Dinner is as painful as I imagined it would be.
Crystal chandeliers wash the marble in soft light.Voices stay low.Every sound is measured—the scrape of cutlery on Limoges, the silent choreography of waitstaff, the controlled pour into Baccarat glasses.It’s the same rhythm as a pageant stage: each movement counted, each gesture judged, every misstep magnified.
No one comes here hungry.They come to decide who leaves intact.
Valentina's chosen the setting, of course.The table position, the view, the way the light hits.Nothing about it is accidental.It’s like a judging panel in miniature, her gaze sharper than any crown-obsessed judge I’ve endured.
I can feel her attention flick toward me at intervals—quiet, exacting.She doesn’t need to speak.I already know this is another test.
I’ve been here before.Different room.Smaller table.Same rules.
Sit straight.Elbows in.Napkin first.Wait until the adults begin.
The memory bites down before I can stop it: a hotel banquet hall, the air smelling of hairspray and citrus polish.
I was twelve.A judge’s hand on my wrist, gentle enough to look kind, firm enough to hurt.Don’t reach unless you’re invited, sweetheart.
My mother's smile remained fixed beside me.I swallowed my shame, my hunger, the burning behind my eyes, and learned the lesson.
How to eat without appetite.How to smile without warmth.How to disappear until summoned.
The pageant circuit called it poise.
It felt like suffocating in a bedazzled straitjacket.
Just like in New Orleans, Marquez orders for the table without asking what anyone wants.
When the waiter retreats, the conversation drifts toward business, politics, something coded beneath politeness.I watch the rhythm of it—who interrupts, who waits, who commands the pause.It's not just hierarchy.It's instinct.Predators dressed in civility.
My fork finds the plate.My smile stays soft.My breathing stays level even though something in my throat is tightening with each passing second—the same tightening that taught me to mask fear with poise, hunger with elegance, panic with polish.
Valentina lifts her wine, a small, precise smile playing at the corners of her mouth.“You play poker, don't you, querida?”
The question isn’t about cards.
I set my fork down carefully.Take a breath that doesn’t show.“I know the rules.”
“Then you'll understand this.”She gestures toward the sleek glass partition beyond the dining room, where a private poker table gleams under soft light.“Join us for a few hands after dinner.I want to see how much you’ll gamble.”
Her tone is benign.The challenge underneath isn’t.
Jagger
Valentina leans forward, diamonds catching the light with each movement.“No limits tonight,” she says.“Just instinct.”
Ortega grins.“Instinct gets expensive.”
“That’s the point.”
By the third hand, Adena’s in control of the rhythm.Not challenging, not submissive—just steady.Calculated.And that draws Valentina’s attention like blood in water.
I can feel my pulse accelerating.She’s not supposed to be good at this.But she is.
“So you do play,” Valentina says, eyes sharp on her.
“I learn fast.”Adena meets her gaze without blinking.
Marquez chuckles.“That she does.”
