My aunt Carmen laughed from the doorway.
“Maybe now, dressed like that, someone will take pity on you and go out with you,” she added, raising her glass.
I didn’t cry. I learned years ago that crying only gave them more power.
I went downstairs wearing only the things that were still intact: an old t-shirt and some worn jeans. Then the doorbell rang.
“Hanna!” my mother shouted from the kitchen. “You open the door! You’re not doing anything useful.”
I took a breath and turned the doorknob.
Alejandro Vega was there .
Tall, impeccably dressed, in a dark gray suit that screamed money without needing logos. Not my family’s noisy money, but the silent, dangerous kind. His eyes scanned my torn clothes. His jaw tightened.
“Did they do this to you?” she asked in a low voice.
