and cherish the things she knows.
Mina has always liked her entrances.
And her exits. And everything that comes in between, too, but those first moments can dictate how the rest of an encounter is going to go. The party is something vaguely formal, in a hotel with a name she doesn't care to bother with, Swarovski crystal touching the ceilings like glittering icicles and everything gold, silver, ruby inside. None of the opulence touches her--those are material things, and while they can symbolize multitudes, Citlalmina dressed to contradict those superficial trappings.
She has not been invited to this event. It belongs to the creme de la creme of politicians and appointed officials, along with their wives, perhaps, and some very powerful businessmen.
Men, men, men. Always dominated by them. There are concessions here and there, but she is not going to be a token. That's simply not in the cards. Still, she admits that to get in here, she had to do something less prideful than is befitting her: sneak. She casually intercepted a door as it was left open by a blonde woman who'd stepped outside for a cigarette, sauntered down a hallway like she's meant to be there.
Which she isn't, of course.
She stops in front of a convenient window that stretches across one long expanse of ballroom--no one is dancing, that's not what these things are for, they sit and talk and then tuck themselves into smaller quarters to make deals and cut ties--watching for someone. She knows who she's looking for, and here, she is hidden, unless someone on staff comes out to see her.
And if they do see her, they'll note how she's dressed: snugly fitted black riding trousers tucked into heeled boots, a dark, deep blue bustier and a heart-shaped diamond on a choker at her throat. She doesn't belong, but she doesn't mind.
She just needs to look like wherever she is, you'd rather be with her.