Page 182 of First in Line

“Princess?” I call softly. When she doesn’t answer after a second attempt, I flick the lights on.

The bed is untouched.

An unpleasant sensation creeps under my skin. An awareness I’m not ready to let in yet.

I check the bathroom first. Empty. Then our bedroom. The balcony. The downstairs rooms. The back patio. Every empty room I move through feels wrong somehow, like the house itself knows something I don’t.

“Evie!” My voice echoes this time.

I make it back upstairs as panic fully sinks its claws into me. I head straight for the walk-in closet we still share, reaching for my phone to call her when I notice it. One of the large suitcases is gone.

At first, my brain refuses to process it. It notices alarming details instead. Empty hangers. Whole shelves cleared out. The spaces where her favorite shoes used to be.

No. She wouldn’t do this.

Not like this.

Not without talking to me first. Not without giving me a chance to fix it. Not without saying goodbye.

My chest tightens so hard it burns. And then, slowly, horribly, reality settles into place. Shedidsay goodbye.

That kiss.

The way she grazed my face afterward. The way she looked at me like she was trying to memorize me. The sadness underneath her smile that I was too fucking happy to question.

She knew. She knew she was leaving me when she kissed me this morning.

A sharp laugh escapes me then, humorless and broken. This morning, I thought we were finally healing. The whole time, she was saying goodbye.

My legs suddenly feel unsteady beneath me. She’s gone.

I walk back downstairs, my pulse in my ears so loud I can barely hear my own thoughts. That awful instinct keeps growing inside me, spreading through my ribs like poison.

By the time I reach the kitchen again, my eyes catch on a folded piece of paper partially hidden beneath the bouquet. My breathing stops. I already know before I open it that whatever is written inside is going to ruin me.

“I need some time alone. I’m sorry. I love you.”

That’s it. Three fucking sentences. No explanation. No anger. No promise she’ll come back.

Things between us must have been far worse than I allowed myself to believe.

I look down at the note again until the words begin blurring together. They break me, each one adding another gaping rip through my heart as I read them.

There will forever be a before this moment and an after.

I’ve just let the love of my life walk out the door. I didn’t see the signs. I didn’t pay enough attention. Now she’s gone, maybe forever.

And I have no fucking idea where she is. Even if I did, she doesn’t want me to find her. She’s asking for time. I should respect that. I should trust that she’ll find her way back to me because, no matter what those past months put us through, we’re each other’s forever.

If she doesn’t come back, she’ll never feel complete again. Just like I know I won’t. We need each other. More than we need air. More than I need racing.

She’ll come back. She has to.

The postrace jitters have fully died down as I walk to the white couch in the press conference room. I sit in the middle of it, at the center of the curve, while the other two take their places on each side of me. The couch has us slouched back, per usual, but it’s the kind of rest we need after the race we just had.

This is one of those moments where I have to be mentally present, though, so I force myself to focus on the room and its occupants.

“A warm welcome and congratulations to our top three finishers of the FIA Formula One Las Vegas Grand Prix,” the moderator says before introducing the other two drivers and their finishing positions. “And in first place yet again, Jackson Reyes, who continues on with his very impressive run. With today’s victory, you’ve officially set a new record for most wins in a single Formula One season, beating your old one. How does that feel?”