"I heard you," she says quietly, not looking at me. "In the shower."
My blood turns to ice.
"I heard you say my name when you came."
Her knuckles are white on the door handle. She heard me. Heard me lose control, heard the desperation in my voice when I came. Knows now that I wanted her, needed her, but couldn't share that moment with her.
"You could have said it to me," she continues, voice cracking. "You could have let me see that. Let me have that part of you instead of locking yourself away."
She's right. She offered me everything. Her body, her trust, her vulnerability. And I gave her everything except the one thing that mattered: myself.
"Marisol…"
"Never mind. It doesn't matter."
She disappears inside, leaving me sitting in her car, forehead against the steering wheel, letting her walk away.
14 - Marisol
My body is a traitor. It’s been hours since Nico made me come multiple times then locked himself in the bathroom to finish alone, and I can still feel his hands on my skin like bruises that won’t fade.
I'm at La Sirena, trying to focus on vendor contracts while my thighs ache from how wide he spread them. My pussy throbs with phantom fullness, remembering his cock stretching me while his face stayed perfectly controlled. Even now, sitting in my office chair in a cream silk blouse and tailored pants, I'm wet just thinking about it. About him. About the way he groaned my name through the bathroom door while I lay in his bed, destroyed and discarded.
Pretending nothing happened is exhausting, but I've had eight years of practice at pretending, so I'll manage.
La Sirena in daylight feels wrong, like seeing a movie star without makeup. The golden glamour becomes worn velvet, champagne stains visible on carpet, the magic stripped away to reveal just another business that needs managing. The smell of stale alcohol mingles with industrial cleaner. Somewhere below, a vacuum hums as the skeleton crew preps for tonight. But I love it all the same.
I'm actually working for once, contracts spread across my desk, vendor invoices that Logan usually handles but I'm trying to understand because focusing on numbers keeps me from thinking about the way Nico's tongue felt on my clit. PretendingI have my shit together and didn’t beg a man to come inside me last night, and he chose his hand instead.
He's outside my door now. Present but not hovering. The perfect distance that says I'm doing my job without acknowledging that mere hours ago he had me pinned to his bed, making me scream. I hate that I want him closer. Hate that last night meant something to me and apparently meant nothing to him. Hate myself for still getting wet when I remember his voice through that door, desperate and raw, saying my name as he came.
The morning crawls. I sign documents without reading them. Approve vendor invoices that could say anything. Every time I shift in my chair, I feel him—the phantom stretch, the soreness that proves last night happened. My body remembers even when my brain tries to forget.
By early afternoon, I've almost convinced myself I can function.
"Got a minute?" Logan appears in my doorway, and I've never been more grateful for an interruption. Whatever designer he’s wearing today fits him perfectly, the suit tailored to perfection without trying too hard. His blond hair is perfectly coiffed, and his blue eyes seem to see right through me.
"For you? Always. You're the only one actually keeping this place running."
"Don't sell yourself short. You've been more present lately." His face is carefully neutral, which means something's wrong. "But we have a problem."
He closes the door, glances at where Nico is stationed outside. "Your new shadow. Can he hear us?"
"Probably. He hears everything. Like a very judgmental bat. What's going on?"
Logan hands me his tablet, already open to a society gossip site. The headline hits me: DELGADO HEIRESS GONE WILD: Yacht Party Meltdown
"Three men? That's insulting." The joke comes automatically, deflection before the pain hits. "If I'm going to have a scandal, at least make it impressive, like an entire yacht crew."
Then I actually look at the photos.
They're worse than any joke can cover. Me, two nights ago, looking exactly like the disaster everyone thinks I am. Dress askew, hair wild, eyes glazed. Dancing with my arms above my head, mouth open in what could be ecstasy or desperation. I look wasted. I look pathetic.
The text underneath twists the knife: Sources say the troubled heiress arrived already intoxicated and proceeded to "work her way through" at least three men over the course of the evening. "She was a mess," said one partygoer. "Everyone felt sorry for her. You could tell she was desperate for attention."
"This is lies." My voice comes out steady, which surprises me. "All of it. I didn't touch anyone. I danced, I drank, but I didn't… three men? I didn't even kiss anyone."
"I know." Logan's voice is gentle, which makes it worse. "But the photos are real. And the narrative is… plausible. Given your history."
