Chapter 1

1

Abrielle

Yes, that's my name.

I'm not sure it matters in the grand scheme of this story, but for someone looking at my name, wondering where the hell the G went, there was never a G .

Hey - I didn't name myself.

My eccentric, mostly psycho mother named me. And since there was a lack of father representation during pregnancy and birth, I was thrown to the wolves of Heather (Insert New Last Name Here) and her so-called creative mind.

(No, the Insert New Last Name Here isn't a mess up either. My mother loves to meet a man, fall in love, and marry him as fast as possible.)

She also loves to get divorced as fast as possible.

Oddly enough, that does matter to this story.

My crazy mother once met a handsome businessman and married him within a weekend. Not only that, she moved me and her into this businessman's large house.

This businessman had a son.

He was only a year old than me.

Now before your mind jumps headfirst into the gutter… it wasn't like that .

Kind of.

Anyway, before I mess this story up like I tend to mess up a lot of things, one thing I can't stand is when a story jumps around. From present to past. From past to present. Just pick a side and tell me what's happening.

Am I right?

So, let me paint the scene for you right now.

Who is Abrielle Mallory?

She grew up moving place to place like she and her mother were on the run after robbing a bunch of banks. Truthfully, we didn't even go to a bank because a bank and checking account required that thing called money .

Abrielle Mallory grew up and channeled the genetic intensity from her mother into art.

Yes, I'm a painter. And a damn good painter at that, if I can say that.

There's a gallery I named. A gallery I designed. A gallery that I run.

A total dream come true for someone who grew up never knowing where she was going to sleep that night. Wishing she had a room - a bedroom - with a desk at a window where she could draw, color, paint.

So why exactly am I sitting alone in my car with forty dollars' worth of greasy fast food next to me, parked on a quiet side street, nervous that someone is going to run up on my vehicle and rob me?

Why am I afraid to look at myself in the mirror, knowing what I'll see isn't me? Knowing that things have gotten so bad and so scary, that I'm reduced to what feels like a last chance option…?

I look at my phone.

His picture takes up the entire screen.

Even after becoming a professional hockey player and signing contracts that paid seven figures a season, he didn't smile.

As mean as he was the day I met him.

Those cold eyes. The cut-from-steel jawline. His nose and mouth always shaped as though he's taking a deep breath, but always ready to fight.

Is this what my life has become?

The man is maybe my only hope to be saved… just like all those years ago?

I guess technically at one point he was considered to be my stepbrother.

For years, he's been a stranger.

I've never forgotten about him.

I'm sure he's forgotten about me.

The bottom line here?

I need my former stepbrother - Colver - more than I've ever needed someone in my entire life.