Chapter 8 - THE PROJECTION OF TRUTH
Veronica recovered her composure with the terrifying agility of a seasoned sociopath.
She forced her lips into a dazzling, radiant smile, though her eyes were darting toward the exits like a trapped animal. She stepped forward, opening her arms as if to embrace my mother in front of the stunned onlookers.
“Elena! Darling!” Veronica cried, her voice theatrical and loud enough to reach the governor’s ears. “Look at you! What a wonderful surprise! I was so worried your terrible fever would keep you bedridden tonight, but seeing you looking so... so strong... it’s truly a miracle!”
She leaned in, pretending to kiss Doña Elena’s cheek, whispering under her breath with vicious intensity: “Get upstairs right now, you senile old bitch, or I swear to God you won't survive the night.”
My mother didn't flinch. She didn't step back.
Instead, Doña Elena raised her right hand—the hand scarred by boiling tea—and placed it firmly against Veronica’s bare shoulder, stopping her dead in her tracks.
“Keep your kisses for Judas, girl,” my mother said, her voice clear, calm, and carrying across the entire front row of guests. “The dead do not need your pity, and the living do not fear your threats.”
The room went dead silent. You could hear the wax dripping from the chandeliers.
Julian Navarro stepped in, his face sweating profusely beneath his makeup, trying desperately to salvage the scene. “Ladies and gentlemen! Please, let us raise our glasses to the de la Vega family! Álvaro, perhaps now is the time to make our joint announcement regarding the corporate restructuring?”
“Yes, Julian,” I said, stepping past him toward the raised stage where the podium and the grand presentation screen stood. “The restructuring. I think tonight is precisely the right time to show everyone what we’ve been building behind closed doors.”
I walked up to the podium, tapping the microphone twice. The sharp feedback echoed through the vaulted ballroom, focusing every eye on me.
“Distinguished guests, friends, and esteemed partners,” I began, looking across the sea of two hundred wealthy faces. “For generations, the de la Vega name has stood for honor, integrity, and absolute devotion to this land. But true honor is not defined by the clothes we wear, the cars we drive, or the balance of our bank accounts. True honor is defined by how we treat those who are vulnerable when no one is watching.”
Veronica stepped toward the edge of the stage, her smile cracking, panic bleeding through her eyes. “Álvaro, darling, you're rambling. Let’s bring out the dessert—”
“Play the presentation,” I said into the microphone.
Above the stage, the massive nine-meter digital display screen, usually reserved for corporate promotional videos of our vineyards, flickered to life.
The screen didn't show vineyards.
It showed the courtyard outside the stables.
High-definition, crystal-clear 4K footage.
The ballroom audio system boomed with the sickening sound of Veronica’s voice from yesterday afternoon:
“If she’s hungry, then let her eat like the animals!”
On the screen, nine meters wide, the entire high society of Spain watched as Veronica de la Vega pressed her designer heel into my eighty-year-old mother’s plate of lentils, laughing hysterically while Doña Elena sat humiliated in the mud beside the pig trough.
Gasps of absolute horror erupted across the room. Lady Isabel covered her mouth in disgust. The governor took an instinctive step backward, his face flushed with moral outrage.
“Turn it off!” Veronica screamed, her voice losing every shred of aristocratic elegance, turning into a feral shriek. “Turn it off right now! It’s fake! It’s AI! Álvaro, you bastard, shut it down!”
She lunged toward the AV cables at the side of the stage, but two towering farmhands—men whose families had worked our land for forty years—stepped into her path, crossing their massive arms like stone walls.
The screen didn't stop.
It cut to July 14th: Veronica pouring scalding chamomile tea over my mother’s arms.
It cut to August 3rd: Veronica striking my mother across the face in the drawing room.
It cut to September 19th: Veronica locking the pantry doors, mocking my mother’s heart condition.
The silence in the ballroom was suffocating, broken only by the horrifying audio of Veronica’s cruelty echoing off the marble walls. Veronica stood in the center of the floor, completely exposed, her emerald gown now looking like a shroud of utter disgrace. Her mother, Doña Beatriz, fainted into a row of gilt chairs, while her father, Don Gonzalo, buried his face in his hands, unable to meet the eyes of the peers who had once envied him.
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I looked down at my wife from the podium.
“You told my mother yesterday that money decides who matters here,” I said, my voice echoing like thunder through the speakers. “Let us see what your money is worth tonight.”
