Matthew instantly hated him, but I was in love, so I didn’t care in the slightest how he felt. Those first couple of months were a learning experience for PJ and me, since he was still very much a baby at that time, but we figured things out, and he’s been my companion and furry best friend ever since. After giving him some love and assuring him that I’m okay, I give him one of his favorite treats that he carries across the apartment to his bed.

Then, with my mind still itching from signing the divorce papers and my interaction with Matthew, I grab a blank canvas from a stack propped up against the wall and let go of my emotions with heavy strokes of my brush and darker colors than I normally use. And even though the painting isn’t one that anyone else will ever see, that night when I finish, I think it might be my favorite creation yet.

CHAPTER 2

Francisca

“Wow.” My Uber driver Amiee, who is probably in her sixties, whistles when my parents' home comes into view at the end of their long, tree-lined driveway. “Who lives here?”

“I’m not sure. I was just told to meet my friend at this address.” It’s a lie I’ve told often, so it falls easily off my tongue. My father is either loved or hated in Nashville, and there is no in-between, but that’s the way it goes when you’re dealing with politics. But the awe in my voice isn’t quite fake. Even growing up in the mansion we’re driving toward, I know it’s impressive. With two stories made of towering bricks, six lit-up pillars, and wide steps that cascade down the front to the edge of the circular driveway, it looks like something royalty in Europe would live in.

“I need better friends.” Amiee laughs, meeting my gaze in the rearview mirror, and I smile at her.

When we reach the front of the long line of cars that are either dropping people off or waiting to be parked by the valet my mom set up for the evening, I pick up my clutch from the seat next to me, then scoot across it to the passenger door.

“Thank you for the ride.”

“Any time, darlin’, and if you need a ride later, I should be in the area.”

“Thanks.” I start to push the door open, but a young guy—probably sixteen or seventeen—gets it before me.

“Good evening,” he mumbles, looking uncomfortable in the dress shirt he’s wearing while his mop of dirty blond hair falls into his eyes.