Chapter 3 - The Gala of Ghosts
The Grand Ballroom of the Four Seasons Mexico City was a sea of glittering diamonds, flowing champagne, and the muted chatter of the country’s most powerful elites. It was the annual Rivas Foundation Gala, an event designed for one purpose: to paint Santiago and Beatriz Rivas as saints of the modern era.
Santiago stood near the entrance, looking immaculate in a tailored Tom Ford tuxedo. To anyone else, he was the picture of success. But to a trained eye, the cracks were showing. He kept adjusting his cuffs. His eyes darted nervously toward the entrance every time the double doors opened. Beside him, Beatriz looked elegant in emerald green, but her hand was shaking so badly she kept spilling drops of champagne onto her satin gloves.
They were terrified. They had spent the entire day trying to track down the source of the Salazar Group’s leverage, only to find a financial brick wall.
"Smile, Santiago," Beatriz muttered through her teeth, her fake smile plastered on for a passing photographer. "The media is watching. We cannot look weak."
"She’s up to something, Mother," Santiago hissed back, his voice strained. "She was too calm on the phone last night. And Salazar... he hasn't launched a public attack yet. Why? It doesn't make sense."
"She’s an eight-month-pregnant schoolteacher, Santiago," Beatriz sneered, though there was no conviction in her voice. "What can she do? Without her father’s men, she is nothing. We hold the psychiatric papers. If she steps foot in here, we call the security detail we hired and have her committed publicly under medical distress."
Suddenly, the chatter in the ballroom began to die down.
It started at the entrance and rippled through the crowd like a wave, a sudden, heavy hush that drew every eye toward the grand double doors.
Santiago and Beatriz turned, their faces turning a ghostly, ash-white.
The doors had been thrown wide open. Walking through them wasn't a broken, hiding pregnant woman. It was a queen returning to her throne.
I wore a custom-tailored, midnight-blue maternity gown that draped elegantly over my swollen belly. My hair was swept up, revealing a diamond necklace that had belonged to the Salazar matriarchs for three generations—a piece of jewelry worth more than the entire Rivas estate. I held my head high, my shoulders back, radiating a cold, untouchable power.
On my left arm was my father, Ricardo Salazar, walking with the heavy, unyielding posture of a man who owned the world. On my right was Alejandro Vargas, holding a sleek black leather briefcase.
Behind us, a dozen reporters from the top financial and social magazines in the country pushed into the room, their cameras flashing rapidly.
"What is the meaning of this?" Santiago stepped forward, trying to block our path, his face contorted in a mix of rage and fear. "Valeria! You have no right to be here! Security!"
Four large security guards moved to intercept us, but before they could take a step, Alejandro Vargas raised a single piece of paper.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you," Alejandro said, his voice echoing clearly through the quieted ballroom. "As of four o'clock this afternoon, the Salazar Group has executed its option to seize the primary debt of Rivas Enterprises. Furthermore, through our consolidated shares, we have instituted an immediate injunction. This building, this gala, and the very foundation you are celebrating are currently under the administrative control of my client."
The crowd gasped. Whispers erupted like wildfire. Salazar Group? Client? Valeria is a Salazar?
"You're lying!" Beatriz shrieked, forgetting her aristocratic poise. "She’s Valeria Mendoza! She’s an orphan! She’s a nobody!"
I stepped out from behind my father, walking directly up to Beatriz. I looked down at her, my eyes reflecting the brilliant light of the chandeliers above.
"Mendoza was my cover, Beatriz," I said, my voice amplified by the microphone a nearby reporter was holding out to catch the drama. "Because I wanted to see who your family really was when you thought no one was watching. And what did I find? A mother who encourages her son to abuse his pregnant wife so long as it doesn't leave visible bruises for the gala."
The ballroom went completely, utterly silent. The only sound was the continuous, rapid click-click-click of camera shutters.
"You're insane!" Santiago roared, his face turning purple as he lunged toward me. "She’s experiencing a psychological break! Don't listen to her! Someone call an ambulance!"
"The only people leaving in an ambulance tonight, Santiago, will be your legal team," I said calmly.
Alejandro opened his briefcase and pulled out a tablet, connecting it instantly to the giant LED screen behind the main stage—the screen that was supposed to show a video of Santiago’s charitable works.
Instead, a video began to play.
The audio blasted through the high-end sound system of the ballroom. It was crystal clear.
“If you don't sign tomorrow... your baby is going to grow up without a mother.” Santiago’s recorded voice boomed through the room.
The video showed the living room from the night before. It showed Santiago leaning in, his face twisted in malice. It showed me on the floor. And then, it showed Beatriz sitting on the stairs, sipping her red wine, uttering the exact words: “The foundation gala is tomorrow. Don't leave bruises anyone can photograph.”
The crowd erupted into absolute chaos. Several prominent socialites gasped, covering their mouths in horror. Board members of the Rivas Foundation immediately began backing away from Santiago and Beatriz as if they were radioactive.
Santiago stared at the screen, his mouth open, his entire world crumbling into dust in a matter of seconds. He looked at the reporters, whose flashes were now blinding, capturing every single agonizing second of his public ruin.
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"You... you ruined me," Santiago whispered, his voice trembling as he looked at me.
"No," I said, leaning close enough for him to hear my whisper over the roar of the crowd. "I just graduated from your school of control. And today, Santiago... you failed the class."
