He didn’t look at Doña Victoria’s silk neck scarf or her manicured nails.

He looked straight over her head at the thirty-two gathered guests.

“Welcome to the private residence of Mrs.

Elena Varela,” Marcus said, his crisp voice carrying clearly across the whole driveway.

Doña Victoria stood frozen, her jaw working silently for three seconds before she found her voice again.

Paola slowly lowered her phone into her handbag, her acrylic nails making one sharp click against the brass clasp before her hands went still.

“She doesn’t own this estate,” Doña Victoria declared loudly, looking back at her relatives.