Alma's Own

CHAPTER 3

Alma had expected the Soler family to be intimidating. But,what she hadn’t expected was how entrenched their wealth and influence felt and how deeply the shadows of that wealth had touched her own past.

The following weekend, she arrived at Víctor’s Salamanca penthouse, the building guarded discreetly by a valet who didn’t even need her name, he simply recognized her from the gala. Marble floors stretched endlessly, reflecting the afternoon sun like liquid gold. Chandeliers hung from the ceiling like frozen constellations, and the walls were lined with paintings that whispered of old money, and old secrets.

Waiting near the entrance was Dona Mercedes, an elderly woman, who has been the family’s housemaid for three decades, straight-backed despite her age, dressed in a simple but immaculate dark uniform. Her silver hair was pulled neatly into a bun, and her eyes, sharp, and assessing.

“This way, senorita,” the woman said, her voice calm, practiced. “Don Victor is expecting you.”

Victor appeared moments later, emerging from the far end of the living room as though summoned by instinct. He looked exactly as he had at the gala, immaculate, controlled, seemingly untouched by effort. His gaze flicked briefly to Dona Mercedes, who inclined her head before withdrawing silently, leaving them alone.

“Alma,” Victor said, his tone warm but measured. “I’m pleased you could join us”

The pleasure is mine. Alma replied. Her voice was steady, her posture flawless. Every movement was intentional. Years of dance training had taught her how to command space without demanding it, how to stand in stillness and still be noticed.

Victor gestured for her to follow, and as they walked thought the expansive living room, he spoke casually about the view, the architecture, the city, safe topics, neutral ground. Alma listened carefully, noticing the subtle way Victor always positioned himself slightly ahead, guiding without appearing to lead, and cataloguing everything: the placement of furniture, the artwork lining the walls, the family portraits, one of which got her attention – a family photo of Victor’s father, Don Emilio, and a younger Victor and his brothers, - one of them, a spitting image of Daniel.

They continued to the terrace, where the city view spread below them in sunlit splendor. Retiro Park lay in the distance, lush and serene, a deceptive calm Alma had learned to distrust. Cities, like people hid their sharpest edges behind beauty.

Daniel stood near the balustrade, one hand resting casually on the stone. He turned as they approached, his expression neutral but alert.

“Daniel”, Victor said, “you remember Alma.”

Of course.” Daniel replied, offering her a polite nod. His gaze lingered a fraction longer than necessarian invasive, but seemly searching.

Lunch was served on the terrace, arranged with quiet efficiency by unseen staff. Dona Mercedes reappeared briefly, overseeing the placement of dishes. Throughout the meal, Alma spoke sparingly. She laughed when appropriate, listened attentively, asked questions that revealed interest without vulnerability. She was careful not to overshare.

Victor spoke of business in broad, abstract terms. Investments, holdings, partnerships. Nothing concrete. Alma understood the language well enough.

At one point, Victor excused himself to take a call, Alma found herself alone with Daniel for a brief, charged moment. He studied her carefully. “You seem ambitious,” he said quietly, neither accusing nor admiring, just stating a fact.

Alma met his gaze evenly. “I prefer precise goals to vague dreams,” she replied.

Daniel’s lips curved in the faintest smile, fleeting and unreadable. “Be careful,” he murmured. “This family, they don’t forgive mistakes. And some mistakes are lethal.”

Alma allowed herself a slow smile, her eyes steady. The warning hung between them, like smoke curling in the sunlit air. Alma didn’t flinch.

She had already played this game in her mind countless times, plotting every step, every angle, every risk.

Alma had trained for this moment, not just in words, but in movement, in poise, in observation, all through dance lessons, art classes, social etiquette

Victor returned moments later, and as the afternoon wore on, Alma moved through the penthouse with graceful confidence. She even allowed herself small demonstrations of her skill, her posture impeccable, her steps fluid, her presence impossible to ignore.

When she finally prepared to leave, the Dona Mercedes handed her coat with a faint nod, as the elevator descended, Alma made a mental note - Daniel Soler was observant, and that could be either a threat or an opportunity.

And the truth is, it wasn’t vanity, not ambition in weaving her way into the lives of the Soler’s with promises and plans for future collaborations, and bonding over arts, and culture, but a strategic and careful plan to reclaim what had been stolen from her family, taken years ago by Víctor’s family empire