Chapter 25 - Marisol
Iused to think rock bottom was waking up in a stranger’s bed with no memory of getting there. I was wrong. Rock bottom is being wide awake for every second of your life falling apart.
My phone vibrates against the marble counter.
Another notification joining the swarm. One forty-five.
One forty-six. Each buzz sends a small shock through my fingertips where they rest beside it.
I haven't looked yet. Can't. My body still aches from last night.
Purple bruises bloom on my hips where Nico gripped me like I might disappear, that particular soreness between my legs that makes me clench involuntarily.
Twelve hours ago he was inside me, groaning my name as he came.
Now his tactical voice cuts through the penthouse.
"Surveillance," "legal exposure," "timeline. " Like none of it happened.
One forty-eight. The screen lights up with another headline I can't quite read from here.
I pick up the phone.
The assault is immediate. Headlines blur together but the theme screams clear: BODY FOUND IN DELGADO HEIRESS'S SEALED VIP ROOM.
Every outlet, every platform. My thumb scrolls mechanically while my stomach turns to acid.
The sealed room detail is everywhere. Eight years locked, what was I hiding?
Photos of me from the past eight years assembled into a damning mosaic.
The yacht party, mascara streaking down my face.
Stumbling out of Babylon at 4 AM, dress hiked up, security half-carrying me.
All of it reframed as evidence of someone capable of…
they don't say murder. They don't need to. The implication does all the work.
The comments are worse. Strangers dissecting my guilt with such certainty, such glee. She definitely did it. Look at those dead eyes. I put the phone down. My hand shakes. Pick it up again. Put it down. The compulsion to keep looking is its own kind of self-harm, familiar as breathing.
The phone rings. The lawyer, his name glowing on the screen. Professional, expensive, the best Marco's money can buy.
"Miss Delgado." His voice carries that particular weight of bad news wrapped in legal language. "The police want a formal interview. You're not under arrest. Not officially a suspect. But your prints are on the body. You were found in the room. A room sealed by your order for eight years."
My throat closes. "So they have questions."
"Yes. Cooperate carefully. Answer only what's asked. Don't volunteer. Don't speculate." A pause that probably bills at five hundred dollars. "Don't mention any previous incidents. There's no evidence connecting events, and bringing anything up would be catastrophic."
The implication settles over me like wet concrete: I have to explain why my fingerprints are on a dead woman's face while hiding that this exact scenario happened before. I thank him. End the call. Stand gripping the counter until my knuckles ache.
I need Logan. Need to hear his voice. Need my ally who's always believed in me even when I was too drunk to believe in myself.
He answers on the second ring, but the warmth is wrong. Careful. Professional. The easy shorthand of years working together replaced by something measured, distant.
"The club is closed for the investigation." His words come out precisely spaced, like he's reading from notes. "Staff are rattled. Some have quit. The press is camped outside."
I wait for him to ask how I'm doing. He doesn't.
I wait for him to say he believes me. He doesn't.
"The lawyers are handling everything," he continues. "You should rest."
Rest. The word everyone uses when they mean: stay out of the way.
I almost ask directly. Do you think I did this? But I remember his face in that doorway. The doubt that flashed across it, quick but unmistakable. Even if he says no now, I'll know it's a performance.
"Thanks for the update." My voice sounds hollow even to me.
The call ends. Something fractures quietly inside my chest. Logan was supposed to be the one who never wavered.
I move to the windows, Miami sprawling below in the morning heat.
Beautiful. Indifferent. The humidity seeps through the glass despite the AC, mixing salt air from the bay with the lingering scent of cinnamon and gun oil.
Nico's presence marking the space even when he's ten feet away on another call.
I can't leave. The press will be waiting with their cameras and questions and microphones shoved in my face.
Marisol, did you know the victim? Marisol, why was the room sealed?
Marisol, are you cooperating with police?
The penthouse that was our cocoon, where he held me and fucked me and made me feel safe, has become a cage.
If the victim's family finds out who she is, if they learn their daughter died to frame me, that's another layer of danger in a world already full of knives. But Cesar's planned this too carefully. The identity will stay hidden until it serves his purpose to reveal it.
Nico finishes his current call, comes to stand beside me.
His hand finds the small of my back. That casual touch I've come to need like oxygen.
I lean into it, feeling my nipples tighten against silk just from his proximity.
Pathetic. He's the only solid thing left, and my body still betrays me with want even as everything crumbles.
He moves past me toward the kitchen, fingers trailing across my lower back as he goes.
The simple touch makes me wet, makes me remember his hands everywhere last night after I begged him to fuck me hard, his mouth on mine as he came.
I hate that even now, even empty, my body remembers what we were twelve hours ago.
I need my father. Need to hear him say he believes me. Even disappointed, even angry. I need him on my side.
My fingers tremble as I dial.
The phone rings. Once. Twice. Then Cesar's voice slides through the line, warm as poison: "Mari, carina."
My stomach turns. That warmth I trusted for my entire life, now revealed as performance. As false as everything else about him.
"I need to talk to my father."
"Oh, mija." His regret sounds so genuine I almost believe it. "Jorge is resting. The doctors have adjusted his medication. He's been very upset. The news about La Sirena, about the… situation. It's taken such a toll. His heart, you understand. The stress…"
"Just five minutes. Please."
"I know, but the doctors were very clear.
No stress. No upsetting conversations. We have to think about what's best for his health.
" A pause, weighted with false concern. "He's been asking questions, Mari.
About the room. About why it was sealed.
I've been trying to reassure him, trying to protect you, but he's sharp.
Even now. It breaks my heart to see him doubting… "
He trails off, letting the implication hang. Jorge is doubting me. Cesar is making sure of it. And if I push to speak to him, Cesar will frame it as the daughter stressing her dying father, possibly triggering the heart attack that kills him.
Checkmate.
"Tell him I called." My voice cracks slightly. "Tell him I love him."
"Of course, carina. You know I will. And Mari? Please be careful. This city can be so dangerous for a woman in your position."
The threat slides under his words like a blade between ribs.
I hang up. Stare at the phone in my hand. Behind me, I hear Nico's breathing change. He heard everything. He knows.
"He's blocking me from my own father." The words come out flat, matter-of-fact.
Nico's jaw tightens, that muscle jumping. "Yes."
"My father is dying and I can't even…" My voice cracks harder this time. The tears are right there, pressing hot against the back of my eyes. Grief and rage and helplessness all fighting to break through.
I almost make a joke. Something about how at least whoever framed me has excellent taste in victims. But even my chaos can't survive this. The words die in my throat.
But if I start crying now, I won't stop. And I can't afford to fall apart. The police want to interview me tomorrow. The media is circling. Cesar is positioning pieces on a board only he can see. If I break now, I lose everything.
I'm completely alone. No allies. No family. No Logan. Trapped in this penthouse while my reputation dies, while my father slips away believing I'm guilty of something unspeakable. The cage is complete. Golden and comfortable and absolute.
Something happens then. Not dramatic. No explosion or decision.
The tears recede. The panic recedes. Everything recedes like tide pulling back from shore.
What's left is calm. Clear. Cold.
I walk to the kitchen island with steady steps. Open my laptop. Start making lists.
Methodical. Strategic. Efficient.
The chaos goblin who made up nicknames and burned toast and called him Horse Man?
She's gone. What's replaced her is something lean and sharp and empty.
I've watched Nico operate for weeks. The tactical mind that sees threats before they materialize.
The compartmentalization that lets him fuck me senseless then take a call about murder without missing a beat.
The discipline that keeps emotion in a locked box.
I learned. Absorbed it all through observation. Now I'm implementing his methods with the dedication of a good student.
Hours pass in focused silence. I work. He works beside me. The penthouse is quiet. No terrible movies playing in the background, no teasing about his boring protein shakes, no casual touches that lead to more. Just two people operating on parallel tracks, professional and separate.
When I stand to get water, I catch myself arranging the magazines on the coffee table into perfect right angles. Order from chaos. Control from catastrophe.
He puts a plate in front of me at some point. Eggs, toast, fruit arranged in neat lines. I eat mechanically, barely tasting. Fuel, not pleasure. He watches me chew and swallow with an expression I can't read.