I remained silent. Crying would have fed them. I had learned over the years that tears were a language my family translated into permission to hurt me more. So I swallowed every lump in my throat and forced my breathing to stay level.
I slipped downstairs wearing what was left in my wardrobe. A faded t-shirt and threadbare jeans that had survived because they were not how my family wanted me to present myself. I reached the bottom step and heard the doorbell echo.
“Selena,” my mother shouted from the kitchen. Her voice carried the tone of a queen summoning a servant. “Get that. You are not doing anything useful.”
For a moment, I closed my eyes. I inhaled until my lungs ached and then opened the door.
Standing on the porch was Beau Kingsley.
He was tall, dressed in a charcoal suit tailored to perfection. His presence filled the space in front of him with confidence and unspoken authority. His clothes did not scream wealth. They whispered it. His gaze traveled over the state I was in, lingering on the ragged hem of my shirt and the uneven threads hanging from the knees of my jeans. His jaw tensed ever so slightly.