12. Beatriz
Beatriz
I don’t know how long I’ve been sitting here.
The waves crash below like they’re trying to pull the whole coast under, and I can’t stop staring. I feel like if I blink, I’ll fall apart. Like holding still is the only thing keeping me from collapsing completely.
I should’ve known better.
I should’ve known that happiness wasn’t mine to keep. That just because he made me feel seen for a few days didn’t mean I was anything more than temporary. I was stupid to believe I could be someone worth choosing.
Of course there was another woman.
Of course she answered his phone like it belonged to her.
Maybe I’m the other woman.
I’m such an idiot. I didn’t even bother to check if he already had a girlfriend before jumping in bed with him.
I press my fingers into the railing until they ache. My chest is tight, like I’m being crushed from the inside out. Because this hurts worse than when Martin cheated—worse than anything I’ve felt in years. Because I let myself hope. I let myself believe in him.
In us.
And that’s on me.
The ocean blurs in front of me. Or maybe that’s just my vision finally giving out.
“Beatriz.”
His voice hits like a blade made of warmth and memory. I don’t turn. I can’t. If I do, I’ll crumble. And I don’t have anything left to give.
“Please. Talk to me.”
My fingers curl into the railing. “I don’t want to see you.”
I hate how small my voice sounds. How final. But it’s the only defense I have left.
The silence stretches behind me. I think maybe he’ll listen. Maybe this is when he walks away like everyone else does.
But he doesn’t.
“I don’t want to see you,” I repeat quietly, in a tone that means it.
He stops walking. “Bee, listen—”
“No,” I say, louder this time. My shoulders stiffen as I shake my head slowly. “I don’t want to hear anything. Just go.”
I feel him before I see him—his arms sliding around my waist, pulling me back into him. His chest presses against my spine, steady and sure. Warm.
Safe.
I want to shove him away and sink into him all at once.
He leans in close, his lips brushing the shell of my ear. “I’m not leaving you.”
I squeeze my eyes shut.
“Whatever it is you think happened,” he whispers, “you’re wrong. I swear to you, amor, you’re the only one.”
The words break something open in me. But they don’t fix it. Not yet.
I don’t move. His arms are still around me, solid and warm, and all I can think is he probably held her this way, too.
I twist out of his grip, turning to face him, anger and hurt simmering just beneath my skin. “Don’t say that. Don’t lie to me.”
His brows pinch. “Beatriz—”
“No.” I take a step back. “Don’t call me love like it means something. I heard her. A woman. She answered your phone.”
His face falls like I’ve struck him. “It wasn’t—”
“She answered like it was her phone.” My voice shakes. “God, I was so stupid. I actually thought this was real.”
“It is real,” he says, stepping closer.
I shake my head. “Then why do I feel like an idiot? Why do I feel like I’m right back in that house, catching Martin with some other woman, like I’m the last to know again? Why does this keep happening to me?”
“They don't matter, Bee. They never did. But me? You haven't let me tell you the truth,” he says, not unkindly. “You ran before I could.”
I blink. “Excuse me?”
“It was Gael’s girlfriend, Bee.” His tone softens. “She was at the vending machine. I left my phone behind, and she picked it up because it rang.”
“How convenient.”
He exhales through his nose. “You don’t believe me?”
“Would you?” I snap. “If it were reversed, would you believe me?”
He doesn’t answer.
Exactly.
I turn to storm off, but he grabs me—gently, but firm enough to keep me from walking away.
“I’m not doing this,” I mutter, trying to wriggle out of his grip. “Let me go.”
But he doesn’t. Instead, he bends and throws me over his shoulder like it’s nothing.
“Alejandro!” I kick and shove at him, but he’s already opening the back door and setting me down inside carefully.
The second I go to reach for the handle, I hear the click.
Child lock.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
He closes the door, and I watch him circle the front of the car, expression unreadable.
“Alejandro, open the door. Now!”
He doesn’t. He slides into the driver’s seat, starts the engine, and shifts into drive.
“I swear to God if you don’t turn this car around—”
“I’m not losing you, Bee.” His voice cuts through my spiral like a steel edge. “So, buckle up, hermosa, because I’m going to prove to you everything I said is the truth.”
I gape at him. “You’re kidnapping me?”
He shrugs, eyes fixed on the road. “You can call it whatever you want.”
“Oh my God. You’ve lost your mind.”
“No.” He glances at me, jaw tight. “I finally got it back.”
We don’t talk as he pulls back onto the main road, his jaw clenched, mine tighter. But when we turn toward the city lights and the coastline starts peeking through the gaps between buildings, I know exactly where we’re heading.
South Beach.
The strip is alive tonight—pulsing and glowing like it’s been waiting just for us.
Neon signs blink out names of bars and clubs in bold colors—Mango’s, Bodega, Palace—each one larger and brighter than the last. The sidewalks are packed, music leaking from open doors, bodies weaving through the humid night in short skirts and linen shirts.
And now here I am, in a Sunday dress, riding in the back seat of a man I think is breaking my heart all over again.
I want to ask him what the hell we’re doing.
But he beats me to it.
“If you hear me out,” Alejandro says, voice low but steady, “I’ll take you back to your car. And if you still want me to leave—” his eyes linger on mine, “I will… for tonight.”
My chest tightens.
For tonight.
I don’t know why that lands so hard. But I nod. Once. Just enough to get this over with.
Alejandro kills the engine, slips out, and comes around to open my door—because apparently I’m still a flight risk who needs child locks.
His hand hovers, like he’s not sure if I’ll take it.
I don’t. I just slide past him, my chin up, pretending I’m not hyper-aware of his cologne clinging to the humid night air.
The bass from the club rattles through the sidewalk, heavy enough that I feel it in my ribs before we even reach the entrance.
Lights spill out every time the door swings open, flashes of neon pink and electric blue cutting through the Miami night.
Alejandro exchanges a quick word with the bouncer—of course he does—and just like that, we’re waved in.
Inside the club, it’s chaos—but in that intoxicating, Miami kind of way.
The kind that sounds like a thousand voices competing with “La Negra Tiene Tumbao” blasting from the speakers, Celia Cruz’s unmistakable voice rolling over a dembow rhythm as hips grind and drinks spill and nobody gives a damn.
He pulls me through the crowd, his hand wrapped tightly around mine, and I hate how it still feels good. Safe.
Bodies press in from every angle—sequins and cologne and flashing lights. My heels scuff against the sticky floor as we weave past the bar, where a line of girls in tiny dresses lean in for attention they’re guaranteed to get.
A group of men whistle when they see Alejandro. One of them even claps him on the back as we pass, shouting something in Spanish I don’t catch over the music. Alejandro grins but doesn’t stop.
Then he slows, guiding me toward a VIP section in the back, roped off with chrome stanchions and velvet cord.
That’s when I see them.
A table of men—all good-looking in the arrogant, sweat-slick, I-know-I’m-hot kind of way.
They’re clearly athletes. You can tell by the way they sit, confident and easy, half of them still in branded club gear.
Each one has at least one woman practically glued to his side.
Two of them look straight at me and smirk.
And suddenly, I hate everything.
I yank my hand from Alejandro’s, fury climbing into my throat. “This is a joke, right?”
He doesn’t let go. His grip tightens just enough to stop me without hurting. “Bee—”
“Let go of me.” My voice is sharp. I don’t care if people are watching. “You dragged me here to what? Show me that you and all your boys are running some kind of athlete harem?”
“I brought you here so you could see for yourself.”
“See what? That you could have any of these girls? Congratulations. You win.”
“I don’t want any of them,” he says, quietly but firmly. “I want you.”
I want to believe him. God, I do.
But then one of the girls at the table eyes me up and down, leans over to the guy beside her, and whispers something that makes them both laugh.
And whatever thread I was hanging by frays a little more.
Alejandro’s hands gently settle on my shoulders.
“Bee,” he says softly, like he’s afraid I’ll bolt. “Come here.”
Before I can pull away, he steps close, heat pressing against my back. One of his arms crosses my chest—not forceful, not trapping—just guiding. He leans in, lips by my ear. “I want to introduce you to everyone.”
I stiffen. “I don’t—”
He turns me anyway, not harshly, just enough to angle me toward the table. His arm stays there, secure but not caging. Like he's giving me the chance to run if I really want to—but also telling me I don't need to.
“This idiot right here,” Alejandro says, voice a little louder now, his tone shifting into something casual and smooth, “is Mateo. He thinks he’s faster than me, but he’s not. Just louder.”
Mateo raises his glass, a crooked grin on his face. “Only where it counts, bro.”
Alejandro keeps going, smooth but serious. “Next to him, that’s Niko. Best stats, worst attitude. Thinks he’s prettier than he is.”
“Lie,” Niko mutters, unbothered. “I’m gorgeous.”
I blink. My mouth is dry. I say nothing.