Chapter 5 - The Queen’s Visit to the Court
By two o'clock that afternoon, the shockwaves had fully rippled through the upper echelons of Querétaro and Mexico City society. The news traveled faster than a wildfire through dry brush: Andrés Villaseñor’s corporate empire had imploded overnight. His business accounts were seized, his luxury assets were tagged for foreclosure by Horizonte Capital, and the grand hacienda where he had thrown his arrogant party was officially under administrative receivership.
I sat behind the massive mahogany desk in my penthouse office on the thirty-second floor of the Horizonte Tower in Santa Fe. From my floor-to-ceiling windows, I had a sweeping view of the city skyline—a concrete testament to every brick I had laid, every deal I had closed, and every obstacle I had shattered over the past decade.
My executive assistant, Claudia, knocked gently on the open door and stepped inside.
“Madam President,” Claudia said with a respectful nod. “You have a visitor in the lobby. She refused an appointment, but she bypassed security by demanding to see you personally. It’s Doña Patricia Villaseñor.”
A slow, knowing smile curved my lips. I had wondered how long it would take for the matriarch to realize her golden boy had lost his crown.
“Send her up, Claudia,” I replied smoothly. “And make sure security gives her a clear, unobstructed path to my office. We wouldn't want her to feel unwelcome in a real business establishment.”
Ten minutes later, the double doors of my office swung open.
Doña Patricia strode in. Gone was the effortless, untouchable serenity she had worn at the hacienda. Her ivory suit was slightly wrinkled, her pearl necklace twisted to the side, and her face was pale with a mixture of furious indignation and absolute disbelief. She looked around the expansive, high-tech office—complete with original modern art, sleek leather seating, and panoramic views of the city—as if she had stepped onto an alien planet.
“What is the meaning of this, Lucía?” Patricia demanded, her voice trembling slightly with suppressed rage as she marched right up to my desk. “Andrés is locked out of his office. The banks are calling him a fraud. Some aggressive legal team from Horizonte Capital is already inventorying his assets. What kind of vulgar joke are you and your little apartment-rental friends playing?”
I didn't stand up. I leisurely closed the laptop in front of me, leaned back in my ergonomic leather chair, and folded my hands neatly on the desk.
“Good afternoon, Patricia. Please, take a seat. Or do you prefer standing when you address women who don't give birth to sons?”
Patricia flinched as if she had been slapped. Her eyes darted around the room, finally locking onto me with pure venom.
“You insignificant little—this is your doing? You think because you manipulated some paperwork behind your husband’s back you can destroy a Villaseñor? Our family name has carried weight in this country for generations! My son is a pillar of business—!”
“Your son,” I interrupted, my voice sharp and clear, cutting through her tirade like a scalpel, “is a fraudulent, bankrupt parasite who couldn't balance a checkbook without forging signatures and living off a wife he spent a decade belittling.”
Patricia gasped, gripping the edge of my desk with manicured fingernails.
“He is your husband! You took vows! You are supposed to support him, to obey him, to submit to his authority—!”
“Submit?” I laughed softly, standing up from my chair. I walked around the mahogany desk, closing the distance between us until I stood mere inches from her. At this proximity, I could see the fine lines of age and panic etched around her eyes. “Authority belongs to those who earn it, Patricia. Not to fragile men wrapped in ego, and certainly not to petty women who steal food from children’s plates to feed their own delusions of superiority.”
“You dare speak to me like that?!” Patricia hissed, raising a trembling hand as if she intended to strike me across the face.
Before her hand could move another inch, the heavy office doors flew open, and Héctor Morales stepped inside, flanked by two towering corporate security guards.
“Is there a problem, Madam President?” Héctor asked smoothly, his eyes fixed coldly on Doña Patricia.
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Patricia froze, her hand still raised in midair. She looked at Héctor, then at the security guards, and finally back at me. The horrifying reality was finally sinking into her marrow: I wasn't the quiet, timid daughter-in-law she could bully at family dinners anymore. I was the person holding the lease on her entire social existence.
“There is no problem, Héctor,” I said evenly, never breaking eye contact with the older woman. “Just a guest who forgot she isn't sitting at the head table anymore.”
