Moretti mansion

The Moretti mansion glowed like a cathedral of wealth—crystal chandeliers blazing, marble floors polished so brightly they reflected sins and secrets with equal clarity. Catalina stepped over the threshold, clutching the Cartier gift bag like a lifeline. She had expected elegance. She had not expected silence. It hit her the moment she entered—the kind of sudden, slicing quiet that made her heartbeat sound too loud in her own ears. Heads turned. Fans of perfume fluttered. Eyes sharpened. And the space around her… widened. People didn’t move aside politely. They recoiled. A woman in a silver gown whispered behind her hand. A man snorted, lifting his champagne flute like he was toasting her downfall. Catalina’s breath stuttered. Her heels clicked against the marble as she crossed toward the center of the hall, searching for Alessandro. Surely he was here. Surely he’d explain what was happening. Then— An elbow brushed her arm. A wine glass tipped. The red liquid splashed across the marble at her feet, spraying the hem of her pale dress. The gasp that rippled through the room was theatrical, delighted. The wine spread across the floor in a slow, crimson crawl— like blood searching for a victim. “Oh dear,” a woman drawled from near the grand staircase. “She’s already making a mess.” Another voice chimed in, dripping poison: “Someone should’ve told her tonight wasn’t a costume party. We weren’t expecting a charity case.” Laughter. Soft. Cutting. Precise. Catalina froze, the humiliation washing over her in hot waves. She forced herself to kneel, trying to blot the stain with trembling hands. Her fingers shook so badly she dropped the napkin. A man stepped closer—not to help, but to lift his phone. A camera flash went off. Her stomach twisted. No. Please, no. A second flash. Catalina rose quickly, clutching the Cartier bag to her chest as if it could shield her. A waiter stepped toward her and, without meeting her eyes, said quietly, “Miss… Mr. Moretti requested you wait near the back. Not here.” Requested. Not invited. Not welcomed. Catalina’s throat tightened. “Why? What’s going on?” But the waiter had already turned away. Someone laughed behind her—the sharp kind, delighted by another’s pain. Her cheeks burned. Her vision blurred. She stumbled back a step, then another, until her spine touched the cold marble pillar. She had never felt so small. She opened her phone. A message from Alessandro blinked. Alessandro: Stay where you are. I’ll come get you. Do not cause a scene. Cause a scene— She let out a breath that felt like a choke. As if she were some problem needing containment. She tightened her grip on the Cartier bag until her fingers ached. This was supposed to be an anniversary. Not… whatever this was. The room’s chandeliers glittered like cruel eyes watching her crumble. And standing under them— Catalina felt the first crack in her belief that Alessandro loved her at all. Just then, someone new appeared at the top of the staircase. The chatter shifted. Excitement. Expectation. Catalina followed everyone’s gaze— And her heart stopped. Because Alessandro Moretti was descending the steps… With another woman on his arm.