Chapter 11 - The Terrace of Versailles
Valentina left the grand event hall without a single backward glance. The afternoon breeze hit her face immediately, a humid, sticky heat that clung to the skin.
She walked briskly down the long, opulent marble corridors of the Aranjuez Hotel. Her heels clicked sharply, echoing in the empty hallways. She navigated the labyrinthine complex until she found a small, secluded terrace attached to the Versailles room. It was deserted, overlooking a meticulously manicured garden.
Only there, completely isolated from the prying eyes of high society, did she allow her rigid shoulders to drop. Just a fraction. She looked down at her dress. In the natural sunlight, the stain looked even worse—a dark, bruised purple spreading aggressively across the delicate French lace.
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The dream of the perfect wedding was dead. She closed her eyes, letting the ambient sound of the garden ground her.
She leaned against the cool stone balustrade, taking a moment to simply rest. Then, with steady, deliberate movements, she unclasped the golden bag, took out her phone, and dialed the number.
