Page 7 of My Rockstar Ex's Broken Vows

I take a breath. The Gibson hums against my chest.

You come around like a hurricane...

The take flows like it hasn't all day. When the last chord fades, I open my eyes to find Mike grinning through the glass. Even Jace looks impressed.

"Now that," Mike's voice comes through my headphones, "is going on the album."

I'm about to respond when Luke bursts into the control room. His face is tight. Serious.

"Morrison's threatening to leak your old contract." He holds up his phone. "Says Pinnacle needs to know exactly what they're buying."

The Gibson's strings bite into my fingers. Doesn't matter how far you run or how high you climb.

The past always finds a way to drag you back down.

THREE

Sienna

I let you go, I closed that door

Sienna’s Brownstone

482 3rd Street, Park Slope, Brooklyn

1:19 PM

The emeraldgreen paint looks nothing like the "elegant neutral" that permeated the Upper East Side apartment I shared with Marcus. I drag the brush across the dresser's curved front, each stroke feeling like an act of rebellion.

A knock at my door is followed immediately by Emma's voice. "If you make me stand here juggling green juice and painting supplies for one more second, I'm dumping this carrot ginger on your new hardwood floors."

I grin, wiping my hands on my old Clemson t-shirt before opening the door. Emma bustles in, her dark hair escaping itsmessy bun, glasses sliding down her nose. Paint already stains her overalls, though we haven't even started.

"You couldn't have found a first-floor apartment?" She sets our coffees on my kitchen counter. "Or at least one with an elevator?"

"You're the one who showed me this place."

"Because you said, and I quote, 'I need a home that doesn't look like it belongs inArchitectural Digest.'" She surveys my paint job. "Mission accomplished."

I step back to study the dresser. "Too bright?"

"Perfect." Emma pulls supplies from her bag. "Marcus would hate it."

"That's the point." If it’s possible, my friends might hate my ex-husband more than I do.

She hands me my drink, and we sink onto my paint-stained drop cloth. The February sun streams through my bay windows, warming the space. Somewhere uptown, Ollie's probably having lunch with Marcus's parents, eating off their formal china, being reminded to keep his elbows off the table.

"Stop it." Emma bumps my shoulder.

"Stop what?"

"That thing where you imagine every perfect, proper moment Ollie's having without you." She pulls her knees to her chest. "He's probably missing your Saturday pancake dance parties."

I take a sip of coffee to hide my smile. "How did we both end up here? Remember when you swore you'd never move back to help with your parents' restaurant?"

"Golden Dragon's been feeding Chinatown for thirty years." Emma laughs. "Dad still can't believe I spent four years in South Carolina just to come back and teach art to tiny New Yorkers six blocks from where I grew up."

"At least you had roots here. I followed a man in a suit who promised to take care of everything."

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