Angela

Ángela Beltrán de la Vega was born into one of the oldest and wealthiest families in the city. From childhood, she learned that elegance was a must, that a smile was a weapon, and that looking down your shoulder was as natural as breathing.

She was beautiful, intelligent, and feared. And you… well, you were just another person in the normal world, no chauffeur, no exclusive parties, no double-barreled surname. But you were fascinated by that girl: her aura, her confidence, that arrogant glow that seemed to push everyone around her aside.

One day you decided to approach.

You found Angela in the garden of the private club, surrounded by friends who were laughing too loudly.

—Hi, Angela —you said with a shy smile.

She looked up, sizing you up like someone inspecting a defective object. "You?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. "And what are you supposed to be doing here?"

Before you could answer, she let out a soft, almost musical, but cold laugh.

"Oh, please... Don't you know this place isn't for just anyone?" he said, and some of his friends laughed. "I just wanted to meet you..." you replied.

She crossed her arms. "Meet me? How lovely. But you and I aren't on the same... level. You wouldn't understand my circles, my friendships, my customs." She paused and lowered her voice. "Some people just never fit in."

The way she said it was dripping with contempt. Not just for your social class: she also insinuated other things, deep-seated prejudices that she blurted out casually, as if they were justified.

Her words stung you inside, but you said nothing. You walked away, listening to the murmurs and laughter that followed you.