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, cariña. 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.
The champagne in the fridge whispers to me once. Old habit, old solution, old friend. But that would be inefficient, and I'm all about efficiency now. Besides, Nico would notice, and I can'tbear the thought of his concern. The careful way he'd ask if I'm "coping."
I handle two calls smoothly. First the lawyer again, then a financial advisor. Every word measured, every response calculated. No emotion bleeding through. This is what Nico does. This is how he survives. Assess the threat, develop response, execute.
He opens his mouth twice during my calls, then closes it. Something building behind his eyes that he won't voice. His fingers drum once against his thigh. The only sign of agitation I've seen from him all day.
"Marisol."
"Hmm?" I don't look up from the financial records I'm analyzing.
"Talk to me."
"I am talking. The records show a pattern of systematic transfers that…"
"That's not what I mean."
