Chapter One Hundred: Too Nice
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED: TOO NICE
ABEL DONOVAN
I pulled into the underground parking garage of the grand venue, the muffled sounds of music and animated conversation already filtering through the concrete walls. Flora sat beside me in the passenger seat, adjusting her makeup in the visor mirror for what had to be the tenth time since we'd left the house.
We were at the BelleNova unveiling party, an event I had absolutely no genuine interest in attending but had somehow been roped into anyway. Flora, my mother, and Selena had been relentless in their insistence, spending weeks talking about nothing but this party and the exclusive BelleNova dresses they'd commissioned for the occasion.
All three of them were wearing designs personally created by the mysterious BelleNova herself. Actually, looking around the parking garage as other guests arrived, it seemed almost every woman attending tonight was wearing one of her creations. The designer had clearly positioned herself perfectly—after tonight's unveiling, she would undoubtedly become the most sought-after name in the elite fashion world.
My mother and Selena had arrived separately in their own vehicle, but I'd been stuck driving with Flora, enduring her endless chatter about fashion and designers and who was wearing what.
I turned off the engine, straightened my tie with methodical precision, cleared my throat, and stepped out of the car.
Flora practically bounced out of her side, her burgundy BelleNova gown swishing around her legs. She looked beautiful—I could acknowledge that objectively—but I felt nothing when I looked at her. Just a vague sense of obligation and growing unease.
"I just hope we're not late!" Flora gushed, her voice pitched high with excitement. "I can't wait to finally see the face behind BelleNova. She's so talented, so innovative, so exclusive. This is going to be the event of the year!"
She turned to me, her smile almost painfully sweet. "Right, babe? Are you excited too?"
Babe. She'd started using that term of endearment recently, and every time she said it, something in me recoiled slightly.
For the past several days—maybe even weeks—Flora had been acting differently. Nice. Too nice. Like all our constant arguments and differences had suddenly been set aside, replaced by this sugary, accommodating version of herself that I barely recognized.
I found it suspicious. Off-putting. Unsettling in ways I couldn't quite articulate.
But I also had to admit: I preferred this peaceful Flora to the combative one. At least my constant pounding headaches had diminished somewhat since she'd stopped picking fights over every minor thing.
"Yes, I am," I lied smoothly, forcing what I hoped looked like a genuine smile. I cleared my throat again—a nervous habit I'd developed lately.
But yes, her behavior was making me deeply uncomfortable. I'd grown accustomed to one version of Flora—difficult, demanding, often cruel—and this sudden transformation to sweetness felt performative. Like she was playing a role for some purpose I hadn't figured out yet.
I just hope this version doesn't come with consequences, I thought as we walked toward the venue entrance. Nothing Flora does is without calculation.
We entered through the main doors, immediately assaulted by camera flashes from the photographers positioned along the red carpet entrance. The venue itself was stunning—whoever had designed the space had an incredible eye for aesthetics.
Everything was grand and beautiful, almost overwhelmingly elegant. The color scheme was sophisticated—deep jewel tones accented with gold and crystal. The lighting created an atmosphere that was simultaneously warm and dramatic. Even the floral arrangements looked like works of art.
As a businessman with some knowledge of design and presentation, I could appreciate the level of thought and taste that had gone into every detail.
But there was something else. Something about the aesthetic, the vibe, the particular way the colors and textures came together that felt... familiar. Like nostalgia, or a half-remembered dream.
The scent of the space—some subtle combination of expensive perfumes, fresh flowers, and something else I couldn't identify—tugged at something in my memory.
Why does this feel so familiar?
"Are you okay?" Flora asked, still clinging to my arm with both hands.
"Yes... yes, I'm fine," I replied, forcing another wide smile that was starting to make my face hurt.
My gaze traveled around the crowded venue, cataloging the faces of various business associates, social acquaintances, and members of the elite circles we moved in.
Then my eyes landed on the Serrano table.
My heart did something complicated in my chest, and before I could stop myself, I was searching the group for her. For Anna.
But she wasn't there.
I could see Mother Serrano seated like a queen holding court, Alexander standing nearby looking vaguely bored, and several other family members or associates.
But no Anna.
Disappointment hit me like a physical weight, which I immediately tried to dismiss.
Why are you disappointed? Her presence or absence is none of your concern.
If the Serranos were invited, Anna would certainly have been invited too. She was a Serrano now, after all—heir to their entire empire, constantly featured in business publications, increasingly prominent in social circles.
So where was she?
A thread of dread wound through my chest, which I immediately tried to wave aside.
What she does is absolutely none of your business, Abel. Stop thinking about her.
"Ooh, the Serranos are here!" Flora said beside me, her voice taking on that false brightness I'd learned to recognize. "How interesting."
I averted my eyes quickly from their table and didn't comment, pretending I hadn't heard her observation.
I turned to walk toward an empty section of the venue, needing to sit down and get my thoughts under control.
Flora's hand immediately pulled me back.
"What are you doing?" she asked, her voice carrying a slight edge beneath the sweetness. "Let's go talk to some of our friends. You've been brooding and antisocial lately. It's not good for your image."
Some of our friends? I thought cynically. We can't even call them friends. Business acquaintances and secret rivals would be more accurate.
"Yeah, sure, let's go," I said, plastering on yet another fake smile.
I've been faking smiles so much lately that my cheeks actually hurt, I thought wearily. But what choice do I have if I want to match Flora's pace of forced pleasantness?
We made our way through the crowd, stopping periodically to exchange greetings and empty pleasantries.
"Donovan! Good to see you!" someone said, extending a hand for me to shake.
"Flora, you look stunning! BelleNova really outdid herself!"
"When's the wedding? We're all waiting for invitations!"
Fake words. Hollow smiles. Meaningless small talk about business and society gossip that I had absolutely no interest in but had to pretend to care about.
This is exhausting.
After what felt like hours but was probably only twenty minutes, we found ourselves drifting closer to where the Serranos were seated.
"Oh, the Serranos!" Flora exclaimed again, her voice carrying that same artificial excitement. "Let's go greet them properly. It would be excellent for your business connections, wouldn't it, babe?"
She smiled up at me expectantly, and I moved forward hesitantly, every instinct screaming at me that this was a bad idea.