No Objections

Marisol found the earring three days before she touched Elliot's phone. It was small. Gold. Delicate in a way she had never been. The earring lay beneath the vanity cabinet, tucked just far enough back that it wouldn't have been noticed unless someone was on their knees. A woman's earring. Not hers. Not anyone she knew... Marisol stared at it for a long time before touching it. She'd been cleaning the upstairs bathroom herself—something she did when her thoughts grew too loud, and the staff's presence too invasive. The house was silent that afternoon, sunlight bleeding through the tall windows, dust floating lazily in the air. The house should've felt peaceful. Instead, it felt like a crime scene. Her first instinct wasn't denial. It was inventory. Marisol knew every piece of jewelry she owned—every diamond, every clasp, every stone cataloged, insured, remembered; a now valuable lesson from her mother. This earring didn't belong to her, and it certainly didn't belong in her home. She picked it up between her fingers, like it was poisoned and turned it slowly. The metal was warm, recently worn. Cheap by Marisol's standards, but intentional. Feminine and young. Realization didn't make Marisol's stomach drop... it hardened. She placed the earring in the palm of her hand and stood, scanning the bathroom like a strategist, not a wife. The towels were folded too neatly, the counter wiped too clean. Elliot had been both too careful and too careless—but he hadn't been stupid. Someone else had been in her house. Someone he hadn't planned for Marisol to notice. Though it would've given her the pleasure, Marisol didn't confront him. Nor did she cry or throw the earring in his face and demand answers she already suspected would be lies. Instead, she waited. ✽✽✽ Marisol waited three days... Three days of observation. Three days of mental chess. Three days of Elliot moving through the house like a man untouched by guilt—kissing her cheek in the mornings, discussing investments over dinner, speaking casually about future acquisitions while another woman's presence haunted the corners of their home. By the fourth morning, the opportunity had arrived. The steam drifted out from beneath the en-suite door like a ghost, curling into the master bedroom where Marisol sat perched at the edge of their California king bed. Her manicured fingers hovered just above the glowing screen of her husband's phone as it lit up with no notification. Marisol unlocked the phone with the muscle memory of a woman who knew exactly what she was doing; she bypassed the obvious apps first messages, email, social media... they would all be clean, almost too clean. Marisol knew she would have to dig deeper. It took her two minutes to find it; a hidden app disguised as a calculator. Her lips curved—not in surprise, but in grim recognition. She debated with herself on whether she should open it or not, or if she should just send everything to her father and let him deal with it. A second later, she opened it and immediately wished she hadn't. Elliot's other life bloomed across the screen; the first image stealing her breath. Elliot barefoot, laughing. A woman standing beside him, younger and paler, soft in places where Marisol had begun to harden with age. Her arm was looped through Elliot's, her head tilted toward him with the ease of someone who had never hadf to question her place in her man's life. Two children were also in the frame; a boy and a girl both smiling, both unmistakeningly his. Marisol's gut clenched as she stared at their faces, searching for even an ounce of doubt but there was none she could find. Her thumb moved, scrolling deeper into his lies. Messages, pictures, personal documents, receipts followed, years worth, the deeper she scrolled. Plans. Birthdays. School pickups. Pediatric appointments. Mortgage payments. "Family dinners." Vacation itineraries... even another home. Elliot had another wife in everything but legality. Rage tightened Marisol's chest with a heat so sharp it was bordering on violent. The next picture broke something inside of her... Elliot's parents. His mother's arms wrapped tightly around the children. His father crouched beside them, smiling proudly. The caption read: "Grandma and Grandpa's favorite people." Marisol inhaled slowly. They knew. Of course they knew, she scolded herself. They had always known... And all those dinners. The phone calls. The carefully worded requests for "temporary assistance" and "family support." And they hadn't only asked her for money; they'd asked her parents too. They had all used her family's name, their wealth and their generosity. All to fund the life Elliot had hidden from her... a life that once upon a time she had dreamt as her own. Elliot's smile in the photo was unguarded in a way she had never seen directed at her, even in college. The rage that rose inside of her was barbaric. Feminine. Devastating. It wasn't loud nor did it scream. It simply settled in the pit of her stomach like a bad burrito, like fire behind her skin. For one reckless moment, Marisol imagined going full scorched earth—divorce filings leaked to the press, criminal exposure, reputations dismantled in a single calculated week. She could practically feel the joy she would get from Elliot watching everything he'd built collapse under the weight of her fury. She could do it... she wanted to. She knew exactly how and where to start. But then reality centered her. Her family's reputation wasn't collateral damage—it was sacred; centuries of legacy. Centuries of trust. Power that moved quietly through boardrooms and courtrooms alike. No, she couldn't afford to act rashly. Marisol simply did what she'd always done best; she gathered her evidence. Screenshots. Dates. Accounts. Wire transfers. Birth certificates. It was all there... The water cut off with a sudden snap, the pipes groaning as silence returned like a slap. Marisol's body moved before her mind caught up. Delete the message. Exit the thread. Lock the phone. Set it back on the nightstand—exactly the way it had been. Marisol gripped the edge of the bed, inhaling sharply through her nose as tears welled in her eyes. Not now, she told herself. Not yet. She wouldn't allow herself to fall apart in front of him. She stood immediately, heels clicking softly across the marble floors, moving like a woman possessed. The ocean waves crashing loudly against the shore, masking her slight hiccups. Marisol grabbed her tote, shoving in a pair of black pumps, silk blouses and the matching skirts, and a satin wrap dress. She moved methodically, almost clinically, even as her insides were unraveling. She atatcked her dresser next, shoving all of her neccesities in the bag. She checked her briefcase next, making sure the contracts, client files, and the pending lawsuit she was strategizing on for the week; she wouldn't forget who she was just because he forgot who she was. She was Marisol f*****g Vargas; a bar-certified attorney at the ripe age of nineteen. Firm owner by twenty-one. Daughter of legacy. Legal prodigy. Untouchable. And yet, somehow... he betrayed her. The bathroom door creaked open. "Hey babe?" Her voice was softer than she intended, shaky—but she played it off, not turning around to face him. "Yeah?" Elliot called, still towel-drying his hair. Marisol grabbed her purse and, without looking at him, said, "My mom just called. There's a family emergency. I need to head over to the estate." Behind her, the sound of him rubbing the towel through his hair stilled. "Everything okay?" She turned then, clutching her tote to her chest like armor. Her eyes met his—those pale blue eyes she used to think were so honest and loving. "I think so," she said calmly. "She just said there's a family meeting. Might be a long night, so I'm gonna stay over. You know how Mama gets." He furrowed his brow slightly. "Are you packing?" Elliot nodded toward the clothes and things on the bed and the floor surrounding it, concern creeping into his voice. Marisol flinched before she could stop herself, but forced a tight smile. "It's just clothes and work stuff. Mama will probably corner me into another damn charity gala pitch. You know how she is—wants a whole runway show before she even confirms the theme." Elliot chuckled, seemingly reassured. "Right. That sounds like her." Marisol smiled again—plastic. Cold. "Exactly. So I figured I might as well bring stuff in case she ropes me into staying." Elliot stepped toward her, still damp and naked, wrapping his arms around her waist. "Need me to come with you?" Marisol shook her head gently, stepping out of his arms as if nothing had changed. "No I got it. I'll call if I need backup." He kissed her cheek. Marisol bit the inside of her cheek as hard as she could to keep from slapping him and calling him everything but a child of God. "Okay, Love. Be safe." She watched him disappear back into the bathroom, not before grabbing his cell phone, and the moment the door clicked shut Marisol exhaled the heavy breath she hadn't known she'd been holding. Her hands trembled. Her knees nearly buckled, but she was able to hold herself together by sheer force of will. She cleared her throat and shook away the negativity that seemed to be surrounding her. Gathering everything she needed Marisol headed towards the door not even bothering to look back. ✽✽✽ The city of Miami glittered like jewels spiled across a dark velvet cloth as Marisol merged onto the I-95 in her black Mercedes GLE. The smooth hum of the engine was the only sound in the car besides her own rapid, shallow breathing. Her diamond wedding ring glinted mockingly every time she turned the wheel... She wanted to rip it off and throw it into Biscayne Bay. Something between heartbreak and disbelief shifted inside her the moment she was alone and safe her in car. She had cried and screamed. Asked herself and God, what did she do wrong? But nothing had helped. Marisol didn't feel strong yet; she felt shattered. She and Elliot had grown up together. Fell in love over cafeteria lunches and homecoming dances. Her family had embraced him when he was just the IT kid with no charm and no pedigree. Her parents had paid for Elliot's MBA. Her father hired him, promoted him to other firms even. They had given him everything. Everything.