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."
