Chapter 4: The Altar of Ego
The ballroom was an altar built to worship money. Crystal chandeliers dripped light onto tables laden with silver and white roses. The air hummed with the low thrum of networking—that specific frequency of laughter that sounds friendly until you listen closely to the ambition underneath.
I entered, and the ripple began.
It started at the back tables. Heads turned. Drinks paused halfway to mouths. The whisper traveled forward like a wave. Who is that? Is that… isn’t that Leo’s wife?
I moved through the crowd. I didn’t apologize. I didn’t weave. I rolled down the center aisle, and people moved. They stepped back, clearing a path, their eyes wide.
I saw Leo near the stage.
He was holding a flute of champagne, laughing with two board members. He looked flawless. His hair was perfect, his posture tall, his smile tuned to the exact frequency of success. He looked like a man who believed he had won.
Then, he saw the board members looking past him. He turned.
The color drained from his face so fast it looked like a physical injury. His mouth opened, then closed. He dropped his hand, the champagne sloshing onto his cuff.
He saw me. But he didn’t just see his wife. He saw his worst fear rolling toward him in a red dress.
He sprinted toward me—not a run, but a panicked, fast walk, his eyes darting around to see who was watching. He intercepted me ten feet from the stage.
“What are you doing here?” he hissed, bending down, a rictus of a smile plastered on his face for the audience while his eyes screamed murder. “I told you no. Are you crazy? You’re going to embarrass me!”
“Hello, Leo,” I said, my voice calm. “I came to celebrate. Isn’t that what wives do?”
“Go home,” he whispered, gripping the handle of my chair. “Right now. Before anyone sees you.”
“Everyone has already seen me, Leo. And take your hand off my chair.”
“Mara, I swear to God, if you ruin this promotion—”
“Ladies and gentlemen!”
The voice boomed from the stage. It was Ricardo Salazar, the CEO of Apex. The room fell silent. Leo straightened up, torn between dragging me out and looking attentive for his boss.
“Please, take your seats,” Ricardo said. “We have a historic night ahead of us.”
Leo looked at me, panic sweating on his brow. “Stay here. In the back. Don’t move.”
He turned and walked toward the front tables, abandoning me in the aisle. He sat down, adjusted his jacket, and fixed his face into a mask of confident expectation.
I didn’t stay in the back. I rolled forward, parking myself right at the edge of the stage, in the shadows, but visible to anyone who looked.
