“Yes. The doorman told me he saw you leaving with a backpack, crying, at midnight,” he admitted. “Then I found you at the motel, and even though I didn’t go up to your room, the receptionist told me you’d borrowed scissors at three in the morning.”

Selena lowered her gaze—not out of shame, but out of the sheer, overwhelming pain of being seen so clearly.

Carson took a step closer, his posture softening. “I didn’t need anyone to explain the rest to me. And I should have been on your side much sooner, Selena.”

She felt her eyes well with tears she refused to let fall. “Yes. You really should have been,” she replied, her voice steady but filled with years of pent-up frustration.

Carson nodded slowly, accepting the heavy truth of her words without trying to defend himself or offer a hollow excuse. He just stood there with her, and that simple act was, in its own way, a silent form of repentance.

The door finally opened, and they all went back inside together. The committee took their seats with the heavy, solemn weight of a life-changing moment.