Somehow Amalie had unpicked the edges of that ball and it had exploded back into life, making him feel more than a man could bear.
Theos, had he ever felt more wretched?
He’d been heartsick before—of course he had; the loss of his parents had devastated him. His father had been a brute, but Talos had still loved him...with the blind faith with which all small children loved their parents.
This felt different, as if the weight of a thousand bass drums had compressed inside him, beating their solemn sound through his aching bones.
He was wasted, physically and emotionally.
He closed his eyes, imagined Amalie padding into his room and settling on the corner of his bed to play for him, her music soothing him enough to drive all the demons from his head.
He hadn’t known his grandfather intended to give her the violin, but he couldn’t think of a better person to have it. What good would it do sitting in a glass cabinet in the Kalliakis palace museum, nothing but a tourist attraction? At least Amalie would love and care for it. When she played it she would play with her heart.
He’d spent the day deliberately avoiding anyone connected with the orchestra. But palace whispers ran more quickly than the tide, and his avoidance hadn’t stopped rumours about the solo violinist having to play behind a screen for the third day in a row reaching his ears.
He imagined her standing there, shaking, her face white and pinched, terror in those beautiful green eyes, her breath coming in increasingly shallow jerks.
What was he doing to her?
It would be kinder to strip her naked and stand her on display. The humiliation would be less.
She’d come so far—been so incredibly brave. To force her to go ahead with the gala now would surely ensure his damnation to hell. Forget any potential ruination of the gala—forcing Amalie to go ahead would completely destroy her.
He couldn’t do it to her.
He would rather rip his own heart out than let her suffer any more.
* * *
Amalie rubbed her sleep-deprived eyes, then picked up her knife and chopped the melon into small chunks, the action making her think of Talos and the knife he carried everywhere with him.
Do not think of him, she ordered herself. Not today.
There would be plenty of time to mourn what had happened between them when she returned to Paris, but for now she had to get through today. That was all she should focus on.
The scent of the melon was as fragrant as all the fruit she’d had since her arrival on the island, but her stomach stubbornly refused to react to it other than to gurgle with nausea.
Please, stomach, she begged, accept some form of nourishment.
At the rate she was going, even if she managed to get on to the outdoor stage that evening, she would likely fall into a faint when the heat of the spotlight fell upon her and her starved belly reacted to it.
Hearing movement, she cut through to the entrance hall and found a letter had been pushed through the door.
A heavy cream-coloured A4 envelope with ‘Amalie Cartwright’ written on it with a penmanship that resembled a slash.
Her heart thundering erratically, it was clear her body knew who the sender was before she’d torn it open.
In the top right-hand corner was Talos’s full name, including his royal title and the palace address.
Dear Mademoiselle Cartwright
This letter is written to confirm the cancellation of the contract between us dated tenth March. All penalties stipulated in the contract are hereby revoked, and the Orchestre National de Paris shall continue in its current form.
Sincerely,
Talos Kalliakis
Her head swimming, Amalie read it a number of times before the words sank in.
Her stomach dived, nausea clutching her throat.
One hand over her mouth, the other pressed against her heavy, thundering heart, she swayed into a table, fighting to stop the deluge of misery knocking her from her feet.
He didn’t believe she could do it.
He really had given up on her.
It was over.
Everything.
His belief in her.
Her reignited dreams of playing on a stage.
All gone.
But before the despair could crush her in its entirety, a thought struck her.
Why now, on the day of the gala—the day they’d spent a month preparing for...?
She rubbed her eyes, frantically trying to stem the tears pouring out of them, and read it one more time.
It didn’t make any sense.
She looked at her watch. Nine a.m. The gala would be starting in six hours. She was due onstage to perform the solo and close the gala in eleven hours. The schedule had been released to the media, who were crawling all over the island in preparation for the day’s events. At that moment heads of state were preparing to descend on the island.