CHAPTER 1: The Santa Fe Circus and the Silence of the Hills
Traffic on the upper level of the Periférico was unbearable, as usual at eight in the morning in Mexico City. A relentless chain of red brake lights and impatient horns crawled from the south toward the glass towers of Santa Fe. Yet inside Ricardo Landa’s armored Mercedes-Benz G-Class, the city’s frenzy played out like a muted film behind tinted glass.
Ricardo Landa—the “King of Data,” the man who climbed from a housing complex in Iztapalapa to become the youngest billionaire ever featured on the cover of Expansión magazine—straightened the knot of his Italian silk tie. He checked his reflection in the rearview mirror. Not a crease. Not a shadow beneath his eyes. Immaculate.
“Do you think there will be a lot of press?” Isa asked, cutting through the climate-controlled quiet of the cabin.
Ricardo turned to her. Isa Monroe. Twenty-six years old. Former PR intern at his own company. Now the woman for whom he was discarding fifteen years of marriage. She wore a blazing red pantsuit that cost more than what most employees earned in a year, touching up her lipstick while staring into the front camera of her iPhone 15 Pro Max.
“I paid for it to be there, my love,” Ricardo replied with a self-satisfied smile, squeezing her hand. “I want everyone to see this. I want them to see how one cycle closes and the true empire begins.”
Isa smiled—the practiced smile she had refined for her fifty thousand Instagram followers.
“It’s just… she makes me nervous. Camila. Do you think she’ll make a scene? You know how exes get when they realize they’ve lost.”
Ricardo gave a dry chuckle.
“Camila? Make a scene?” He shook his head. “You don’t know my wife… or rather, my ex-wife. Camila’s a pushover. She doesn’t have the backbone to fight. She’ll sit there, cry a bit, sign whatever they hand her, then run back to her parents’ place in Coyoacán. She’s predictable. Boring. That’s why I’m with you.”
The SUV stopped at the main entrance of the Superior Court of Justice of Mexico City. Just as Ricardo had promised, photographers and reporters swarmed the curb. These weren’t cheap entertainment tabloids—they were financial and society journalists. Ricardo Landa wasn’t a celebrity. He was an economic force. His divorce wasn’t gossip; it was market news.
The driver opened the door, and camera flashes detonated like a storm.
“Ricardo! Ricardo! Is it true you requested the DNA test?”
“Mr. Landa! What will happen to Lang Tech’s stock if the adultery is proven?”
“Isa! Isa, a picture over here!”
Ricardo moved forward, ignoring the questions while ensuring the cameras caught his best angle. He held Isa by the arm, displaying her like a trophy. Together they entered the courthouse lobby—an imposing hall of marble and echoes, heavy with the scent of floor wax, burnt coffee, and human despair.
They stepped into the private elevator reserved by his legal team. As the numbers climbed, Ricardo felt that familiar surge of adrenaline—the same rush he’d felt before sealing hostile takeovers or cracking supposedly unbreakable servers in his early days. The sensation of absolute control. He was going to crush Camila, not out of hatred, but because she represented the final trace of his ordinary past. She reminded him of the Ricardo who counted coins for the subway, the insecure version of himself. To become the god he imagined himself to be, every remnant of that man had to be erased.
When they arrived at Courtroom 7C, his legal team was already waiting. The best firm in Mexico: Castañeda & Associates. Five men in flawless gray suits, leather briefcases in hand, eyes sharp as predators.
“Everything is prepared, Mr. Landa,” said Castañeda, the senior partner—a bald man with a commanding baritone. “Judge Montiel is demanding, but he respects evidence. And the facts we fabricated—pardon me, presented—are airtight. The ‘unstable wife’ narrative has already taken hold in the media.”
“Excellent,” Ricardo said, taking his seat at the head of the plaintiff’s table. Isa sat beside him, crossing her legs as she discreetly checked comments on her latest post.
That was when the door on the opposite side opened.
The low murmur in the courtroom softened. Camila entered.
Ricardo expected her to look shattered. Dark circles. Rumpled clothes. Maybe that old sweater she wore during her depressive spells. He expected weakness.
What he saw made him blink.
Camila Landa walked in with measured calm. She wore a navy-blue dress—clean lines, modest cut, three-quarter sleeves. Simple, yet the fabric fell with a grace Isa’s red suit could never match. Her hair was pulled into a neat low bun, exposing the pale curve of her neck. No visible makeup, save for a hint of mascara highlighting her honey-colored eyes. Eyes that were not cast downward.
She wasn’t alone—but she wasn’t flanked by an army. One man accompanied her. Attorney Horacio Benítez. Ricardo vaguely recognized him and nearly laughed. Benítez was old-school—the kind of lawyer with an office above a pastry shop in the Historic Center. A “neighborhood disputes” attorney, Ricardo thought. Was that all Camila could afford after he’d cut off her allowance?
Camila took her seat without glancing at Ricardo or Isa. She removed a black Moleskine notebook and a fountain pen from her bag, placed her hands neatly on the table, and sat perfectly still.
“Poor thing,” Isa whispered, leaning toward Ricardo. “Look at her lawyer. He’s got dandruff on his jacket.”
Ricardo smiled faintly.
“This is going to be faster than I thought.”
The clerk announced the judge.
—Everyone please stand. The Honorable Judge Arturo Montiel is presiding.
Judge Montiel entered in black robes, his movements tired. He was a man seasoned by countless divorces, endless lies, and wealthy couples clawing over property in Valle de Bravo. He sat, adjusted his glasses, and scanned the files as though reviewing tedious homework.
—Alright, sit down —the judge muttered—. Case file 4405/2025. No-fault divorce and paternity suit. Ricardo Landa v. Camila Landa.
Castañeda immediately stood, projecting his voice across the room.
—Your Honor, we are not only here to dissolve a marriage that has long since lost meaning, but to expose a fraud. My client, Mr. Landa, has been the victim of prolonged deception. We have compelling reasons to believe that the minor children, Diego and Sofía Landa, are not his biological offspring. Ms. Camila has engaged in questionable behavior for years. We request an immediate DNA test and the provisional suspension of all child support until paternity is confirmed.
The atmosphere thickened. The accusation was savage—publicly branding a mother’s children as illegitimate was the ultimate humiliation.
Ricardo watched Camila, expecting tears. Outrage. A scream.
“You’re lying!” she should have been yelling.
But Camila remained motionless. Her gaze stayed on the judge, serene, almost indifferent—like a student listening to a lesson she already knew.
Judge Montiel turned to her.
“Defense attorney, do you have anything to say regarding these accusations?”
Licenciado Benítez rose. Short, wearing a slightly oversized suit, his mustache yellowed from tobacco. He adjusted his glasses and cleared his throat. His voice lacked Castañeda’s thunder; it was calm, almost gentle.
“Your Honor,” Benítez said, ignoring Ricardo entirely, “we do not oppose the DNA test. In fact, Mrs. Landa insists upon it.”
Ricardo raised an eyebrow. A bluff?
—However —Benítez continued, reaching into his worn leather briefcase—, to avoid wasting the court’s time and public resources, my client independently obtained certified tests from a level-four genetic laboratory, with notarized chain of custody.
He produced a yellow envelope—plain manila, sealed with red security tape.
“Additionally,” the lawyer said, his voice suddenly edged with steel, “this envelope contains a second DNA test. One Mr. Landa did not request, but which is… essential to understanding this case.”
Ricardo felt his smile stiffen. A second test? That made no sense. Diego and Sofía were his children. There was no one else—
Isa’s hand suddenly clenched around his arm, her acrylic nails digging into his Zegna jacket. Ricardo glanced at her. She was pale—her Tulum tan drained away, leaving clammy, waxy skin.
“Ricardo…” she whispered. “Tell him no. Tell him they can’t accept outside evidence.”
Ricardo frowned.
“What are you talking about? It’s just a stalling trick.”
—Attorney Castañeda—Judge Montiel interjected, eyeing the envelope—. Do you object to my review of this preliminary evidence?
Castañeda hesitated, then looked to Ricardo. Ricardo nodded confidently. Let them perform their little act. They have nothing.
“No objection, Your Honor,” Castañeda said. “We are confident any scientific evidence will support our claim.”
Judge Montiel took the envelope, searched for a letter opener. The tear of paper echoed sharply in the deathly quiet courtroom.
For the first time that morning, Camila moved. She turned slowly toward Ricardo. Their eyes met.
And she smiled.
Not with warmth. Not with familiarity. It was cold. Surgical. The smile of a surgeon before cutting away infected flesh.
A chill crawled down Ricardo’s spine. In fifteen years, he had never seen her like this. This wasn’t his wife. This was a stranger—and she terrified him.
The judge removed two stapled document sets. He read the first in silence, nodding slightly.
“Hmm. I see,” he murmured.
Then he picked up the second.
He stopped. His eyes widened behind thick lenses. He frowned, reread, then lifted his gaze directly to Isa Monroe.
Isa lowered her head, hiding behind her blonde hair.
The judge looked back at the page, then at Ricardo. The neutrality vanished, replaced by disbelief—and contempt.
“Mr. Landa,” the judge said, his voice low as distant thunder.
—Tell me, Your Lordship—Ricardo replied, his tone higher than intended.
—You based this entire petition on “biological truth.” In your affidavit you stated, quote: “A man should not raise children who do not carry his blood, nor pay for the sins of a dishonest woman.” Is that correct?
“That’s correct,” Ricardo said, the room tilting.
“Good,” the judge said, removing his glasses. “Because the biological truth before me is certainly… enlightening.”
He lifted the first document.
—Paternity Test 1 and 2. Subjects: Diego Landa and Sofía Landa. Alleged father: Ricardo Landa. Probability of paternity: 99.999%.
Ricardo exhaled. He knew it. At least that much was settled. Camila hadn’t betrayed him. So why the setup? The smile?
—However —the judge continued, holding up the second document as if it were contaminated—, this is a Non-Invasive Prenatal Test, performed on fetal samples from the pregnancy Miss Isa Monroe is currently carrying.
Ricardo’s heart stopped. Literally—his chest seized.
Isa let out a strangled sob.
—Comparative sample: Mr. Ricardo Landa —the judge read coldly—. Paternity result… 0.0%. Total exclusion.
The silence lasted three seconds. For Ricardo, it lasted an eternity.
Zero percent.
Total exclusion.
The child. The “son who would resemble him.” The heir he’d destroyed his family for.
Ricardo slowly turned to Isa. She was sobbing now, mascara streaking down her flawless face.
“Ric, let me explain… it’s just that… we were going through a weird time and… my ex-boyfriend showed up and…”
“Miss Monroe, silence!” the judge snapped, slamming his gavel.
Ricardo heard none of it. Only a shrill ringing filled his ears. He glanced toward the reporters. Fingers flew across screens. Cameras flashed again—but these weren’t flashes of admiration. They were the flashes of scavengers.
Then he looked at Camila.
She sat perfectly still. No smile. Just watching him with terrifying calm. She had known everything. From the start. She had let him humiliate himself, summon the press, accuse her children—just to watch him fall from the peak of his own ego.
Ricardo Landa—the genius, the titan, the man who believed he controlled everything—understood in that instant he was never the player.
He was the pawn.
And the queen had just delivered checkmate.
