Chapter 8 - Marisol #2
The rage that floods me is almost a relief. Rage is better than hurt. Rage I know what to do with.
"You're not my father. You're not my boyfriend. You're not even my friend. You don't get to—"
"I'm your security. And I'm telling you it's not safe tonight."
"Why? What's not safe? What aren't you telling me?"
"That's not—" He stops. His mouth opens like he might actually explain, then snaps shut. "That's not your concern."
"It's MY LIFE. Everything about it is my concern!"
He finally looks at me, and his eyes are arctic. Empty. Except for a flash of something desperate before he locks it down. "If you want to be exactly what everyone expects, drunk and high, making my job impossible, you can fire me. Otherwise, you're staying here tonight."
The words cut deep. Exactly what everyone expects. Like that's all I am. All I've ever been. The party girl. The disaster. The mess he has to manage.
Not the woman he kissed by the pool. Not the person he carried to bed. Just the asset making his job impossible.
"Fine," I say, my voice dead. "I'll stay."
I walk to my room. Close the door carefully. Don't slam it. Don't give him the satisfaction of knowing how deep that cut.
Through the wall, I hear him on the phone. Low, urgent. "…need more eyes on the building… Cesar's people were spotted… tonight, yes… I can't tell her, she'll—"
The rest is muffled, but I've heard enough. Something's happening. Something about Cesar. And Nico won't tell me because… because what? He thinks I'm too fragile? Too stupid? Too drunk to handle it? Fine, I'll just go to La Sirena and ask Cesar directly. He, at least, won't lie to me.
I lie on my bed staring at the ceiling.
Nico called me exactly what everyone expects. Drunk and high. Those were his words. Like that's my only setting. Like these endless days I've been sober don't matter. Like trying doesn't matter. Like I don't matter.
I should have known better. No one stays. No one wants the real me. Mom left through death, whispering Gabriel's name. Dad looks at me like I'm a disappointment with a trust fund.
And now Nico, who kissed me when I couldn't breathe, who caught me when I spilled water, who listened when I talked about my mother. He sees me the same way everyone else does.
The disaster. The burden. The job no one wants.
But what cuts deepest? He won't even tell me why it's not safe. Won't trust me with the truth about my own life. Just "it's not safe" and "that's not your concern" like I'm cargo to be stored, not a person who deserves information.
My mother's voice floats through my memory: "The water doesn't judge, mija. It just holds you or it doesn't."
My phone buzzes on the nightstand. I ignore it. Then it buzzes again. And again.
I pick it up, ready to throw it across the room, but the messages make me pause.
Yacht party tonight. Marina del Rey. Pier 7. Going to be LEGENDARY.
Mari, where have you been? Miami misses its queen.
Babe, you HAVE to come tonight. Everyone's going to be there.
My old life, calling me home. The people who don't care if I'm broken as long as I'm fun. The parties where no one asks deep questions or expects me to be sober or judges me for being exactly what they need me to be: entertainment.
I scroll through the invitations. Art gallery opening (boring). Club promoter's birthday at Babylon (too obvious, Nico would check there first). But the yacht…
Private. On the water. International waters, technically, once we get far enough out. The kind of party where anything goes and no one remembers details anyway.
I've been sober for… what, two days? Three? Since that first night when he showed up. The longest I've gone in months. And for what? To prove something to a man who's already decided I'm worthless? Who forbids me from leaving because of dangers he won't even name?
What's the point of being sober when no one notices? What's the point of trying when the trying just highlights what a disaster you really are?
My phone shows it's only 5 PM. Nine hours until the yacht leaves. Nine hours to sit in this penthouse with a man who can barely look at me. Or maybe that's just my imagination, seeing what I want to see.
I text back: I'm in. Marina del Rey. Pier 7. 2 AM.
The response is immediate: YASSS QUEEN. Bring that energy. We have everything you need.
Everything I need. Pills to make me feel nothing. Drinks to make me forget. People who expect nothing from me except to be beautiful and wild and someone else's problem.
I set an alarm for 1:30 AM. Hide my phone under my pillow. And wait.
From the living room, I hear him moving around. Checking locks on windows I didn't know locked. Making his dinner of plain chicken and sadness. Doing more pull-ups probably, punishing his body for whatever his mind won't let him have.
The hours crawl by. Six PM. Seven. Eight. I stay in my room, and he doesn't check on me. Doesn't care enough to see if I'm okay after telling me I'm exactly what everyone expects.
Or maybe he's standing outside my door, hand raised to knock, fighting himself. I wouldn't know. I'm too busy staring at the ceiling.
By midnight, I'm vibrating with the need to move, to escape, to be somewhere other than this beautiful prison with my conflicted warden.
I dig through my closet quietly, finding the perfect dress. Silver sequins that catch light like fish scales, like a gown made of mirrors. Barely covers anything. The old Marisol uniform. Party clothes for a party girl.
1:30 AM arrives like permission.
Time to be who everyone expects me to be.
Time to stop pretending I could ever be anything else.
The penthouse is dark. Silent.
I slip out of bed already dressed. The sparkly silver dress that makes me look like a disco ball had a baby with bad decisions. The sequins scratch against my skin, tiny points of pain that feel appropriate. The sequins catch moonlight through my window, throwing tiny rainbows on the walls.
Barefoot, carrying my heels, I pad past the guest room. I pause at his door, listening.
Breathing. Sleep breathing. I know the difference now. He's finally catching up on the sleep he's been missing since he arrived to watch over me.
The front door opens silent as a whisper. The elevator arrives immediately, like it's been waiting for me to make this mistake.
Eduardo the night doorman looks up from his crossword, surprise flickering across his face.
"Ms. Delgado? Is everything alright?"
"Perfect. I'm meeting friends. Can you call Carlos?"
"At this hour?"
"He's used to it." I flash him my PR smile, the one that says everything's fine, nothing to see here, just Marisol Delgado doing what Marisol Delgado does.
Eduardo glances toward the elevator like he's expecting someone to follow me. When no one does, he nods slowly. "Of course, Ms. Delgado."
Through the lobby windows, I notice a car parked across the street that wasn't there this afternoon. Dark sedan, someone sitting inside. Watching. Waiting.
I should care. Should feel afraid. Instead, I just think: Let them come. What's the worst that could happen? Someone kills me? At least that would end this feeling.
Carlos arrives in ten minutes, the black town car sliding up to the curb like a hearse for my sobriety. He doesn't comment on the dress or the hour. Well-trained. Well-paid. Well-aware that his job is to drive, not judge.
"Where to, Ms. Delgado?"
"Marina del Rey. Pier 7."
"A yacht party?"
"Is that a problem?"
"No, ma'am."
I settle into the back seat, the leather cold against my exposed skin. My hands are already shaking, withdrawal or anticipation, I can't tell anymore. The mini bar calls to me, fully stocked because I pay extra to keep it that way. Vodka, tequila, champagne. Little bottles of liquid amnesia.
I crack the vodka first. The burn is familiar, like meeting an old friend who you know is terrible for you but who never judges your life choices.
One shot for the humiliation of offering myself on that floor.
Another for the look on his face when he walked away.
A third for "nothing happened yesterday."
A fourth for believing, for one stupid second, that he might be different.
A fifth for the way his hands shook when he put on that shirt this morning.
The vodka hits fast on my empty stomach. When did I last eat? This morning? The edges of everything start to soften, the sharp pain in my chest muffling to a dull ache.
I switch to tequila. No salt, no lime, just straight punishment for being stupid enough to think I could be anything other than this.
My phone buzzes: ETA? The party's getting started!
10 minutes, I text back, though the letters swim a little.
Another shot. This one's for being sober all those days. What a waste. What a pointless, stupid waste.
The city streams past the windows, all neon and promise. Miami at 2 AM is my natural habitat. Dark enough to hide the damage, bright enough to pretend it's beauty. I pop open a window and breathe in the salt air.
Carlos glances at me in the rearview mirror. "Should I wait, Ms. Delgado?"
"No." My voice sounds thick. "I'll find my own way back."
Or I won't. Maybe I'll just sail away on this yacht, international waters forever, become some cautionary tale about heiresses who party themselves into oblivion.
I giggle at the thought, then reach for champagne because I deserve bubbles. The cork pops too loud in the enclosed space. I drink straight from the bottle because glasses are for people who have their shit together.
The marina comes into view, masts rising like skeleton fingers against the night sky. The bass from the yacht throbs across the water, a heartbeat calling me home.
By the time Carlos pulls up to the pier, I've had… five shots? Six? Plus champagne. The numbers have gone soft around the edges, which is exactly where I need them to be.
"Ms. Delgado," Carlos says as I fumble with the door handle. "Are you sure you're alright?"
"I'm perfect," I lie, stumbling slightly as I exit. The sequins catch the streetlight, throwing broken rainbows everywhere. "I'm always perfect."
The ground tilts under my heels. My dress is a sweet dream made of mirrors, reflecting everything that could hurt me.
The pier stretches before me like a catwalk.
I can hear the bass thumping from the yacht, feel it in my bones, see the lights flashing in time with music that promises to be too loud and last too long.
My ankles wobble in my heels, but I've walked in worse condition than this.
Muscle memory takes over. Shoulders back, hips swaying, smile bright enough to blind.
People are already on deck, shadows moving against the lights. Someone screams my name. "MARISOL! The queen returns!"
I wave, nearly dropping my clutch. Everything feels distant, underwater, like I'm already drowning. Maybe from Nico's guest room, where he's probably still awake, still not caring that I'm gone. Still standing behind that door, choosing not to follow.
The gangplank sways under my feet. Or maybe that's me. Salt and sweat and expensive perfume fill my lungs. Strong hands catch my elbow as I stumble.
"Careful there, gorgeous." A man I don't recognize, but his smile says he recognizes me. They always recognize me. The disaster heiress, the party legend, the girl who'll do anything for a good time.
"Careful is my middle name," I lie, laughing too loud.
"I thought it was trouble," he says, pulling me closer.
"That too."
The yacht is exactly what I expected. Too many people in too small a space. Someone doing lines off a mirror in the corner. Champagne everywhere. Music so loud it replaces thought.
This is home. This is where I belong. Not in penthouses with soldiers who count my drinks and judge my choices and stand behind doors wanting me but not enough. Here, where everyone is too fucked up to judge anyone else.
Someone hands me a pill. I don't ask what it is. Down it with champagne someone else provides. The yacht starts moving, pulling away from the pier.
I dance because that's what I do. Bodies pressed against mine, hands I don't recognize, mouths saying things I can't hear over the music. The pill kicks in, everything goes soft and bright and perfect. This is what I needed. To feel nothing. To be nothing.
Maybe some people aren't meant to be saved.
Maybe some people are just meant to sink.