Chapter 14 - Marisol #2
I shake the whole drive, can't stop. My hands won't stop moving, picking at my cuticles until they bleed, a habit from those first weeks after.
The memories keep crashing over me: the dead woman's face, Gabriel sobbing, my own voice saying "I'll help you, we'll fix this," even though we both knew nothing could be fixed.
At my penthouse, Nico sits me on the couch, brings water I don't drink. Sits across from me and waits.
"Tell me."
Two words. Not a demand. Just availability. When he says it, his command voice slides down my spine like fingers, and I hate that my body still responds after last night's rejection. But something in me breaks completely.
"Gabriel is my brother. Older. Perfect. My mother's favorite, everyone's favorite." I stare at my hands, watch them tremble. "When Mom died, I was seventeen. Her last words were 'Try to be good, like your brother.'"
Nico doesn't react, just listens.
"Six months later. I was eighteen. Gabriel called me in the middle of the night. Asked me to come to La Sirena. To the private rooms."
The memory is so vivid I can smell it: jasmine from the diffuser, the metallic scent that might have been blood from where she'd bitten her tongue.
"There was a woman inside. On the bed. Young. Beautiful." My voice cracks. "Dead."
"How?"
"Gabriel was… he said she just stopped breathing. Maybe a heart attack or something. Blue lips. Such a deep, rich blue." The words come out fragmented, matching how fragmented I felt that night. "She stopped breathing and he didn't notice until…" I can't finish, but he understands.
"An accident."
"Yes. She was so young. How can that happen to someone so young?" I finally look at him. "I was eighteen. My mother had just died. My brother was falling apart. And there was a dead woman in a room, and he was begging me to help him."
"What did you do?"
"I called Cesar. He sent a fixer. Someone who handles things. They took care of the body, the room, made her just another woman who disappeared in Miami."
The confession pours out of me, eight years of silence finally breaking. "Three weeks later, Gabriel left for the priesthood. Said he needed forgiveness. Left me alone with the secret, the guilt, the room I can't walk past without…"
"You were eighteen."
"Old enough to know better. Old enough to call the police instead of helping cover…"
"You were a child who'd just lost her mother, and your brother put you in an impossible situation. You helped him survive a tragedy. There's a difference."
The words hit somewhere deep. In my head, I committed a terrible crime. The worst of crimes. And this man is saying I was… helpful?
"I've never told anyone. It just sits in my brain like a big pile of mud, and I've never…"
My voice breaks completely. The tears come, ugly and raw, years of secrets pouring out.
He moves to the couch, pulls me against him.
Doesn't speak. Just holds me while I sob until I'm empty, until there's nothing left but exhaustion and the strange lightness that comes from finally telling the truth.
His arms around me now feel nothing like when he pinned my wrists. This is careful, protective, like I might shatter. Like he's holding something precious he doesn't know how to keep.
I cry until I'm hollow. When the sobs finally stop, I stay pressed against his chest, listening to his heartbeat, waiting.
"You should rest." His voice is gentle but distant. "It's been a hard day."
I pull back, searching his face. It's caring, concerned even. But closed. Those walls still firmly in place.
"That's all you're going to say?"
"What do you want me to say?"
"I don't know. SOMETHING. I just confessed to helping cover up a death. The worst thing I've ever done. And you're telling me to rest?"
"You need rest. That's not dismissive, it's true."
"I thought…" I take a shaky breath. "After everything I told you, you might share something too. About why you are the way you are. What happened to you."
Silence stretches between us.
"About why you locked yourself in the bathroom last night instead of…"
"That's not relevant." His jaw tightens on the word 'relevant' like it's bitter in his mouth.
"Not RELEVANT? How is it not…"
Nico stands, putting distance between us. "This isn't about me, Marisol." His shoulders square. "This is about you. Your trauma. Your healing."
I lean forward, hands gripping my knees until my knuckles whiten. "And what about YOUR trauma? Your healing?"
His eyes flick to the window, then back to me, face carefully blank. "I'm fine." The muscle in his jaw twitches once.
"You're NOT fine. You fucked me like you were following a manual then jerked off alone because you couldn't come with me there. That's not fine."
He flinches, the first real reaction I've gotten.
"I'm not the one who needs fixing."
"I didn't ask you to FIX me. I asked you to SHARE with me."
The silence that follows is answer enough. His face is stone again, professional distance restored. I reach for his hand and he pulls back. Just an inch. But that inch might as well be an ocean.
Something in me breaks differently than before. Not the release of confession but the crack of hope dying.
Nico's fingers flex at his sides. "I've given you protection. Safety," he finally says, his voice low and controlled.
I stand up, my legs unsteady beneath me. "That's your job." I wrap my arms around myself, feeling suddenly cold despite the Miami heat. "That's not YOU."
He doesn't respond. Won't even try to defend himself, which somehow makes it worse. This is who he is: someone who can hold me while I break but won't let me see him crack even a little.
"I'm going to bed." I need distance from his steady presence that gives nothing back.
"Marisol…"
"Goodnight, Nico."
I don't slam my bedroom door. Don't have the energy. Just close it quietly and lean against it, feeling emptier than before I confessed.
I gave him everything tonight. My body last night, every orgasm, every sound. My worst secret today, the thing I've carried alone for eight years. And he gave me… technique. Comfort. His professional presence. Nothing real. Nothing that costs him anything.
Maybe this is my pattern. Give everything to people who take what they need and leave nothing behind. My mother, dying with my brother's name on her lips. Gabriel, using me to cover his sins then running to God. Now Nico, who'll fuck me perfectly but can't share a single crack in his armor.
I'm the woman people use but don't keep.
The thought should make me angry. Instead, I just feel tired. Empty. Like I've been poured out completely with nothing left to give.
But the worst part, the absolute worst, is that I still want him anyway. Still want to be the one who finally breaks through those walls. Want to matter enough that he'll risk being real with me.
I curl up in my bed, still dressed, and close my eyes. Through the wall, I hear him moving around the apartment. Checking locks probably. Being tactical. Doing his job.
Always, always just doing his job.
The footsteps pause outside my door. My breath catches. Is he going to knock? Come in? Give me something, anything, to show he's affected too?
The silence stretches. I can feel him there, just feet away, separated by wood and walls and whatever trauma he won't name.
My nipples harden against the silk of my blouse, and I want to scream at my body for betraying me like this.
For wanting someone who can make me come four times but can't come once with me watching.
The footsteps move away.
I slide my hand between my legs, finding myself soaked through my panties. I hate myself for this. For needing him even in memory. For touching myself to the thought of his mechanical perfection because even that's better than nothing.
I circle my clit through the wet fabric, biting my lip to stay silent.
He can't know I'm doing this. Can't know that even after everything, my body craves his touch.
I think about last night: his cock stretching me, his thumb on my clit, the way he watched me fall apart with those cold, assessing eyes.
I think about his voice through the bathroom door, desperate and raw as he came.
The only moment he let himself be human, and he had to lock me out to do it.
I come silently, my body shuddering as I muffle my gasps in the pillow. It's not enough. Not even close to what he gave me. But it's all I have: the memory of his perfect control and my pathetic need for someone who'll never need me back.