Chapter 4 - The Gala of Wolves
Three days later, the De la Vega family attempted their grand counter-offensive.
Despite the scandal, despite Adrián’s pending court date, the De la Vega Foundation’s annual Golden Rose Charity Gala went forward at the opulent Palacio de Fernán Núñez in the heart of Madrid. It was an audacious display of pure, unadulterated hubris—a public statement to Spain’s political and financial elite that the De la Vega family was untouchable, that the bridal suite incident was merely a trivial “domestic misunderstanding” blown out of proportion by sensationalist tabloids.
Adrián had been released on a staggering five-million-euro bail earlier that morning, secured by Cayetana’s corrupt allies on the appellate bench. The press had been barred from the palace gates by three dozen private guards in black suits, ensuring that only the hand-picked, sycophantic elite of Madrid society were permitted inside.
The grand ballroom was a cathedral of gilded mirrors, crystal chandeliers, and intoxicating perfume. Hundreds of billionaires, diplomats, and socialites sipped vintage champagne, whispering in hushed, gossiping tones, waiting for the matriarch to make her entrance.
At precisely ten o'clock, Doña Cayetana appeared at the top of the grand marble staircase, draped in blood-red velvet, her neck blazing with emeralds. Beside her stood Adrián. His arm was tucked into a discreet black silk sling, his face powdered to conceal the lingering purple bruises along his jawline. He smiled—a brittle, plastic smile designed to project unbothered power.
Cayetana stepped up to the podium, tapping the microphone with a manicured nail. The room instantly fell into an obedient, reverent silence.
“Friends, distinguished guests,” Cayetana purred, her voice dripping with aristocratic warmth. “We thank you for standing with us during these days of unprovoked slander. There are those from the lower tiers of society who look upon greatness with envy. They infiltrate our homes, fabricate dramatic falsehoods, and weaponize modern technology to extort the legacy our ancestors spent generations building. But truth, like gold, remains untarnished by the mud thrown at it by commoners.”
A ripple of polite, cowardly applause moved through the crowd. Men who controlled banks and women who ran fashion empires clapped obediently, terrified of being excluded from the De la Vega financial circle.
“To prove that our family remains unshaken,” Cayetana continued, raising her crystal flute, “we announce tonight a fifty-million-euro investment into the new maritime corridor, a project that belongs entirely, exclusively, to the De la Vega—”
*CLACK. CLACK. CLACK.*
The sound of high heels striking the marble floor at the back of the ballroom echoed with the cadence of an executioner’s drum.
The grand double doors swung open, crashing against the gilded walls.
The room gasped. Heads snapped around. Whispers swept through the ballroom like dry grass catching fire.
I walked down the central aisle.
I was not wearing the torn white silk of a defeated bride. I wore a backless, tailored gown of deep emerald silk that swept the floor, exposing the corded muscles of my shoulders and back—muscles honed by thousands of hours of sparring, kata, and discipline. My dark hair was pulled back into an elegant, razor-tight chignon. Around my neck hung no De la Vega diamonds, only the obsidian pendant that had destroyed their empire’s facade.
Beside me walked two officers in formal dress uniforms, accompanied by a senior bailiff from the Commercial Division of the Supreme Court.
Adrián’s face drained of every drop of blood. He took a reflexive, terrified step backward behind his mother, his uninjured hand trembling so violently he dropped his champagne flute. The crystal shattered across the marble stage with a crystalline scream.
“Elena?” Cayetana gasped into the live microphone, her voice squeaking with genuine terror before she caught herself. “Security! Remove this woman! She is trespassing on private property!”
Four burly private security guards moved aggressively toward me, their hands reaching under their dinner jackets.
“I wouldn’t do that, gentlemen,” I said, not breaking my stride.
The bailiff beside me stepped forward, raising a red-ribboned judicial decree stamped with the royal seal of Spain. “By order of the Supreme Court, Third Commercial Chamber, this gathering is officially an asset-freeze hearing. Anyone interfering with the service of this writ will be charged with federal obstruction of justice and remanded into immediate custody.”
The security guards hesitated, exchanging nervous glances before melting back into the crowd of terrified aristocrats.
I reached the base of the marble staircase, looking up at Cayetana and Adrián. The entire high society of Madrid watched in paralyzed silence, their phones secretly recording the spectacle despite the ban.
“You spoke of mud, Cayetana,” I said, my voice carrying effortlessly into every corner of the vast ballroom without the aid of a microphone. “You spoke of commoners and envy. But you forgot to tell your esteemed guests where your fifty-million-euro maritime investment actually comes from.”
I turned toward the sea of stunned socialites, gesturing toward the giant projection screen behind the stage that had previously displayed the De la Vega family foundation logo.
“If you will all direct your attention to the screen,” I announced.
A technician at the master soundboard—bribed three hours ago by Sofia’s investigators—switched the feed.
The De la Vega crest vanished. In its place appeared high-resolution scans of the original 1994 patent applications bearing the bold, unmistakable signature of **Manuel Ramos**, alongside the forensic audit proving that every single cent of De la Vega Shipping’s cargo profits over the last twenty years had been skimmed from an illegally hijacked patent.
Below that, a live ticker displayed the frozen status of twelve offshore accounts linked to Cayetana’s private foundation.
“As of six o’clock this evening,” I said, turning back to the pale, trembling matriarch on the stage, “the National High Court has issued an asset freeze on all De la Vega maritime holdings pending restitution to the Ramos estate. Total claimed damages: four hundred and eighty million euros.”
A collective gasp swept through the room. Several elderly women clutched their pearls; three bank directors immediately pulled out their phones and rushed toward the exits to liquidate their positions.
“You… you liar!” Adrián screamed, suddenly breaking from behind his mother, his eyes bloodshot, his composure completely shattered. He pointed his trembling finger at me, leaning over the brass railing of the staircase. “You planned this from the very beginning! You seduced me! You played the demure, sweet little girl in Madrid just to steal our company!”
“I didn't seduce you, Adrián,” I replied, looking up at him with cold, unvarnished pity. “You saw a woman who didn't flaunt her wealth, and you assumed she had no power. You saw a woman who was gentle, and you assumed she was weak. You mistook my patience for submission, and your own arrogance for invincibility.”
I took two slow steps up the marble stairs. Adrián instinctively stumbled backward, his back hitting the wall, clutching his wounded arm as if he expected me to break the other one in front of five hundred people.
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“The wedding is over, Adrián,” I said softly, loud enough for only the front rows to hear. “And tomorrow morning, your empire belongs to the mechanic’s daughter.”
***