By Amelia Kahaney
Amelia Kahaney's The Brokenhearted is a beautiful, gritty, and innovative tackle the superhero tale, ideal for lovers of Marissa Meyer's Cinder and Marie Lu's Legend.
Anthem Fleet, proficient ballerina and inheritor to the Fleet fortune, is heavily guarded by means of her mom and dad of their penthouse residence. but if she is going to a perilous celebration within the improper a part of city, she meets the good-looking Gavin and is straight away drawn into his forbidden international. Then, in a sad coincidence, Anthem falls to her dying. She awakes in an underground lab, with a bionic center ticking in her chest. As she negotiates her risky new existence, she uncovers the sinister fact in the back of these she depended on the most.
Set within the ruined fictional panorama of Bedlam, a Gotham-like urban, this story of heartbreak and revenge is either gripping and cinematic—and is certain to brush readers away.
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Extra info for The Brokenhearted
Helene presses a series of numbers into a glowing panel next to the jewelry safe. After a low beep, she pulls out the bottom drawer and selects a platinum-and-diamond necklace set with seven rubies the size of peppermints. She holds it up to her neck, the jewels dripping down her collarbone. “Gorgeous, Leenie,” my father murmurs approvingly, moving to fasten the clasp at the nape of her neck. “It’s perfect,” I breathe. I think back to last Valentine’s Day when he gave it to her, whispering to me that night that it was a steal at $50,000.
I ask him how he supports himself now, and he tells me he paints houses on the North Side. The work is seasonal, so he’s busy in the summer and free in the winter to work on his art. “Drawing was all I had for a long time,” he says. “I used to steal coal from the kitchen and sketch on old newspapers. It was the only thing I could do that felt like an escape from being me. ” I nod, knowing exactly what he means. When everything else is terrible, a day of dancing is all it takes to remind myself of what’s good.
Instead, I’m met with my dress, light as air and fluttering a little on its hanger. I stare at the princess-cut gown, the iridescent material glowing white, blue, pink, and purple all at once, like the sky at dawn reflected off an ocean. This is more than a dress, I realize. It’s a promise. Of a certain kind of night. Of the right kind of future. And I can’t put it on. The evening was supposed to go like this: I would wash up after ballet practice, put on this dress my mother picked out, and head to the mayor’s house for the South Side Orphans’ Association Ball.