Objection

Chapter Twelve

Mariella hated everything about the idea of going. Her stomach had been doing nervous somersaults all afternoon. Her brain kept listing reasons not to do it: this was dumb, this was dangerous, this was how people ended up on true crime podcasts. Her inner voice kept whispering, don’t be dramatic, don’t be a headline.

Then Elliot showed up at her door with a canister and the smirk of a man who’d decided to enable chaos.

“You look like death,” he said cheerfully. “You are not allowed to back out now. I refuse.”

“Elliot, I do not need—”

He cut her off, holding up a small silver canister like it was perfume. “Tear gas. Pocket-size. And this.” He pulled out a tiny handheld stun gun that buzzed threateningly when he pressed the button. “Nonlethal. Just enough voltage to make a man rethink his life choices.”

Mariella blinked. “You brought me a war kit.”

Elliot gave her a serious look. “I brought you insurance. Also, Nancy insisted. She said she refuses to have a friend kidnapped because of pride and Tinder.”

Nancy arrived ten minutes later, her hair perfect and her tone practical. “If he thinks he can cheat on you, strut out of Sogo, and still sleep peacefully, he can eat s**t,” she declared, dropping a tote bag full of snacks on the table. “And if he’s ugly, you’re leaving. Immediately.”

They spent the next half hour arguing over logistics and safety measures. Mariella finally slipped the tear gas and the stun gun into her tote bag and zipped it shut like she was packing for war.

At dusk, the three of them squeezed into the back of a Grab car because the driver insisted no one touches the front seat due to “energy reasons.” Elliot still hummed the Mission Impossible theme like they were infiltrating the CIA. Nancy scrolled through her phone with the intensity of someone reviewing evidence. Meanwhile, Mariella clutched the Shangri-La key card like it was a detonator and wondered at what exact point her life had turned into a soap opera.

“Text when you get there,” Nancy commanded without looking up. “If this guy tries anything weird, use that stun gun on his balls.”

“I will,” Mariella muttered, her heart pounding like a drumline. “And if he’s not at least decent-looking, I’m suing Cupid for emotional damages.”

Elliot smirked. “Relax. Maybe he’s hot. Maybe he’s rich. Maybe he’s Paul Razon but on probation. He booked Shangri-La, babe. That’s commitment.”

Mariella groaned. “He better be attractive. If I end up in a scam with some balding forty-year-old whose breath smells like fishballs, I’m blocking all of you. Jonas may have been a cheating i***t, but this fake Paul better be worth the revenge arc.”

Nancy snorted. “Mars, you are actually unhinged.”

The driver stared at them through the mirror, regretting his entire career.

When the Grab pulled under the glowing Shangri-La awning, the valets moved with that quiet efficiency that screamed we get paid to judge you silently. Mariella felt instantly out of place in her denim jacket and sneakers.

Elliot, naturally, was in his element. He snapped photos of her stepping out of the car, of her walking toward the lobby, and even one dramatic shot with the key card.

“We need receipts for the Jonas case file,” he declared with gravitas.

Mariella inhaled sharply.

Game on.

Inside, the marble floor gleamed under chandeliers. Mariella tried to breeze past the front desk like she’d done this a thousand times, but a receptionist stopped her with a professional smile.

“Good evening, ma’am. May I help you?”

Mariella held up the key card. “Room 2606. Executive suite.”

The receptionist’s eyes flicked briefly to the screen, then back to her with a polite nod. “Of course, ma’am. Executive suite. You may proceed. Your companions, however…”

She gestured toward Elliot and Nancy, who immediately looked like kids caught sneaking into a movie.

“I’m sorry, but access to the executive floor is for registered guests only.”

Elliot gasped dramatically. “You mean we can’t chaperone our friend to her potentially life-altering rendezvous?”

The receptionist’s smile didn’t budge. “I’m afraid not, sir.”

Nancy sighed and patted Mariella’s arm. “Fine. We’ll wait at Starbucks. Text us every five minutes. And if he’s ugly, walk out. We’ll take your picture leaving so Jonas sees what he lost.”

Elliot winked. “We’ll even Photoshop a hickey on your neck if we have to.”

Mariella rolled her eyes but couldn’t help smiling. “You two are absolutely insane.”

“Exactly,” Nancy said. “Now go be iconic.”

Mariella took a deep breath, nodded, and turned toward the elevators. Her heart was pounding so hard she thought it might actually explode. As the doors closed behind her, she caught one last glimpse of Elliot saluting dramatically while Nancy waved her phone like a press badge.

The elevator chimed softly as it rose to the twenty-sixth floor. The higher it went, the more her confidence slipped. Her palms were sweating. Her throat felt dry.

When the doors slid open, the hallway stretched before her, quiet, carpeted, smelling faintly of cologne and money.

She walked slowly, her sneakers silent on the carpet, until she reached Room 2606.

Her heart was beating so loud it drowned out her thoughts.

She took a deep breath and whispered to herself, “Please, God. Let this fake Paul Razon at least be hot.”

Then she slid the key card in and pushed the door open.