Chapter 2
Chapter 2: The Velvet-Coated Lie
Gabriel froze in the middle of the dining room, ignoring a glass of wine being offered by a bank director.
"Where is my mother?" he asked, his voice low, but deep enough to drop the temperature around him by several degrees.
His wife, Isabel, was standing a few feet away, chatting with a minister's wife. Hearing her husband, she turned around. Isabel was radiant in a form-fitting emerald green silk dress that hugged her perfect curves. Around her neck was a diamond necklace that brilliantly caught the light of the chandelier. Upon hearing the question, the smile on her lips vanished too quickly, replaced by a carefully concealed flash of panic.
She walked over, gently linking her arm through Gabriel's, deliberately lowering her voice:
"She must be resting, darling. You know how easily she gets exhausted when she has to interact with too many loud people."
Patricia, Isabel’s older sister—a woman who always prided herself on her family's declining "aristocratic" bloodline—raised her champagne flute and chimed in with a half-smirk:
"Besides, Gabriel, these formal dinners with complex etiquette overwhelm her. She's not used to multi-course cutlery... It's much better for her to have some peace and quiet in her room."
Gabriel frowned, his eyes darkening. He stared hard at Patricia's face, then shifted his gaze back to his wife.
"She knows that tonight, I wanted her sitting right next to me. I instructed the staff to prepare a new dress for her. I told her it was my birthday, and she had to be the one to cut the cake."
Isabel subtly squeezed his arm, her manicured nails digging slightly through the fabric of his suit.
"Darling, please. Don't make a scene in front of the guests. The Mayor is looking at us. Your mother is perfectly fine. Once the party winds down, we’ll go up to her room and check on her."
But Isabel's voice sounded distorted. It lacked any sincerity—it was just another skill she had honed to become the mistress of this mansion.
Gabriel yanked his arm out of his wife's grasp. He glanced toward the head of the table. There was an empty chair, right next to his presiding seat. Hanging on the back of the chair was a beautifully engraved gold nameplate: Doña Rosario Herrera. The burgundy velvet chair was entirely empty. Nobody sat in it, and amidst the guests toasting and laughing, it seemed absolutely no one cared about the absence of the mother who had given birth to the man of the hour.
Just then, the sharp clinking of a glass rang out. The toasts were beginning.
A major shareholder of his company, a portly man holding a thick cigar, stood up and announced loudly:
"Ladies and gentlemen! Let us raise our glasses to Gabriel Herrera. A living legend of Madrid. A man who built his empire with his own two hands, a true self-made man!"
Shouts of "Cheers!" and "Bravo!" erupted through the room.
Gabriel stood rooted to the floor. He did not raise his hand. He did not let the wine touch his lips.
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He despised the term "self-made." He was not self-made. He was forged from ultimate sacrifice. His mother had drained her youth and her strength so he could stand where he stood.
Without saying a word, his face setting like stone, Gabriel slammed a wine glass down onto the nearest table and turned his back, walking straight out of the dining room.
