For four years of college, my relationship with Robb was the campus legend. The more unforgettable our romance had been, the more everyone sighed over our breakup on graduation day. Six years later, Ashes—my portrait painted in Robb's likeness—stood as the grand finale centerpiece at a major art exhibition. No one knew that the searing, soul-crushing piece that moved every onlooker to tears was my swan song. Robb bought the painting for a staggering sum, with only one condition: he had to meet the artist behind it. In the end, on the barren, windswept outskirts of Westown, he found it: A grave with no polished headstone, no carved epitaph for the world to read. Only a weathered wooden stake at its head bore a single, faded name: Sienna Sorrel.