Alma's Own

CHAPTER 12

The gala at Palacio de Cibeles glittered as if the chandeliers themselves were conspiring to blind its guests with elegance. Crystal lights reflected on polished marble floors, string quartets played quietly, and the hum of conversations rose and fell like waves. To the untrained eye, it was a perfect night of wealth and sophistication. But Alma moved through it like a predator observing its prey. Every smile, every whisper, every glance could contain danger or opportunity.

Carmen and Aitana lingered near the grand staircase, their eyes tracking Alma like hawks. Carmen’s dark gaze was sharp, calculating, and full of thinly veiled resentment. She had been telling anyone who would listen that Alma was a leech, someone with no right to the Soler world. Aitana, younger and more naïve, followed her lead, smiling sweetly while trusting her sister’s judgment. They didn’t know what they were up against.

The first sign of trouble was subtle: a waiter “accidentally” spilled champagne near the gallery doors. Glasses teetered, foaming, and guests glanced over with mild curiosity. Carmen stepped forward, her voice a syrupy melody of faux concern.

“Oh! How careless of the staff,” she said, her eyes narrowing slightly. “Such a shame! Some important documents might have been ruined!”

Alma’s eyes flicked toward her, noting the faint smirk. She understood immediately: this was a test, a staged commotion. She moved with calm precision, stepping around the glasses, letting her heels click in rhythm with her controlled breathing. Aitana added her own soft concern, echoing Carmen, “Yes, delicate matters like these shouldn’t be left to chance, surely.”

Then Carmen subtly handed Aitana an envelope from her clutch, whispering: “Watch her with this. Let’s see if she can manage what’s meant for her or if she falters.”

The envelope contained a minor but official-looking set of guest list amendments and invitations, deliberately designed to make Alma appear careless if she didn’t handle it correctly. The sisters assumed she would flinch, drop it, or show irritation. But Alma, trained in observation, poise, and subtlety, let the moment stretch. She bent slightly to adjust a nearby painting, eyes calm, hands steady.

Daniel, hidden near a shadowed corridor, watched intently. They think she’s just a social climber, he thought. They have no idea how disciplined she is—or what she’s capable of.

Carmen leaned close to Aitana, voice low and sharp. “Step aside, Alma,” she said, honeyed menace in her tone. “Some of us know how delicate these arrangements can be. You wouldn’t want to make a mistake in front of everyone, would you?”

Alma’s lips curved in a neutral smile, eyes steel. “Thank you, Carmen. But I assure you, I am quite capable of navigating delicate situations.” Her voice was soft, calm, but it carried the weight of confidence that the sisters had not anticipated.

The envelope now rested lightly in her hands. She slid it gently into her clutch, careful to give no indication she knew it had been swapped, that it was intended to provoke embarrassment or missteps. For the guests around her, it appeared she handled the documents naturally; for Carmen and Aitana, it was a slight, unseen, and growing frustration.

The staged chaos escalated further when a brief argument erupted near the gallery entrance. A staff member, perfectly coached to play along, accused another of misplacing a wine delivery, the conversation escalating to loud whispers of negligence and minor financial errors. Heads turned, curiosity flared, but Alma, ever composed, stepped through the crowd with grace, intercepting a glass of champagne before it spilled near a fragile sculpture. Every move she made was deliberate, measured, and elegant.

Daniel finally approached her in a quieter corridor, voice low, eyes scanning for danger. “They’re testing you, Carmen and Aitana,” he said quietly. “They think you’re a leech, someone who can be intimidated. But they don’t know what they’re dealing with.”

Alma’s eyes flicked to him, a faint spark of amusement visible. “Then they’ll be disappointed,” she whispered. “Let them think they have the upper hand. For now, I’ll play their game carefully.”

Víctor arrived moments later, his presence magnetic, imposing. His dark eyes swept the room, pausing for a fraction longer on Alma. “What is happening here?” His voice carried authority and subtle warning. Carmen’s faux innocence faltered slightly, and Aitana’s careful smile flickered.

Alma inclined her head, her posture perfect, voice soft but confident. “A minor misunderstanding, señor. Already resolved.”

Víctor’s eyes lingered on her for a heartbeat, then shifted. There was suspicion there, subtle, almost imperceptible, but he allowed it to pass. Alma noted the slight exhale he kept from the room, the tension in his jaw. He would notice more tomorrow; she had no doubt.

Later, in the quiet corridor away from the gala, Daniel leaned closer. “They’re pushing boundaries. Carmen, especially, she wants to see how far you can be unsettled, how much she can manipulate you. Aitana follows her lead. They have no idea how dangerous this game is for them.”

Alma’s lips curved faintly, a controlled mix of respect and quiet satisfaction. “Then I’ll show them limits they didn’t expect. Without giving Víctor reason to suspect me.”

Daniel’s voice softened, admiration and caution mingling. “You’re remarkable and dangerous.”

Alma met his gaze, the faintest spark of connection flaring between them. “I’ve survived worse,” she said softly. “And with you watching my back, I’ll survive tonight too.”

The gala ended with the glittering charm masking the quiet battles waged in corridors and behind staged accidents. Alma had emerged unscathed aware, vigilant, and more determined than ever. The game had shifted. Now she was not merely surviving. She was asserting her power, one calculated move at a time.