IZABELLA
With a breath of relief, I shoved the last of my boxes under one of the bottom shelves in my closet.
Finally, I was done unpacking and settling into my new room—maybe even more so than I ever did in my last one.
I surveyed the space from where I sat on the floor of the massive closet. On one hand, I was exhausted from finishing the last of the unpacking I’d been putting off, but on the other, I was still trying to find the painting I made of Xavier.
I hadn’t seen it since the fire.
And speaking of fires... I wanted to burn the damn thing.
But I’d have to find it first. Part of me knew it maybe got misplaced during the fire, or lost in some obscure crevice during the move.
The painting had no sentimental value. Xavier had no sentimental value any longer. But more than
