Page 1 of Crystal Wrath
1
ELENA
The heels don’t feel like mine. They’re too expensive, too tall, too confident for someone who spends most of her days hunched over a secondhand desk at a cluttered newsroom in downtown Miami. The leather is butter-soft, Italian-made, as indicated on the box, and the red soles practically scream designer with every step I take. But I’ll wear them anyway. Because tonight, I’m not Elena Martinez, an underpaid investigative journalist with a chipped coffee mug and a stubborn moral compass. Tonight, I’m someone else. Someone who belongs in this world of crystal glasses and whispered secrets.
The gown hugs me in places I didn’t know could be hugged. Sleek, black, and strapless. The fabric feels like liquid silk against my skin, and the cut is so perfect it might have been designed specifically for my body. It once belonged to Amelia, my best friend since kindergarten, who now sips cocktails with Miami’s elite for a living. PR specialist by day, social butterfly by night. She knows this world like I know the streets of Little Havana. She understands the unspoken rules, the careful dance of influence and favor. I don’t. But she outfitted me for itanyway, with a subtle smirk and a carefully wrapped garment bag that probably cost more than my monthly rent.
“You’ll slay,” she assured me when she handed it to me that afternoon, brushing her honey-blonde hair off her shoulder with the kind of casual grace I can never replicate. “Just remember, chin up, glass full, and don’t forget to smile like you own the place. These people can smell fear, Elena. They feed on it.”
I laughed at her then, but her words stuck with me during the taxi ride to Coral Gables. The driver whistled low when I gave him the address, muttering something in Spanish about rich people and their castles. He’s not wrong. The Marcelli estate isn’t just a house. It’s a statement. A declaration of power and wealth that stretches across manicured acres like a small kingdom.
Standing outside the stone-carved entrance, I try to channel Amelia’s words. The estate looms before me like it’s straight out of a glossy billionaire magazine spread. Manicured hedges shaped like swans and peacocks line the entrance, their topiary artistry so precise it seems unnatural. The cobblestone circular driveway is big enough to host a diplomatic motorcade. White columns, so pristine, glow under the soft Miami night lights, stretching up to a portico that could shelter a small army. Somewhere behind those massive oak doors, carved with intricate patterns that probably tell the story of some ancient Italian family, the city’s elite drink champagne. They trade secrets with smirks and perfectly whitened teeth. Somewhere, in there, corruption thrives beneath silk and diamonds.
The valet area is a carefully orchestrated ballet of efficiency. Young men in crisp white shirts and black vests move between luxury cars like dancers, taking keys from fingers adorned with diamond rings and sliding behind the wheels of vehiclesworth more than most people’s homes. Ferraris, Lamborghinis, Bentleys, and cars I can’t even identify gleam under the strategically placed spotlights. The sound of engines purring and heels clicking on stone creates a symphony of wealth that makes my stomach tighten with nervous energy.
I arrived in a taxi. A beat-up yellow sedan that looked embarrassingly out of place among the luxury fleet. The driver dropped me off at the corner, not wanting to navigate the intimidating driveway. I walked the final stretch alone. My clutch contains exactly forty-seven dollars in cash, my press credentials hidden beneath a small mirror, and a cheap cell phone that looks ancient compared to the latest model phones glinting from every perfectly manicured hand.
I inhale slowly and step forward, the stiletto heels clicking softly against the stone. Each step feels like a small victory, a moment where I don’t stumble or falter. The valet barely looks at me as he opens the door, his eyes already tracking the next arrival behind me. Good. That means I appear to belong. That means I can do this. The heavy door swings open with a whisper, and suddenly, I’m inside.
The air assaults my senses with the scents of expensive perfume, aged whiskey, and premium cigars. The scents hit me in waves the farther I step into the foyer. Underneath it all is the faint aroma of gourmet canapés being passed on silver trays. A string quartet plays in the corner beneath a gilded chandelier so massive it looks like it might crash through the marble floor if the chains give way. The musicians are perfectly dressed, their instruments gleaming, their movements synchronized like clockwork. They might as well be part of the décor for all the attention the guests pay them.
The crowd is exactly what I expected. Tuxedos that cost more than my car, designer gowns that could fund a small charity for a year, and jewelry that belongs in museum cases rather than around throats and wrists. Miami’s most powerful are here tonight. Developers whose names grace half the skyscrapers downtown, politicians who shape city policy over private dinners, CEOs who control more wealth than some small countries, and if my sources are right, men whose influence doesn’t stop at property lines or stock portfolios. Men whose power comes from silence and shadows.
The ballroom is a masterpiece of excess. The polished marble floor reflects the chandelier light like a mirror, creating the illusion of dancing on stars. The walls are adorned with rich burgundy silk and gold accents. Massive oil paintings in ornate frames depict scenes of classical grandeur. French doors line one wall, leading to terraces that overlook gardens lit with thousands of tiny white lights. The space can easily accommodate up to five hundred people. But tonight’s guest list is deliberately limited, making the room feel grand yet intimate.
I adjust the diamond-studded clutch Amelia lent me and make a slow circle around the ballroom, keeping my pace steady and my expression pleasant but not eager. My pulse thuds in my ears, and the room feels too warm as if all that money and power have sucked out the oxygen and replaced it with something thinner, making it harder to breathe. But I continue walking and sipping from a flute of champagne someone pressed into my hand. The glass is crystal, so fine it sings when I tap my nail against it, and the champagne is nothing like the cheap stuff I occasionally splurge on for special occasions. This is liquid gold, the bubbles dancing on my tongue like tiny celebrations.
Conversations flow around me in multiple languages. English dominates, but I catch snippets of Spanish, Italian, Russian, and what might be Arabic. The topics range from art acquisitions to political campaigns and real estate developments to charitable foundations that probably serve more as tax shelters than humanitarian efforts. Names are dropped like breadcrumbs, including those of senators, ambassadors, tech billionaires, and oil magnates. This isn’t just Miami’s elite. This is an international gathering of influence and power.
The women move like graceful predators, their gowns sweeping behind them as they glide from group to group. Their jewelry catches the light with every gesture, and their smiles are weapons of charm and calculation. The men stand with the confidence that comes from never having been denied anything they truly want. Their handshakes last exactly the right amount of time, their laughs are perfectly modulated, and their eyes continuously scan the room, cataloging threats and opportunities.
This is why I became a journalist. To go where others can’t or won’t. To shine a light into dark places where secrets fester like infected wounds. To give voice to those who can’t speak for themselves against forces too powerful to challenge openly. And if that means dressing up like a spoiled heiress and lying through my teeth, then so be it. Miami is drowning in greed disguised as luxury, and I’m done waiting for someone else to save it.
The investigation that brought me here started six months ago with a simple rental dispute in Little Havana. A family was evicted despite having a legal lease, and upon further investigation, I discovered a pattern. Properties are being acquired through shell companies, tenants are being forced out through intimidation and legal manipulation, and buildings arebeing converted for luxury developments or demolished. The paper trail leads to a web of corporations with foreign investors, and every time I get close to identifying the real players, the leads go cold.
But tonight is different. Tonight, I have names and faces and the opportunity to observe these people in their natural habitat. To see how they interact, who they trust, and who they fear. Information that can’t be found in public records or corporate filings.
“Elena?” someone whispers behind me.
I turn with a soft smile on my face, but I don’t recognize anyone. Just a man in a sleek tuxedo with greased-back hair and too-white teeth. His cologne is an overpowering, heavy musk that makes me want to step back. He gives me a once-over that feels more like an appraisal than a greeting, his eyes lingering on the diamond necklace Amelia insisted I borrow. The look in his eyes is calculating the way a jeweler might examine a stone to determine its value.
“I’m sorry,” I say smoothly, “I think you have me confused with someone else.”
He frowns, studying my face carefully. “My mistake,” he replies, but his tone suggests he’s not entirely convinced. He murmurs something to the woman at his side, a blonde in silver sequins whose Botox has frozen her face in a permanent expression of mild surprise. They move on, but their lingering glances cling to me as they join another group.
That’s when I hear it. Sharp female voices with the malicious delight of possessing exclusive information.
“Of course, she’s not really here,” one socialite purrs, her voice laced with practiced scorn. She’s stunning in the way only serious money can create. Her features are perfectly enhanced by subtle surgery, her teeth are straight and white as piano keys, and her skin glows with treatments available only in private clinics. “That’s the whole point. Natalia Petrova only exists in scandal and rumor. She never actually shows up to these things.”
I freeze mid-step, my champagne flute halfway to my lips. Natalia Petrova. I’ve heard the name whispered in City Hall corridors more than once, in conversations that stop abruptly when outsiders approach. A trust-fund heiress with old Russian money and no public appearances in the last three years. The girl who vanished into tabloids and came back as a ghost story.
“She’s smart, though,” the second woman chimes in, swirling her champagne with nails painted the color of fresh blood. Her emerald-green dress should clash with her red hair but somehow doesn’t. “The mystery makes her more powerful. No one can get close enough to discover what she’s involved in. The family money, the connections to Moscow, all those delicious rumors about what really happened to her father.”
The first woman leans closer, lowering her voice to a conspirative whisper I strain to hear over the quartet. “I hear she’s been living in Switzerland, or maybe it was Monaco. Somewhere Russian money is welcome, and questions aren’t asked. But her name keeps appearing on guest lists, charity donation records, and property acquisitions. It’s like she’s a ghost who signs checks.”
“Or someone else is signing them for her,” the redhead suggests, raising a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “Think about it. How convenient would it be to have a missing heiress whose identity you could use? All that money, all those connections, and nowould contradict you because the real Natalia is either dead or hiding so well, she might as well be.”
My fingers tighten around the stem of my glass as the implications of their conversation sink in. If Natalia Petrova is expected but never shows up, if her appearances are so rare they’re noteworthy, if she’s more legend than reality in these circles, then…
