The words spilled from Sebastián Álvarez’s mouth, thick with arrogance and wine, slicing through the grand hall of the Royal Alcázar of Valencia. The orchestra stopped instantly, bows frozen midair.
For a heartbeat, only his voice echoed against marble columns and crystal chandeliers. Then laughter burst out. Silk-clad guests bent over their glasses, whispers flying, eyes locking onto a single figure.
Standing beside a table of flutes was Elena Cruz.
She gripped a silver tray, her posture straight despite the tension in her hands. Her black uniform was flawless, her white apron crisp, her dark hair pulled back neatly. All evening she had moved like a shadow among wealth that was never hers. Until now. Every gaze pierced her, turning her into a spectacle.
“Yes, you,” Sebastián said again, lifting his glass. “Dance with me, and I’ll make you my wife. Right here.”
Laughter swelled. A woman in emerald green scoffed.
“A waitress marrying an Álvarez? How entertaining.”