The vacation was a gift from God.
Amaya's mother kissed her cheek at the airport, perfumed and oblivious, chattering about spa treatments and wine tastings and "bonding time with the girls." Amaya smiled, waved, promised to behave.
Her stepfather stood beside her, his posture rigid, his eyes fixed on the departures board rather than his wife's departing figure.
They didn't speak in the car ride home.
Three days of silence followed — tense, electric, devastating. Amaya caught him watching her at breakfast, his gaze lingering on her bare legs beneath his borrowed shirt.
She'd started wearing his clothing deliberately
— his dress shirts without panties, his gym shorts without bras, the fabric carrying his scent against her skin.
She made sure to bend over in front of him, to reach f
