The music resumed faintly in the background, barely covering the sudden murmur of gossip spreading like wildfire through the crowd. Clara stormed past the guests like a woman possessed, the train of her crimson dress fluttering violently behind her.
Her parents had just entered, fashionably late as always. Richard Marquez stood tall and stiff in a navy suit, his expression unreadable. Beside him was his wife—Vanessa—draped in gold and dripping in diamonds, ever the picture of polished perfection. They had been led through the side entrance to avoid the photographers, but as Clara approached, their attention snapped to her immediately.
"Clara?" Vanessa reached out, alarmed. "Why do you look like that? What happened?"
"Why are you fuming?" Richard added, stepping toward her.
Clara's chest heaved as she spat out, "She's here."
Vanessa's smile faded. "Who?"
"Ella," Clara hissed through clenched teeth. "She's here. At my event."
Vanessa blinked. "Ella… as in Ella Marquez?"
