CHAPTER 1
They mistook the woman in the simple navy blue dress for an employee hired to serve champagne.
That was his first mistake.
The second was sitting by the kitchen doors during my own son’s engagement party.
As if I were a stain they had to hide before the camera flashes started going off.
I stepped out of the service elevator at the upscale Hotel Brasa del Pacífico, in Valle de Guadalupe, Baja California, with the pungent smell of chlorine and hot metal still lingering in the air.
It was a smell I knew all too well.
Years ago, before boardrooms, multi-million dollar acquisitions, interviews, and business magazine features, I had cleaned places like that one.
I had carried trays in front of people who never bothered to look me in the face.
His eyes simply pierced me.
As if I were part of the decor.
As if it didn’t exist.
But that night he was not invisible.
That night, I was Isabel Romero.
Founder of Romero Urban Design.
Majority shareholder of Propiedades Brasa del Pacífico.
And the woman who owned every chandelier, every luxury suite, every marble floor, and every perfectly rehearsed smile inside that hotel.
However, because she was wearing a simple navy blue dress and comfortable low-heeled shoes, those people only saw what they wanted to see.
A woman who did not belong to his world.
A young waiter named Lucas was walking beside me, holding a tray full of champagne glasses with slightly trembling hands.
“Is this your first time up here, ma’am?” he asked in a low voice.
“Something like that,” I replied.
The boy looked towards the illuminated entrance of the private lounge located on the terrace.
“I just wanted to warn you about something. The bride’s family is… complicated. The young lady has already made the florist cry twice.”
I smiled.
“Then I appreciate the warning.”
The doors opened.
And before me appeared a party that shone as if wealth could disguise itself as love.
A golden light illuminated the crystal goblets.
Enormous arrangements of white and pink roses rose above the tables, arranged with such perfection that it seemed as if even the flowers were afraid of getting out of place.
Behind the windows, the vineyards of the Guadalupe Valley stretched out under the last rays of the sun.
It was a spectacular view.
Elegant.
Exclusive.
And extraordinarily expensive.
At the center of it all was Carlota Holguín.
My son Daniel’s fiancée.
She was a woman who seemed to have rehearsed every one of her moves in front of a mirror.
She wore a blue silk dress, diamonds on her wrist, and her hair was arranged over one shoulder with such precision that even gravity seemed to obey her.
“These napkins look cheap!” she complained to the event organizer.
The young woman tried to answer, but Carlota wouldn’t allow it.
“I ordered pale pink! This looks like salmon pink! What do you think we’re planning? A low-budget wedding?”
I took a few steps closer.
“Is there a problem with the tablecloths?” I asked calmly.
Carlota turned towards me.
His eyes scanned my dress.
My shoes.
My discreet jewelry.
And finally, my face.
Then he smiled.
But it wasn’t a friendly smile.
It was that smile that some people use when they believe they are talking to someone inferior.
“Ah,” he said. “You must be into banquets.”
Before he could answer, his mother appeared.
A woman dressed in an elegant cream-colored suit, holding a champagne glass as if it were a royal scepter.
“Carlota, my dear,” she said without deigning to really look at me, “don’t waste your energy. Someone on staff can take care of that.”
I observed the two women.
Take it easy.
Without looking away.
“I’m here for Daniel Romero’s engagement party,” I replied.
Carlota remained motionless for a moment.
“Ah…”
Her smile became rigid.
“You are… Daniel’s mother.”
She pronounced the word “mom” as if it had left an unpleasant taste in her mouth.
“That’s right,” I replied. “Isabel Romero.”
His mother examined me again.
This time, with an even more evident coldness.
“What a pleasant surprise. We weren’t sure he was going to come.”
“I wouldn’t miss my only son’s engagement.”
“Of course,” he replied.
Although every syllable suggested that I would have preferred to stay at home.
Then he raised his hand to call over a waiter who was passing by.
“Please seat Mrs. Romero in a suitable place.”
A suitable place.
Those words seemed harmless.
Until I discovered what they meant.
They led me to a small side table, next to the service doors that connected to the kitchen.
There sat two visibly exhausted assistants.
On a nearby chair they had left a stack of cards with the names of the guests.
