"My HISTORY…"
"I'm not judging you, Marisol. I'm telling you what people will believe."
The woman in the photos could absolutely be the woman in the headline. She looks like someone who'd sleep with strangers for validation. She looks like her father's worst disappointment made flesh. Looking at them, I feel a wave of disgust at myself, at whoever took them, at the fact that this is who I've let myself become in the public eye.
"Who leaked this?" I stare at the tablet, trying to see past my own humiliation to the strategy underneath.
"I don't know. Could be anyone from the yacht. But the quotes, the spin…" Logan frowns. "It feels coordinated. Like someone wanted this story told a specific way."
"Someone's trying to damage me. Right when Papa's dying and succession is uncertain."
"That's my read too. Someone wants you to look unfit. Unworthy."
"The Zayas have been circling since Papa got sick," I say, mind racing. "Could be them. Or someone internal."
Nico appears in the doorway. He's seen something in my face, read my body language from across a room. The man really is a tactical bat. His hand drifts to where his gun sits, that unconscious tic when he's calculating violence.
"What happened?"
I hand him the tablet without a word. Watch his jaw tighten as he reads, looking for disgust or disappointment. Finding only cold assessment. But then something dangerous flashes in his eyes. Not at me, but at the idea of other men touching what he's claimed, even in lies.
"You didn't do this."
"How do you know?"
"Because I tracked your phone that night. Remember? You found out when I showed up at the yacht." His voice carries a hint of something, maybe remembering my outrage when I discovered he'd been tracking me. "You arrived at 2:15 AM. You were on the yacht for forty-five minutes before I extracted you. That's not enough time to 'work through' three men."
I laugh, bitter and cracked. "Timeline verification. How romantic. Though I'm still processing your violation of my privacy, by the way."
"Romance isn't relevant. Facts are. Someone planted this story. Who benefits from damaging your reputation while your father's dying?"
The question cuts through self-pity, forces me to think strategically. "Rivals like the Zayas. Maybe someone internal who thinks the party girl shouldn't inherit."
"Names."
"I don't know specifically. Logan might, or Tío Cesar. He knows everything about the organization. I should ask him."
"No."
The word cuts through the air like a blade. Not a suggestion, an order.
"What do you mean, no?"
"Don't tip anyone off that you're investigating. Not until we know who's behind this."
"Cesar isn't BEHIND anything. He's family."
"He's not blood."
"Neither are you, and I trust you." The words slip out before I can stop them. Something flickers across his face, there and gone too fast to read.
"Just be careful. With everyone. Including people you think you can trust."
The day grinds on. My phone buzzes with notifications I don't check, staff give me pitying looks they think I don't see. The smell of the club during daylight hours (lemon polish and lingering cigarette smoke) makes my stomach turn. Late afternoon, Logan needs me to sign off on maintenance estimates for water damage in one of the VIP suites upstairs.
I take the stairs without thinking, mind still churning on the article, on who wants me destroyed. The carpet whispers under my feet, that thick pile that swallows sound, makes everything feel muffled. With each step up, the air gets heavier. The thirdfloor hallway stretches before me, and something cold slides down my spine.
I'm checking my phone, not paying attention to where I am. The jasmine hits first, that specific scent from the diffusers we use up here. My steps slow. The temperature drops, or maybe that's just my blood. My body knows where I am before my brain catches up.
