I settle into the back seat, the leather cold against my exposed skin. My hands are already shaking, withdrawal oranticipation, 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."
