing her, touching her, in bed with her.

It might have been the best thing for her when I told her to return to New York, but it’s misery for me.