Vanessa
Despite the tears running down my cheeks, a strange silence wraps this attic like a false calm. Curled on the mattress, I loop my legs with one arm, trying to salvage the last scrap of dignity I have left after everything that happened.
Michael Cárdenas sits across from me, silent, motionless as stone. The deep shadows beneath his brow hide whatever emotion he might be feeling. I can’t read him. Not even a little. So when he leans forward and offers his hand, I tense.
But instead of striking me, his hand cups my face—almost gently. His fingers grip my jaw with firmness, turning my head to inspect the bruises, the cuts. He’s focused. I can feel the intensity in him, the way he studies every inch of my face like it’s a puzzle he needs to solve.
I want to pull away. I want to run.
