Chapter 14: The Sabotage
Despite her defeat in the study, Doña Isabela refused to retreat. If she couldn't break them legally, she would break them socially.
Three days before the wedding, Isabela took over the planning of the bridal luncheon. It was traditionally a sweet, intimate gathering, but Isabela invited the most ruthless, snobbish old-money matriarchs of Mexico City and Madrid. She arranged it in the mansion's sunroom, intending to put Marisol on display like an uncultured animal.
Marisol wore a beautiful pastel floral dress, sitting at the head of the long table. The women around her dripped in diamonds and old prejudices, whispering behind their linen napkins.
"Tell me, Marisol," Lady Carmen, a wealthy Spanish duchess, drawled with a fake, sweet smile. "Isabela tells us you used to manage the household here. How... quaint. Was it difficult transitioning from scrubbing floors to sitting at the table?"
The table fell silent. Everyone waited for the former maid to stutter, cry, or run away.
Marisol took a delicate sip of her sparkling water, placed the glass down, and smiled warmly at the Duchess.
"It was quite an adjustment, Lady Carmen," Marisol replied gracefully. "But honestly, working in the shadows teaches you so much about the light. For instance, when you clean a house, you learn all its secrets. You learn who really rules the home, who drinks too much before noon, and who has fake diamonds."
A few of the younger women at the table stifled giggles. Lady Carmen turned bright red and quickly touched her necklace.
Isabela, furious that Marisol was holding her own, signaled the kitchen staff. "Let us serve the first course. I made sure the menu featured traditional, sophisticated European delicacies. I do hope it's not too... complex for your palate, Marisol."
The waiters brought out plates featuring an incredibly rare, complex dish: Ortolan bunting, prepared in an obscure traditional French style, accompanied by a highly specific arrangement of truffles and a difficult-to-navigate set of archaic cutlery. It was a trap. One wrong move, one wrong fork, and Marisol would look like a peasant.
The society women watched her like hawks.
Marisol looked down at the plate. A slow, knowing smile spread across her face.
She didn't reach for the fork immediately. Instead, she looked up at the head chef, who was standing nervously near the door.
"Chef Anton," Marisol called out kindly. "This is a beautiful homage to the classic 18th-century preparation. But you used the white Alba truffles instead of the Périgord black, didn't you? Because the soil acidity this season made the black truffles too bitter for the delicate meat."
Chef Anton’s eyes went wide with sheer admiration. "Y-Yes, Madame! Exactly!"
Marisol picked up the correct, obscure, two-pronged fork with effortless grace. She turned to the stunned women at the table.
"When you spend four years living next to the kitchen of a billionaire," Marisol explained pleasantly, slicing perfectly into the dish, "you end up reading a lot of culinary books while the house sleeps. Please, ladies, eat before it gets cold."
May you like
Doña Isabela’s fork clattered loudly against her porcelain plate. She had tried to humiliate the maid, only to watch her command the room like an absolute queen. By the end of the luncheon, the society women were asking Marisol for her recipe recommendations and praising her elegance.
The sabotage had failed spectacularly.
