I can almost feel the cold metal of the handcuffs around my wrist as my own personal horror movie plays through my mind. The possibility of losing Dom forever causes my mouth to dry, and no amount of swallowing helps to temper the taste of bile clawing its way up my throat, threatening to cover the coak desk I am sitting in front of.

The blinds of the office window that look out towards the busy road are closed, leaving me here with only my negative thoughts to keep me company.

Pictures of a happy looking family cover the walls as well as newspaper clippings I can't quite make out. My eyes squint as I try to read the writing, but the sound of the door opening pulls me from attempts.

A middle-aged man with salt and peppered hair walks into the room. Making sure to shut the door behind him, he walks to his desk.

My body tenses as he sits in his chair, pulling himself towards the desk and his dark onyx eyes never leaving mine. Before placing his folded hands on the flat surface, he adjusts the dark-rimmed glasses falling down his thin well-cut nose.

His intense gaze causes me to shift uncomfortably in my seat as I wait to hear what my punishment will be, and I silently pray it doesn't involve handcuffs and metal bars.

After what seems like a lifetime, he opens his mouth to speak, "Hello..."

"Gemma Moreno."

"Miss. Moreno." His brown eyes scan my face before looking down at the raggedy gray sweatshirt I'm wearing. Nodding slowly, he says, "I'm Bruce Newman, the owner of this place. Care to tell me why you were shoving a loaf of bread under your shirt?"

Ashamed of my actions, I bring my focus down to the cuticles surrounding my chipped nails. An internal battle starts to brew as I try to decide if I should tell him the truth, or make something up that sounds less pathetic than me not being able to afford food for my brother.

My childish thoughts disappear, and I know what I have to do. I need to tell the truth so that I can do at least one honest thing today.

Bringing my chin upwards, I look straight into the man's dark eyes. "I had no food at home, and my last few dollars were going towards medicine for my sick brother. I was going-"

The gentleman holds up his hand, preventing me from telling him that I had every intention of paying back the store once I found a job. "You have no food?"

Shaking my head in shame, I answer, "No, sir. I used our last piece of bread this morning. That is pretty much what we have been living off of."

Mr. Newman's dark bushy eyebrows raise, and his stern face morphs into one filled with questions. "How old are you? You look young, maybe still in high school."

Unsure if I should be offended or flattered that he believes I am younger than I am, I try to answer as politely as possible. "I'm sure one day I will finally look my age, but I am twenty."

Pulling a pen from his draw, he writes something down on a piece of paper before looking back in my direction. "You said something about a sick brother, is he okay? Sounds like something your parents should be worried about, not his twenty-year-old sister."

"I think he is okay, some stomach bug," I answer, trying to avoid the conversation of my parent's whereabouts.

"And your mother and father?"

Not being able to avoid it any longer, I answer truthfully, "My dad died when I was sixteen, and well, my mom is not in the picture anymore."

Mr. Newman's face falls at the mention of my father's demise. "I'm sorry for your loss, especially when you and your brother were so young."

Not knowing what to say, my fingers start to tap against my knees. "Thank you."

As he continues to write, he asks, "And your mother?"

I feel myself stiffen at the word, "Mother." My mom was as good as dead the day she left us. She doesn't even deserve the title of being our mother.

"Sir, with all due respect, is that necessary to ask? It is a difficult topic for me."

Placing his pen on the desk, Mr. Newman leans back in his chair while resting his hands behind his head. The cuffs of his soft blue oxford shirt rise, and I swear I see tattoos lining his forearm.

"From where I am standing, I believe I can ask you any question I want. I could have called the cops already."

Knowing he is right, the tightness in my chest increases, and the thought of saying her name leaves a bitter taste on my tongue. My knee starts to bounce uncontrollably, something that does not go unnoticed by Mr. Newman. "Daniella left me full custody of my brother on my eighteenth birthday, abandoning both of us. We haven't heard from her in over two years."

Sadness takes over his once rigid expression. "I'm sorry. That must have been extremely hard for you."

Not wanting to dwell on the pain Daniella has caused, I move the conversation along and say, "We have been okay up until two months ago.

Seeming to take great interest in my story, Mr. Newman removes his hands from their resting place behind his head and moves his chair closer to the wooden table in front of him. "What happened two months ago?"

I don't know if it is because I know I am in deep shit, or it is the fact that I feel oddly comfortable with the man whose store I was robbing ten minutes ago, but my build up walls lower ever so slightly.

I feel my lungs expand with air before letting out a deep breath ready to open up about how difficult the last few weeks have been, "I got fired from my job because I told some drunk pervert to remove his hand from up my skirt. I've been actively looking for a new job, but no restaurant will hire me because he's some big wig from around these parts."

His dark brown eyes never leave mine, and I feel like I am talking to someone I have known all my life, so I continue. "I made sure always to have money in savings, but unfortunately, I never planned to be unemployed for this long. I've even been looking into some lower-paying jobs. You know, just to be able to pay for something, but the hours would mean my ten-year-old brother would be spending most nights alone."

I told myself when I walked through the office doors that I would not cry to get myself out of anything. I knew what I did, and I would accept any consequences that came my way, but my emotions have other plans.

I feel the tears pooling, begging to fall, but I quickly wipe them away. "I'm sorry, it's just been really freaking hard."

Mr. Newman rolls his chair over to the table positioned next to his desk and takes out a box of tissues. Pulling one out, he hands it to me. "It sounds like it."

"I'm trying." Not being able to hold them back any longer, I feel the droplets of water trickling down my face. "I swear, I am."

Giving myself a moment to pull myself together, I dab the now drenched tissue under my nose, "I'm sorry, Mr. Newman. There is no excuse for what I have done. I have never done anything like this before."

The words continue to flow, and for the first time, I am telling someone besides my seventy-year-old neighbor my troubles. It's almost therapeutic.

"I'm...I'm so ashamed," I stutter as my emotions consume me.

Mr. Newman pushes away from his desk and takes a seat in the open chair next to me. When he reaches my hand, the tenderness of his touch reminds me of my father.

"Then why did you do it?" His voice asks softly.

Without even thinking, I take my free hand and place it on top of his. One would think the contact between us was weird— It is anything but.

Despite the intimidating color, I see nothing but warmth behind the dark orbs as he looks down at me. "Because when I got those custody papers, I promised myself that I would do anything to keep us together."

The lump in my throat is released when I cry out, "We're...we're all we have."

Mr. Newman drops my hand and wraps his arms around my frail frame. I should be taken back by the sudden affection, but I'm not and instantly melt into his caring embrace. With my cheek pressed against his chest and uncontrollable anguish coursing through my veins, I don't dwell on the fact I am drenching some man's shirt with my tears.

My cries turn into soft whimpers, and Mr. Newman asks, "Will you excuse me a moment?"

Wiping away the wrinkles on my gray sweatshirt, I try to hide the embarrassment of breaking down in a stranger's arms. "Oh yeah, of course."

As soon as I hear the click of the door, my fingers reach to my temples and rub gentle circles to relieve the tension headache that doesn't seem to want to go away.

I can't believe I just cried in some strange man's arms.

My mind continues to mull over today's events, but the one thing I can't fully comprehend is how Mr. Newman managed to take the emotions I have learned to suppress and bring them to the surface as if they just happened.

He felt so familiar.

Exhaustion rolls over my body like a warm blanket causing my elbow to rest on the arm of the chair. When I cup the side of my face, my heavy eyes begin to drop, completely forgetting about the trouble I am in.

When I feel a hand gently shake my shoulder, I jolt from my seat.

My hand settles on my chest as my frightened heart starts to calm down. "Mr. Newman, I'm so sorry."

Not phased by me napping in his office, he motions to the beautiful woman standing next to him. "Gemma, I'd like to introduce you to my wife, Adele."

The caramel-skinned woman, with cheekbones so sharp they could cut glass, walks over and wraps her arms around my body. Shocked, she instantly soothes my discomfort by rubbing up and down my back. "Gemma, it's so nice to meet you."

Pulling away, her emerald eyes sparkle as she holds me at arm's length. "We have something we would like to discuss with you. Please, sit down."

Confused by her warm welcome, I sink back down, and my leg begins to take on a mind of its own as it bounces frantically.

Mr. Newman takes a seat behind his desk, and I'm puzzled at the smile plastered over his face.

"Mrs. Newman, I'm sorry about today. I'm extremely embarrassed by my actions," The leather creaks in protest as I shift my body on the upholstered chair.

Raising her hand in the air, she waves off my apology. "Please, call me Adele, Sweetheart. We have more important things to talk about."

What the hell could be more important than taking food from the store that provides you with income?

My eyes open wide, completely baffled by her ability to overlook my criminal acts. I am distracted from my thoughts as Adele opens her purse and takes out an envelope that has "To Mom and Dad" written on the front. A bright grin makes its way across her face as she hands it over to me.

My body turns to stone, unsure of what she is asking me to do, but Adele makes it clear that she wants me to take it by nudging the paper in my direction.

Pulling the worn folded paper from the envelope, I slowly open it up, unsure of what I am about to read.