I didn't want to leave Manhattan. But dead fathers don't leave you a choice. Eight months after dad died, Mom said we were moving to Madrid. “Better opportunities,” she said. “A fresh start.” What she didn't say was that it had something to do with his old college friend— the one who suddenly cared a lot about us now that Dad was gone. Mom said it was a fresh start. She said Madrid would be good for what she had with him. I didn't get a say. I packed my books and the last pieces of the life I had in New York. Said hurried goodbyes to my friends and boyfriend and followed her across an ocean. Now I was standing in a city that felt foreign to me. Surrounded by boxes and a man I was supposed to call “father.” Dacio Bruno. Rich. Powerful. And the father of “him.” I came to Madrid for Mom. But from the second we met, we hated each other. Or more like he hated me. And me? I made sure to hate him back just as hard. Hate is loud. And what was between us was louder. We were supposed to stay off-limits. He was older. He was colder. He was set to be my step brother. The one person I could never have. The worst part? I think he feels it too. And I hate that he does. Madrid was supposed to be a fresh start. Instead, it might be the place where I lose everything. Heck I wasn't supposed to fall in love with him. I had a boyfriend and a life in New York. It was unexpected. It was unplanned. He was the one I could never have. And the only one I wanted. This is my life now…….