No Objections

|ch.3|

The drive to Nayeli's apartment passed in a disorienting haze, as if time had 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. "Miss Vargas," one of the doormen said with a warm nod as he held the door open for her, eyeing the overstuffed bag Marisol lugged behind her. Tension bracketing her shoulders. "Hi," she murmured, barely lifting her gaze. Her voice cracked with exhaustion and the threat of another breakdown. By the time the elevvator dinged and the doors opened onto Nayeli's penthouse floor, Marisol was clinging to her precious composure by threads, but there she was—Nayeli, her familia, her best friend since diapers—standing barefoot in a black satin robe, curls piled high in a messy bun, a large wine glass in one hand and an iPad in the other. She looked every bit of the bougie, brillant social justice activist Marisol had always admired. "Emergency protocol enacted," Nayeli announced solemly, handing her the Moscato like a holy relic. "Shoes off. Truth only. And no crying in the wine." Marisol laughed weakly, slipping out of her heels and sinking onto the couch. "You're a terrible doctor." "I'm an execellent friend,"Nayeli corrected. "Drink." Two hours later, the sleek white sectional looked like a crime scene full of heartbreak and betrayal. Legal documents, emails, bank statements, handwritten notes—the ending of Marisol's life in fragments— spread across the coffee table and floor. Empty wine glasses had been replaced by shot glasses. A box of hot wings sat open on the counter, grease-stained napkins overflowing onto the floor. "I cannot believe," Nayeli said, licking the sauce off her thumb, "that this man had the audacity to cheat on you while using your AmEx." Marisol snorted, mid-shot." I write his presentation notes." She hiccupped. "And he's the one with the degree in IT." "Jail," Nayeli declared. "Straight to jail." They laughed—hard, reckless laughter that teetered on the edge of tears. At some point, Marisol broke, the sound small and cracked as it fell out of her chest. "I gave him everything," she whispered, staring at the papers like they might have all the answers she knew Elliot would never give her. "My name. My reputation. My parent's trust. I built his life with my own bare hands." Nayeli scooted closer to her cousin, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and pulling her in. "Hey. Don't do that to yourself. You did what any woman in love would've done." "I feel so stupid," Marisol said, silent tears slipping free. "You are many things," Nayeli said firmly, wiping Marisol's cheek with her thumb, "but stupid has never been one of them. You are loyal... that isn't a crime." Marisol buried her face against Nayeli's shoulder. "I loved him." "I know," Nayeli whispered. "And he still didn't deserve you." The moment stretched—quiet, broken safe. Then Nayeli abruptly reached for her phone. "Nope. Absolutely not. We are not letting you spiral." Music blasted through the apartment—their song. The one they'd screamed in the car at sixteen, the one that always made them feel invincible. Marisol groaned. "Yels—" "Oh don't even," Nayeli cut in, already pulling her up. "You are a bad b***h with a law firm, a legacy and three degrees and a body he fumbled permanently. Get up." The women danced terribly for hours. Loudly. Off-beat. Marisol spun, nearly slipping in her socks, laughing through tears as they both screamed the lyrics like women possessed. "I don't need him!" Marisol yelled, pointing to the empty space in front of her, imagining it was Elliot crying and begging her for another chance. "That's right!" Nayeli whooped. "He needed you!" They collapsed against the counter, breathlessn and giggling. Nayeli poured more tequila. "To you," she slurred, raising her glass. "And to men who think they can outsmart women who read contracts for a living." "May his socks always be damp," Marisol added. They clinked glasses. It was when Nayeli moved a stack of papers aside—still humming—that she paused. "Wait." Marisol blinked. "What?" Nayeli's brow furrowed as she scanned a statement. "Why does Elliot keep transferring money to someone inside JK Holdings?" The music kept playing, but just at that moment something in the night had shifted. The women sobered just enough to focus; laptops opened and documents reorganized and the thrill of finally finding something. The tequila's haze burned away quickly, replaced by a razor-sharp focus for the hunt. This was Marisol's favorite part of her job, following the clues; finding something someone thought they had hidden well. She loved outsmarting not only her opponents, but her clients too. Everyone had something to hide, but nothing was hidden from Marisol for long... "JK Holding is legit," Marisol muttered, rubbing her temples. "Real estate. Investments. Philantrophy. Clean books." "Yeah," Nayeli said slowly, highlighting a line. "But he's moving a lot of money to one executive account." Marisol didn't answer immediately, she had already begun pulling public records on JK Holdings; business filings, LinkedIn profiles she wanted any and all information she could find. "Oh," she breathed, her fingers stilling. Nayeli straightened. "What?" "There's no partner," Marisol said quietly. "Just an owner and no board. And we know him." "Who is it?" Marisol turned the computer to face Nayeli. In bold blue letters atop the LinkedIn page spelled out: Jericho King, Owner and CEO of JK Holdings. Nayeli let out a low whistle. "King? That King?" "That King," Marisol confirmed. "Everyone wants a piece of him right now. You name it Jericho King has a hand in it. His brother, Richard, owns—" "A casino," Marisol finished. "And a nightclub," Nayeli added grimly. "You know the one where the signature drink makes you black out drunk... I don't know why anyone would—" "Yels focus," Marisol interrupted before she spiraled. The women stared at each other. Nayeli tilted her head dangerously as drunk logic began to set it. "Hypothetically." "No." "Hear me out." "No." "What if—and this is purely hypothetical—we went somewhere public? Just to look." Marisol leaned back, rubbing her temples from the oncoming headache. "That's a terrible idea, Yels." "But also?" Nayeli grinned. "Kinda genuis." "What if Elliot—" "Oh f**k Elliot!" Nayeli shouted. "Elliot is transferring large amounts of your money to somone inside JK Holdings." Marisol's jaw tightened. "And he never mentioned it." "We could find out what he's up to tonight," Nayeli added. Fear and anger consumed Marisol as she stared at Nayeli in disbelief... what was happening to her life? ✽✽✽ "This is a terrible idea," Nayeli said, adjusting her dress drunkeningly. Marisol scoffed, "Obviously. It was your idea." "So we are doing it." The casino glowed like sin incarnate as the sleek Uber pulled around the curved driving entrance; car attendants opened doors quickly and politely as they ushered the guests inside. They arrived dressed to impress—Marisol in a body skimming black dress, gold heels, hair cascading around her like a golden brown halo. Nayeli's dress was a pale blue backless number that clung to every curve she owned. All the men turned as they walked by, heads high and still reeling from the tequila. It didn't take long for Nayeli to spot the King brothers, sitting at the High Rollers Club table surrounded by women vying for their attention. "Sol," Nayeli hissed. "Mama and Tia was end us if this made the headlines." Marisol's stomach dropped. Hadn't that been the reason she hadn't confronted Elliot in the first place? "You're right," she said. "Let's go." "I can't believe I let—" "Well, I'll be damned," the younger King, Richard, called out laughing. "If it isn't boarding school royalty." The women froze, panicking setting into Marisol's chest like a jackhammer. She looked at Nayeli with wild, questioning eyes, what do we do? "Don't mention the transfers," she whispered quickly before turning around with a wide smile, one they both had learned from years of practice. "Richie King," she called. "It's been a long time." Jericho King was hard to miss. Tall. Broad shouldered; dark suit tailored within an inch of its life. Deep, smooth chocolate skin; hazel eyes and full lips. A smile that lit up the room... confidence rolled off of him effortlessly—not flashy or desperate to prove his dominance. Just... assured. "Come on over," he said, gesturing toward the High Rollers table. "It's a reunion." Before the pair could protest, security had surrounded them, ushering them toward the table. The smell of expensive liquor filled the space around them; a game of Blackjack currently running on the table. Soon laughter came easier to Marisol than she had expected. Stories flowed and time blurred as each retold stories from their time together at school. Champagne and conversation flowed effortlessly until Marisol found herself talking to Jericho. Up close, he was even more devastating than she had originally assumed. His low, velvet voice. His unwavering attention. "You always looked bored back in school," he said, amused. "I was," she replied. "Constantly surrounded by idiots." He laughed deeply. A sound that tightened Marisol's core teasingly. "Sounds like you still are?" She met his heated, drunken gaze. "Not so some not, but I have less patience for them now." "Let's talk somewhere quieter," Marisol whispered, leaning in his ear seductively. Jericho didn't hesitate. ✽✽✽ The private room was dim, insulated from sound and sense. Jericho locked the door before pulling Marisol into a firm kiss. He kissed her like he had been waiting years, large rough hands roamed her body, teasing and tickling along the way. She moaned, arcing into him. Her world detonated. Hands. Heat. Stolen breath... and for one reckless, glorious moment, Marisol forgot about everything. She couldn't think of anything past Jericho's lips and hands on her. Unil clarity slammed into her like a freight truck. Pulling away hard, Marisol took several clearing steps back. "What's wro—" "You've been taking my husband's, well my ex-husband's, money." The air shifted and froze over instantly. Jericho bristled. "What?" "Insider trading," she snapped. "Is that how you've been acquiring all of your assets?" He stepped back, brushing his clothes off like where Marisol had been just moments before was now dirty and disgusting. "You're mistaken." Marisol threw the paper she had snatched from her purse at him. "Explain, cabron." With a frown, Jericho bent over to pick up the paper. Marisol could tell the instant Jericho's eyes saw his company's name he was genuinely confused. His expression had changed, now hard and focused. Dangerous. Jericho pulled out his phone and dialed. "Wake the hell up! Why am I being shown transfers to my company that I know nothing about?" he shouted into the phone. Silence, but his face was still etched with anger and annoyance. "Audit the whole damn company..." "No. Now, and pull every damn transaction involving Elliot Vargas," he ordered, hanging up the phone. He dialed another number. "Get me everything you can on Elliot Vargas." He hung up again and then slowly met Marisol's eyes. "Explain."