Chapter 3: The Entrance
The red dress was not an apology. It was a declaration.
It was silk, fitted at the waist, flowing at the bottom in a way that draped elegantly over the chair. I had tailored it myself, ensuring the hem didn’t bunch or catch. I pulled my hair back into a severe, sleek bun. I applied lipstick the color of arterial blood.
When I looked in the mirror, I didn’t see a tragedy. I saw Mara Álvarez.
The driver Sofía sent was not a taxi. It was a black armored SUV with the Álvarez family crest subtly embossed on the door handle. The driver, a man named Hugo who had driven my father for twenty years, nodded respectfully as he deployed the ramp.
“To the Grand Meridian, Ms. Álvarez?”
“To the Grand Meridian, Hugo. And don’t stop at the side entrance. Take me to the front.”
We cut through the city traffic, the lights blurring into streaks of gold and neon. My phone buzzed. It was Leo.
Leo: Hope you’re not mad. I’ll make it up to you. Order whatever you want for dinner.
I didn’t reply. I simply texted him one sentence: See you there.
When we pulled up to the hotel, the valet entrance was a swarm of paparazzi and high-net-worth individuals. When the SUV stopped, the valets paused. They knew this car. They knew the crest.
Hugo opened the door and lowered the ramp. I rolled out onto the red carpet.
The reaction was instantaneous. A few whispers. A few flashes. But the doormen—the head of security and the concierge—straightened their spines immediately. They knew who signed the checks for the holding company that owned the hotel chain.
“Ms. Álvarez,” the Head Concierge said, bowing slightly. “We weren’t expecting you. Mr. Vance said you were indisposed.”
“Mr. Vance was mistaken,” I said, my voice carrying over the noise of the street. “I am very much present.”
“Right this way, Ma’am.”
He didn’t point me to the freight elevator. He ushered me through the main glass doors, parting the crowd of tuxedoed men like the Red Sea. I rolled through the lobby, the wheels of my chair gliding silently over the polished marble.
I caught my reflection in the gold-leafed mirrors. I looked powerful. I looked dangerous.
I reached the ballroom doors. They were closed, guarding the sanctuary of corporate ego within. The concierge put his hand on the handle.
“Ready?” he asked.
“Open it,” I said.
