Chapter 1
Chapter 1: The Banquet of Strangers
The Herrera mansion shone brilliantly that night, like a fallen star upon the earth, as if shame, tears, or betrayal did not exist within its fortified marble walls. The light from expensive scented candles flickered against classic oil paintings, creating an atmosphere of both breathtaking opulence and absolute authority.
In the main dining room, a colossal crystal chandelier—a gift from a French billionaire—illuminated a long mahogany table draped in pristine white silk. Upon the table was a feast that flaunted extravagance: roasted spring lamb, smoked lobster, Beluga caviar, artisan breads crafted by renowned chefs, and vintage French wines poured into crystal glasses so delicate they looked as if they had been carved from ancient ice.
Beside the intricately carved fireplace, a string quartet played a melodic Vivaldi piece, providing the perfect soundtrack for the calculated conversations of the elite.
Today was the 40th birthday of Gabriel Herrera, one of the most admired—and envied—businessmen in Madrid. He had built a chain of luxury hotels from absolute zero. His face had graced the cover of Forbes Spain, and that evening, everyone spoke of him as if he were a demigod of the corporate world.
Politicians offered fake, boisterous laughter; business partners arrived with velvet-wrapped gifts; wealthy neighbors and distant relatives—who had never shown their faces when he was poor—were now raising their glasses to toast his immense fortune.
But Gabriel was not smiling. His smile was merely a polite, practiced reflex, a skill he had mastered in the boardroom.
While accepting congratulations from the Mayor, his eyes constantly scanned the crowd, searching for a single silhouette. A small, humble figure that would look entirely out of place in this sea of silk and jewels.
His mother. Doña Rosario.
She was a 72-year-old woman, petite, who usually wore muted, hand-knitted woolen dresses. Her hands were heavily calloused, mapped with prominent blue veins from decades of kneading dough, carrying trays, and sewing. Her eyes always radiated a gentle, forgiving warmth, even though life had etched countless wounds into their corners. She had raised Gabriel entirely on her own. He distinctly remembered the torrential rainy days when she would wear a torn conical hat, selling potatoes at the neighborhood market. He remembered the freezing winter nights when she stayed awake to mend other people's clothes, her eyes growing dim from the lack of light. He remembered how she had walked five kilometers in the rain just to save a bus fare to buy his school textbooks.
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Gabriel knew perfectly well that everything he had today—the Tom Ford suit he was wearing, this sprawling mansion, the respect of the sycophants standing before him—had been bought and paid for with her blood, sweat, and tears.
Therefore, when he stepped into the dining room, his gaze sweeping over the most honorable seat right next to his, and saw it completely empty, his chest abruptly tightened, as if an invisible hand had just crushed his heart.
