No Objections

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. It had lit up again. Noami – I miss you. Marisol’s breath hitched. Her heart didn’t just drop—it plummeted, splintering into shards as her stomach twisted into a knot so tight it nearly stole her breath. The room—once her sanctuary—suddenly felt foreign. Cold. Her husband’s laughter echoed from the shower, a deep, carefree sound that made bile rise in her throat. With trembling fingers, she swiped the message open and unlocked the phone—his passcode still the same day they’d shared their first kiss. Stupid, she thought bitterly. So f*****g stupid. The message thread opened with a soft click. And just like that, her world tilted off its axis. The words blurred as she scrolled. “I dreamt about you again last night.” “She doesn’t even touch me anymore.” “I hate having to come home.” Pictures. Smiling. Naked. Together. Her husband. His assistant. Marisol’s vision burned. Her jaw clenched so tightly she thought her molars might crack. Her throat constricted, suffocating on a scream she refused to let escape. She had argued, begged, cried over their infertility. And the whole time, he was building a family with her? The water cut off with a sudden snap, the pipes groaning as silence returned like a slap. Her body moved before her mind caught up. Delete the message. Exit the thread. Lock the phone. Set it back on the nightstand—exactly where it had been. She gripped the edge of the bed, inhaling sharply through her nose as tears welled in her eyes. Not now. Not yet. She wouldn’t fall apart in front of him. He didn’t deserve to see her cry. She stood, heels clicking softly across the marble floors, moving like a woman possessed. The ocean view beyond the glass balcony blurred with her tears. She grabbed her tote, shoving in a pair of black pumps, silk blouses, and a satin wrap dress. She moved methodically, almost clinically, even as her insides were unraveling. Next came her briefcase, still packed with contracts, client files, and the pending lawsuit she was strategizing. 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 twenty-one. Firm owner by twenty-three. Daughter of legacy. Legal prodigy. Untouchable. And yet, somehow… betrayed. The bathroom door creaked open. “Hey, babe?” Her voice was softer than she intended, shaky—but she played it off, not turning around. “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. “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 she gets.” He furrowed his brow slightly. “Are you packing?” He nodded toward the bags on the bed, concern creeping into his voice. Marisol flinched before she could stop herself, but forced a tight smile. “It’s just clothes and work stuff. She’ll 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.” She smiled again—plastic. Cold. “Exactly. So I figured I might as well bring stuff in case she ropes me into staying.” He stepped toward her, still damp and shirtless, wrapping his arms around her waist. “Need me to come with you?” She shook her head gently, stepping back as if nothing had changed. “No, I got it. I’ll call if I need backup.” He kissed her cheek. “Okay, love. Be safe.” Marisol watched him disappear back into the bathroom, and the moment the door clicked shut, she exhaled like a dam had finally broken. Her hands trembled, her knees nearly buckled—but she held herself together by sheer force of will. She glanced back once, just once, at the man she’d planned a life with. The man who now felt like a stranger living in her bed, and she knew from that moment on nothing was ever going to be the same. * The city lights of Miami glittered like jewels spilled across a dark velvet cloth, glowing and vibrant, stretching far beyond the horizon as Marisol merged onto 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. The dashboard’s pale blue lights illuminated her hands, which were clenched tightly on the wheel, her knuckles white against her caramel skin. Her diamond wedding ring—the same one Elliot had slipped on her finger during a beachside proposal in Cabo—glinted mockingly every time she turned the wheel. She wanted to rip it off. She wanted to throw it into Biscayne Bay. Somewhere between her heartbreak and her disbelief, something inside her began to shift. A new Marisol was being born—one forged from betrayal, disbelief, and the raw sting of humiliation. But she didn’t feel strong or empowered yet. Right now, she just felt… shattered. What had she done to deserve this? They had grown up together. Fell in love over cafeteria lunches and homecoming dances. Her family had embraced him, even when he was just the IT kid with a lot of charm and not much pedigree. They paid for his MBA. Hired him. Promoted him. Gave him everything. Everything. And this was how he repaid her? Her throat burned. Her vision blurred again. Her stomach twisted violently, and she tasted the bitterness of bile. She couldn't drive. Not like this. With a shuddering breath, Marisol eased onto the shoulder of the highway, pulling off near a quiet overpass. The rush of passing cars whooshed by, a dull roar beneath the stifling silence in her SUV. She threw it into park, turned off the engine, and slumped forward, her forehead resting against the soft leather of the steering wheel. And then— She broke. Her cries tore from her chest, raw and uncontrollable. She screamed like her soul was being ripped apart, the sound swallowed by the traffic and swallowed again by the loneliness. Tears streamed down her cheeks, mascara bleeding into the highlighter on her cheekbones, staining her ivory blouse. She didn’t know how long she sat there. Could’ve been ten minutes. Could’ve been an hour. At some point, her phone lit up again on the console. Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. “Elliot calling…” “Mamá calling…” “Papi calling…” She stared at the screen, her chest heaving, lips trembling. One after the other, the calls rolled to voicemail. She didn’t have the strength to answer. Didn’t have the words. She reached for a makeup wipe from the center console—Dior-branded, the fancy ones she kept for emergencies—and scrubbed at her face until the streaks of pain were gone. She wiped the snot and tears away with practiced elegance, even in her lowest moment. She took three deep breaths, the kind she’d learned from trial prep. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Center yourself. Own the moment. Control the narrative. That’s what she needed now—control. Because if she didn’t figure out what Elliot was hiding, she’d crumble. She’d let him win. No. She’d let her win. Yes, that's who Marisol Vargas was. She wasn’t a victim. She was a tactician. A strategist. A queen on the chessboard, not a pawn.