The last part tastes bitter. That's what the articles said. What everyone thinks. The party girl playing businesswoman badly.
"The timing is too convenient." Nico moves closer, and I catch his scent: cinnamon and that underlying warmth that makes me want to fall into him and forget about rooms and keys and the past that won't stay buried. "Cesar arranges this meeting right when you're most vulnerable."
"I'm always vulnerable." The laugh that escapes sounds wrong, too bright, champagne bubbles with razor edges. "That's kind of my whole thing. Vulnerable with a side of self-destruction and excellent taste in shoes."
The Marisol Delgado brand: chaos in couture. My therapist called it "deflection through accessorizing." I called it survival with better lighting.
His hand finds my face, thumb tracing my cheekbone with a gentleness that makes my chest ache. "You're stronger than you think."
"Strong enough to open a door?" I lean into his touch for just a moment, then pull away. "Let's find out."
La Sirena wraps around me like a familiar song, all golden light and promise. MY club. My mother's legacy. The one thing I built instead of destroyed, even if I had to destroy myself a little in the building of it. The chandeliers cost more than some people's houses, and every single crystal was my choice. If I'm going to have a breakdown tonight, at least the lighting will be flattering.
The main floor hums with its usual elegant chaos: champagne bubbles rising in flutes, laughter that sounds like money, the afternoon band playing on stage. But something's different tonight. The staff's smiles are too tight, their movements too careful. Like they're all waiting for something to break.
Logan meets us at the base of the spiral staircase, his usual polish slightly cracked around the edges. "The meeting room is ready. Third floor."
Third door on the left. The words sit in my throat like shards of glass.
"Security footage from that floor?" Nico asks, already in tactical mode.
"Camera's been out for maintenance." Logan's expression says he doesn't like it either. "Since yesterday."
Of course it has. I force another smile, the kind that's gotten me through a thousand nights of pretending everything's fine. "Well, at least if I have a breakdown, it won't be recorded for posterity."
Nobody laughs.
The third floor hallway stretches before us, quieter than the revelry below. The club's music drifts up through the floor, muffled and wrong, like a party continuing at a funeral. My heels sink into carpet that swallows sound, making everything feel underwater. At the end, that door. Still sealed. Still waiting. I used to play a game where I'd pretend it was just a supply closet.Extra napkins. Spare champagne flutes. Definitely not the room where my life split into before and after.
My hand shakes as I fit the key into the lock. Behind me, Nico's presence is solid, grounding, the only reason I can make my fingers turn the key.
The lock clicks open.
Nico's phone buzzes. Then his earpiece crackles with Gunner's voice, urgent enough that I catch fragments: "Visual confirmation of weapons at main entrance. Three hostiles."
His entire body changes, shifting from protector to soldier in a heartbeat. "How many civilians in the line of fire?"
I can hear Gunner's response through the earpiece: "Packed. They're moving through the crowd."
"Go," I say, understanding the calculation he's making: leave me for two minutes or risk dozens of casualties downstairs.
"Absolutely not."
"They're threatening people in my club. Innocent people." I turn to face him, finding strength in the thought of my staff, my patrons in danger. "I'll wait right here. I won't even go inside until you get back."
Every line of his body screams refusal. But another burst from Gunner, "They're escalating," makes the decision.
"Do not go inside that room," he says, already moving. "I mean it, Marisol. Wait for me."
He's gone, taking the stairs three at a time. I watch him disappear, then turn back to the door.
Alone.
I push it open.
The smell hits first: stale air. I fumble for the light switch, and the overhead flickers to life.
Blue wallpaper with silver Art Deco patterns, exactly as I remember. The curved velvet couch against the far wall. Behind it, I can see the corner of the bed with that navy velvet headboardthat haunts my dreams. The low table. Everything preserved like a museum of my worst night. The room is cold from AC running for eight years in a sealed space. But I'm sweating, fever-hot, my body rejecting this repeated nightmare.
