No Objections

|c.2|

The drive to Nayeli’s apartment passed in a disorienting haze, as if time folded in on itself. One moment Marisol was gripping the leather steering wheel of her Mercedes, knuckles pale, the city lights of downtown Miami smearing past her windows like streaks of neon grief. The next, she was stumbling through the marbled lobby of The Azure, Nayeli’s ultra-modern high-rise with a concierge that greeted her with polite concern.

“Ms. Vargas,” one of the doormen said with a warm nod, eyeing the overstuffed bag she lugged behind her and the tension bracketing her shoulders. She muttered a soft “hi,” barely lifting her gaze. Her voice cracked with exhaustion and the threat of another breakdown.

By the time the elevator dinged and the doors opened to Nayeli’s penthouse floor, Marisol was clinging to her composure by threads. But there she was—Nayeli, her best friend since diapers, standing barefoot in a black satin robe, a large wine glass in one hand and an iPad in the other. Her hair was in a high bun, and she looked every bit like the bougie, brilliant social justice activist Marisol had always admired.

“Emergency protocol enacted,” Nayeli said with a gentle smile, handing her the Moscato like a holy relic. “Shoes off, truth only, and no crying in the wine.”

Two hours later, the sleek white couch was buried under Marisol’s case files, crime scene of the heart strewn with evidence—legal documents, emails, hand-written notes, financial records with names she had circled in red ink.

They were both tipsy, giggling in a haze of grief and Moscato. Nayeli took a dramatic sip from the bottle itself—etiquette long forgotten—and mumbled, “I say we kill them both.”

Marisol snorted, pressing her palm to her flushed face. “We can’t kill them. I’m a lawyer. I took…” she hiccupped, “an oath.”

Nayeli burst into laughter, her curls bouncing with each guffaw. “You're drunk.”

“No, we’re drunk,” Marisol corrected, dragging out the last word with conviction.

The laughter faded, and the silence that followed was thick with tension. Nayeli flipped through one of the documents on the floor, squinting at the tiny print. “So… what do we know about Naomi?”

The question sent a pulse of pain through Marisol’s chest. She curled her fingers tighter around her glass. She didn’t want to talk about Naomi. Didn’t want to give her life or weight.

“She’s his assistant,” Marisol said flatly. “Smart. Fast on her feet. Pretty. Nice body. White.”

Nayeli raised her eyebrows and smirked. “Ah. Of course.”

“Don’t start that s**t,” Marisol warned, eyes narrowing.

“I didn’t say anything!”

“Uh-huh.”

Another beat of silence. They both drank.

“I always knew he was racist,” Nayeli muttered under her breath.

“Nayeli!” Marisol snapped. “He’s not racist. He’s just… a cheating, conniving, greedy bastard. But not racist.”

Nayeli gave her a skeptical side-eye. “Marisol. Come on. Look at this mess. The lies, the manipulation. All this time, wasting your life and using your money? He’s a pig. And let’s be honest—his parents probably know about Naomi too.”

Marisol let out a weary groan. “They’re Catholic.”

“And what the hell does that mean?” Nayeli fired back. “Priests are Catholic too and you’ve represented how manyvictims in court? Hypocrisy is practically a religion in itself.”

Marisol sighed, her head spinning. Could they have known? Was Naomi welcomed at family dinners while she was paraded around like a trophy wife? She shook the thought off. No. One thing at a time.

“I’m not adding them to my plate,” she said firmly. “I’ll deal with them when I have to.”

“Have you checked her socials?”

“Who? His mom?” Marisol asked, genuinely confused.

Nayeli rolled her eyes dramatically. “No, the Naomi girl. Girl, where have you been? First rule of the internet—find the hoe on Facebook.”

Marisol reached for her glass again. “I haven’t had the courage to even look her up,” she admitted, voice low.

“Lucky for you, I have the stomach for petty.” Nayeli was already typing furiously. “Last name?”

“Lakes,” Marisol mumbled, half-hoping she got it wrong.

“Got her.” Nayeli let out a smug cackle. “Oh. My. God.”

“What? How do you know it’s her?”

“She’s got a selfie of her and Elliot as her profile picture. And girl, it’s not subtle either—he’s kissing her cheek. The caption says, ‘My always.’”

Marisol’s face went cold. Her stomach dropped as if she’d swallowed stones. Her fingers trembled around the wine glass as a thousand emotions clawed to the surface—anger, grief, humiliation.

Nayeli’s laughter had quieted into the kind of soft, dangerous silence that didn’t belong in their lighthearted wine-soaked evening. Her thumbs hovered over her phone screen, scrolling slowly. Then she just… stopped.

Her smile faded, replaced by a tension in her jaw and a distant, almost frightened look in her eyes.

“What?” Marisol asked, her tone uneven as she struggled to sit upright on the couch, blinking against the swirl of Moscato in her system. “Nay, what is it?”

Nayeli didn’t answer. Instead, she turned the phone slightly away, her expression darkening further.

“Nayeli.”

“You don’t need to see this,” she said, her voice low and almost guilty. “I shouldn’t have done this. I’m sorry, Mari. This was stupid.”

“What? No. Let me see it!” Marisol reached forward clumsily, the alcohol making her movements sluggish but determined.

“No, seriously, Marisol. You don’t need to see—”

“Give me the damn phone!”

They wrestled like teenagers over it, a ridiculous drunken tug-of-war, but with a weight in the air so heavy it could have collapsed the walls. In the scuffle, Marisol’s elbow knocked her wine glass from the armrest. Golden liquid spilled in a dramatic arc, splashing over Nayeli’s pristine white sectional.

“s**t!” Nayeli cried, looking down at the mess but not releasing the phone.

But Marisol had the strength of devastation on her side. With a final pull, she wrenched the phone from Nayeli’s trembling fingers, stumbling back as she opened the f*******: app.

The screen loaded slowly.

And then she saw it.

One picture. One moment. One brutal truth.

Her breath hitched. The world narrowed into that single image.

Elliot—her Elliot—was in a sunny backyard, wearing joggers and a Henley, kneeling on the grass with two small children. A boy and a girl. Both maybe four or five. Both unmistakably his. The same chestnut curls, the same sharp blue eyes. One sat perched on his knee while the other kissed his cheek.

Naomi stood behind them all, her arms wrapped around his shoulders, her face glowing with pride. The caption read:

“My world. #FamilyFirst #SundayFunday”

Marisol’s fingers went cold around the phone. Her lips parted, but no sound came out. The pain surged through her like a lightning strike, cutting through flesh and bone, ricocheting through her ribcage. Her chest caved inward, breath stuttering. She didn’t even realize she was crying until Nayeli was at her side, grabbing her hand.

“Mari,” she whispered. “Please don’t cry. Don’t—don’t do this to yourself.”

But it was too late.

The sobs exploded from her like a broken dam, ugly and raw and animal. Her shoulders shook violently, tears soaking her cheeks and neck, wine forgotten as the world fell apart again in slow motion.

“Nay…” she gasped through the tears. “He has children.”

It wasn’t just betrayal. It was annihilation.

Elliot had kids. A family. A whole other life he never told her about.

The scream she didn’t release choked in her throat as her knees buckled. She sank to the floor, the phone slipping from her fingers and landing screen-up, that terrible image still shining brightly in the darkened living room.

Nayeli dropped down beside her without hesitation, wrapping her arms tightly around her friend. She didn’t speak at first, just held her. Rocked her. Let her sob and crumble and fall apart completely.

“I’ve got you,” she whispered, stroking Marisol’s thick curls gently. “We’re going to figure this out. I swear to God, Mari… we’re going to figure this out.”

Marisol's cries eventually softened into hiccups, her limbs weak, her soul hollowed out. She didn’t have the strength to move, to think, to feel. She simply leaned into Nayeli’s embrace like she was lost at sea clinging to driftwood.

She wasn’t sure when her eyes closed or when exhaustion overtook the pain. But as Nayeli whispered the words again—“We’re going to figure this out”—Marisol silently begged the universe to let her sleep forever.

Let this just be a nightmare.

Let her wake up back in her life, back before this moment.

But even in the quiet safety of her best friend’s arms, she knew the truth.

The nightmare had already started. And she was wide awake.