Chapter 1 - The Shadow of Prestige
The funeral of Don Alejandro Montes brought together the most influential people in the city. Entrepreneurs, high-ranking politicians, and old, wealthy friends filled the elegant, marble-floored hall of the grand estate. The atmosphere was thick with the scent of expensive lilies and whispered conversations about the future of the Montes empire. In the center of the room, a massive, meticulously carved wooden casket rested under soft, golden spotlights, completely surrounded by towering walls of pristine white flowers. It was a send-off fit for a king of industry, a man whose name had shaped the economic landscape of the country for decades.
Among the crowd of tailored suits and designer black dresses, an old man appeared at the entrance. He stood out like a fading photograph in a gallery of modern art. His clothes were simple, neat but visibly worn by time, and in his calloused hands, he tightly clutched an old chauffeur’s cap. His eyes were heavily rimmed with red, swollen from hours of silent weeping. This was Don Ernesto. For over forty years, he had been the personal driver, the quiet shadow, and the constant presence behind the wheel for Don Alejandro. To him, this wasn't the loss of a powerful billionaire; it was the end of a lifetime of shared roads.
As Ernesto took a hesitant step into the main hall, hoping to pay his respects, a tall figure suddenly blocked his path. It was Julián Montes, the eldest son and the self-proclaimed heir to the family throne. Julián looked down his nose at the old man, his face twisted in a mixture of grief and arrogance. He didn't want the pristine image of his father’s elite gathering tarnished by the presence of a mere servant.
“Employees say their goodbyes through the back door,” Julián said, his voice dropping to a harsh, cold whisper that cut through the soft murmurs of the room. He pointed toward the service entrance, completely indifferent to the decades of service the old man had given.
The old chauffeur lowered his gaze, his knuckles turning white as he gripped his cap tighter. The humiliation stung, but his devotion to his late master kept him anchored to the floor. He didn't want a confrontation; he only wanted a moment of closure.
“I only came to say goodbye to the boss,” Don Ernesto said softly, his voice trembling with a mix of age and sorrow. He looked past Julián's shoulder toward the casket, his heart aching with a profound sense of loss.
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But the young man showed absolutely no compassion. He stepped closer, deliberately cutting off Ernesto’s view of the altar, establishing a barrier built on class and pride.
“My father does not need chauffeurs here,” Julián sneered, loud enough for a few nearby guests to turn their heads. “And much more so, definitely not next to his casket. Do not touch it. Do not even think about mingling with the people in this room. Your job ended when his heart stopped.”
