Larissa's POV
The ride home was quiet.
Not awkwardly so, just… still. The kind of still that seeps into your thoughts and expands until that’s all that’s in your head.
I sat in the backseat of the sleek black car that Tiffany’s driver had brought me in, the tinted windows casting the passing streets in a soft gray haze. Outside, the world glided by in the afternoon’s warm sun.
I stared out the window, one hand resting loosely on my lap, the other fidgeting with my wedding ring.
I kept thinking about the painting.
That field of wildflowers was engulfed in flames.
Brayden had made that. Painted it with his own hands. And it didn’t look like the efforts of a teenage hobbyist dabbling with watercolors and canvas. No, that painting had weight, depth, and emotion. A soul, maybe. It meant
