Chapter 47 - The Calm before the Storm (1/2)
If nerves could kill, she would be dead now.
Claire has been fidgeting in front of the mirror for a few hours now. Not even Miss Cassandra's exquisite ensemble of a black conservative dress, and the right set of jewelry could ȧssuage her fears. She's meeting Gabriel's mom, the fearsome matriarch of the clan, the de facto decision-maker of half of the companies in their holdings, and for what? To judge her. To peer through her soul and see if she can find anything there worth taking seriously.
And why would Claire have to be nervous about this meeting? It's all fake. She's not a real fiancée. If it really goes crazy, she'd just tell her the truth: that this was a business arrangement with her son, with no personal feelings involved.
Or is it?
The meeting is scheduled at one of the swankiest restaurants in the city, some French place that's actually called, wait for it, The French Place. Claire has spent the time trying to imagine how it might go down—and she has imagined countless versions, which ultimately ends badly for her. She has no idea what kind of a person Matilde Tan is. All she has are larger-than-life caricatures—about how, still in her thirties, and with two young kids to raise, Matilde single-handedly founded what would become the cornerstone of the great Tan business empire: a noodle shop. The shop, during the decades of the Cold War, would evolve into a trading firm engaging in the import and export of plastic products, and the plastic products would eventually become transistor radios. Then by the end of the 1980s, the burgeoning Tan business empire would include TV and radio manufacturing, property development (they are now the country's biggest landlord of office spaces), and heavy industries. A number of bold acquisitions and mergers would further make the Tan empire into one of the most far-reaching organizations in the world.
That's Matilde Tan, whose string of achievements almost makes her goddess-like. That's the woman Claire would be meeting tonight. That's the woman who really, really likes Michelle Alcantara as her son's wife—not this unknown upstart from God-knows-where, not Claire Monteverde with all the fake credentials.
Just merely thinking about it makes Claire's throat as parched as a desert.
Even if Gabriel repeatedly ȧssured her that everything would be fine, she couldn't stop the buŧŧerflies in her stomach to flutter like crazy. Even after the two-hour-long spa treatment that should have taken relaxation to out-of-this-world levels, she still could not stop her heart from pounding like mad.
”I'll have Lopez fetch you at seven,” Gabriel had told her before they parted, leaving Claire presiding alone over a buffet table in her penthouse suite. Not even the fragrant, savory scent of the Residence's signature fried chicken could calm her down and entice her to take a bite.
Now, starving and on the verge of tears, Claire's eyes are bloodshot as she stares at herself in the mirror.
”Why do I have these problems?” she asks herself. ”Why can't I have normal problems? Not these do-or-die kind of dilemmas that tend to push me over the edge?”
Because you're not a regular, normal kind of person, a voice in her head says. You've always taken the road less travelled, Claire. You've always been some sort of a maverick.
Because you're an idiot, another voice says. And strangely, the second voice feels more truthful.
A quarter before seven, Claire's already waiting in the lobby of the Residence. Dale's eyes light up when he sees her. ”You're incredibly stunning tonight, Miss Claire.”
”Don't fuċkɨnġ patronize me,” Claire snaps, then has a change of heart. ”I mean, thank you, Dale. I'm sorry.”