Chapter 2 - The Taste of Plastic
At the Salas estate in Lomas de Chapultepec, the garden party was in full swing, though an undercurrent of tension had begun to warp the festive atmosphere.
Don Fernando Rivas and his wife, Doña Carmen, had arrived promptly at four o'clock. As patriarch of one of Monterrey’s oldest real estate dynasties, Fernando carried an air of quiet, ruthless authority. He sat beneath the covered colonnade, nursing a glass of mineral water while Teresa Salas buzzed around him like a desperate moth.
"Our family has always believed that lineage and discipline go hand in hand," Teresa was saying, her voice strained as she gestured toward the empty doorway of the kitchen. "Our Valeria is... somewhat introverted. A sweet girl, of course, but from very humble origins. She lacked the stamina to entertain today, so she excused herself early."
Rodrigo forced a tight, charming smile. "She gets overwhelmed easily. We encourage her to rest. In our household, the men carry the burden of the commercial heavy lifting."
Don Fernando took a measured sip of water. His silver hair caught the dappled sunlight. "A man should provide, certainly. But a development company handling sixty thousand square meters of commercial space in Guadalajara requires more than pride, Rodrigo. It requires liquid capital and bulletproof bank covenants."
Esteban Salas, sitting across from Fernando, puffed his chest out and adjusted his cufflinks. "Rest assured, Don Fernando. My firm, *Desarrollos Salas*, has never been more solvent. Our bridge financing is rock solid. We are fully prepared to break ground alongside the Rivas Group next month."
Adrián Rivas, sitting close to Camila, rested his hand affectionately on her bare shoulder. "Camila’s work at the venture firm has been quite impressive, too, Father. She was telling me about the portfolio restructuring she’s overseeing."
Camila beamed, basking in the glow of high-society approval. "It’s all about leverage, Don Fernando. When you understand risk, money simply answers to your command."
Just then, a server in a black vest approached Teresa with a discreet silver tray. On it was an invoice.
Because Valeria had left before finishing the dessert service and preparing the roasted lamb loin that was supposed to follow the birria, Teresa had panicked thirty minutes prior and placed an emergency order with an ultra-exclusive French catering service down the boulevard in Polanco. The truffled canapés, vintage champagne, and artisanal pastries had just arrived at the service gate.
"Excuse me, Madame," the butler whispered to Teresa. "The delivery team requires payment upon delivery. The total is eighty-four thousand pesos."
Teresa waved a dismissive hand toward Camila. "Camila, darling, use your card. Rodrigo’s wallet is inside, and Esteban is talking business."
"Of course, Mother," Camila said smoothly. She slipped a matte-black titanium card from her leather clutch—the sleek card she had flashed all summer at brunch spots and boutiques. She handed it to the butler. "Put it all on this. And tell them to hurry with the champagne."
Don Fernando observed the transaction without expression.
Two minutes later, the butler returned. His posture was rigid, his cheeks flushed with embarrassment. He leaned down, speaking in a low murmur, but the silence on the terrace was sudden enough that his words carried clearly to everyone at the table.
"I apologize, señorita. The transaction was declined."
Camila’s laugh was high-pitched and brittle. "Don't be ridiculous. Run it again. It has an unlimited corporate threshold."
"I ran it three times, señorita," the butler whispered apologetically. "The terminal displays a code: *Account Closed by Primary Holder*."
Rodrigo frowned, his jaw tightening. "That's absurd. Camila, did you forget to pay your personal statement?"
"It’s not a personal statement! It’s the executive corporate line!" Camila hissed, her face burning a deep, blotchy crimson. She snatched the card back, her fingers trembling. "There must be an error with their machine. They probably have a cheap mobile terminal."
Adrián pulled out his own gold card. "Allow me, Camila. It’s not a problem."
"No, it *is* a problem," Camila stammered, feeling the cold weight of humiliation settle on her chest. To have her card declined in front of Don Fernando Rivas was like being stripped naked in public. "I'll call the concierge desk right now."
Before she could dial, her phone vibrated violently in her palm. An email notification popped onto the screen with the distinctive royal-blue header of the investment fund where she was completing her fellowship.
The sender was the Office of the General Counsel and Human Resources:
> **CONFIDENTIAL NOTICE OF ADMINISTRATIVE SUSPENSION**
> *Dear Ms. Salas,*
> *Effective immediately, your fellowship and institutional sponsorship with the firm have been placed on indefinite suspension pending an internal review of ethical misconduct and misrepresentation. Access to all corporate accounts, office premises, and associated benefits has been terminated. Do not contact fund clients or attempt to access internal servers...*
Camila’s breath caught in her throat. The color drained from her cheeks until she was the color of skim milk.
"Camila?" Adrián asked, noticing her vacant, terrified expression. "What is it?"
"I... I have to take this," she choked out, her voice barely a whisper. She stood up so quickly that her chair scraped violently against the stone tiles. She bolted into the house toward the guest bathroom, clutching her phone as if it were a detonator.
Don Fernando watched her retreat, his eyes narrowed with clinical detachment. He set his linen napkin on the table.
"Esteban," the older man said, his tone dropping several degrees in temperature. "I received a curious report from my financial comptroller this morning regarding your project in Guadalajara."
Esteban smiled, though a drop of sweat was now trickling down his neck. "A report? Must be about our projected margins, Don Fernando. They’re spectacular."
"No," Fernando replied dryly. "It was regarding your debt-service ratio. My comptroller indicated that your bridge loan with Arista Capital has not been renewed for the upcoming quarter. In fact, he was told the maturity date remains this Wednesday."
Esteban let out a boisterous, dismissive chuckle, waving his hand as if swatting away a fly. "Oh, that’s just standard bureaucratic paperwork! Arista’s risk committee rubber-stamps our extension every six months. The director is practically family to our interests. It’s guaranteed."
"Nothing in finance is guaranteed without an executed contract, young man," Fernando said coldly. "Our joint venture agreement stipulates that if your primary credit facility is not verified and extended by tomorrow at noon, the Rivas Group has the unilateral right to withdraw our thirty-percent capital injection. And we will exercise that right."
Rodrigo’s eyes flashed with anxiety. He leaned toward his brother. "Esteban, call the fund manager. Clear this up right now so Don Fernando doesn't have to worry."
"I'll call after lunch," Esteban murmured, his voice losing its confident boom.
"Call him now," Rodrigo insisted through gritted teeth.
Esteban pulled out his phone, opened his corporate banking portal, and tapped on the credit facility overview. The screen flashed red.
A notification sat at the top of the interface:
> **STATUS: NOTICE OF ACCELERATION PENDING.**
> *Extension request #8841-B has been REJECTED by the Chief Risk Officer. Full principal balance of $48,000,000 USD remains due and payable by 23:59 CST on Wednesday.*
Esteban’s heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird. The blood roared in his ears.
*Rejected?*
That was impossible. The risk committee always pushed it through. The paperwork was always signed in advance. Valeria had promised—no, Valeria had *handled* it.
Esteban looked up, his eyes darting frantically toward Rodrigo.
"Rodrigo," Esteban croaked, his throat suddenly dry as desert dust. "Where did you say Valeria went?"
Rodrigo stared at his brother, bewildered. "What does Valeria have to do with your banking portal? She's probably pouting at some cheap café because Camila poured a little beer on her head. I'll deal with her when I get home."
"No, you idiot," Esteban whispered, his hands trembling so violently he nearly dropped his phone into his plate of birria. "You don't understand. Call her. Call her right now."
Rodrigo pulled out his phone, annoyed by the sudden drama. He dialed his wife’s number and held the phone to his ear.
*One ring.*
Then an automated voice: *"The number you have dialed is currently not accepting incoming calls from this party. Goodbye."*
Rodrigo pulled the phone away and stared at the dark screen. "She... she blocked me."
Across the table, Don Fernando Rivas slowly stood up, smoothing his tailored blazer. "Carmen," he said to his wife, "gather your things. I believe the Salas family has urgent domestic business to settle. We will await your formal documentation tomorrow, Esteban. If it does not arrive by twelve sharp, our partnership is terminated."
Teresa gasped, rising to her feet. "Don Fernando, please! It’s just a misunderstanding! Stay for the dessert!"
May you like
The patriarch didn't even turn his head as he walked off the terrace, leaving the three of them standing in the suffocating ruins of their own arrogance.
***
