Chapter 2 - THE MIDNIGHT SUMMONS
The phone call came at 4:14 AM on a Tuesday.
In Camila’s apartment—a modest, high-ceilinged loft in the historic center of Monterrey with exposed brick walls and tall windows overlooking a quiet plaza—the ring of a cell phone in the dead of night was never a harbinger of good news.
She didn't fumble. She didn't panic. She sat straight up in bed, her eyes snapping wide open, her mind instantly calibrating from deep sleep to absolute tactical readiness.
She reached across the nightstand and swiped the screen.
“Camila Montalvo?”
The voice on the other end was not Esteban. It belonged to Licenciado Héctor Silva, senior partner at Silva, Garza & Asociados, the premier corporate and estate law firm that had represented Esteban for over a decade—a firm Camila herself had retained when restructuring the holding company back in 2018.
“Camila Vance,” she corrected smoothly, using her maiden name, a subtle boundary she had drawn the moment the divorce decree was stamped by the judge. “What is it, Licenciado Silva?”
There was a heavy, suffocating silence on the line, punctuated only by the faint, clinical clicking of a computer keyboard in the background of the lawyer’s office.
“Señora Vance... I am calling with profound regret,” Silva began, his professional cadence strained, lacking its usual polished warmth. “There has been an emergency at the residence in Valle Oriente.”
Camila’s muscles locked. “Go on.”
“Señor Montalvo suffered a massive myocardial infarction approximately two hours ago. Emergency services were dispatched immediately upon discovery by household staff, but... resuscitation efforts were unsuccessful. He was pronounced dead at the scene at 3:45 AM.”
The words hung in the damp morning air of the bedroom, heavy and absurd.
Esteban Montalvo. Forty-two years old. A man who ate organic kale salads, hired personal trainers three times a week, drank only the finest antioxidant smoothies, and checked his resting heart rate on his smartwatch every twenty minutes out of a narcissistic obsession with his own mortality.
Dead.
Eight weeks after his wedding to Renata.
Before the honeyed honeymoon phase had even begun to sour into the predictable resentment of their matching ambitions.
“I see,” Camila said, her voice remaining entirely level, though her heart gave a single, hard thud against her ribs.
“The authorities have cleared the residence, and the medical examiner has issued a certificate of natural causes,” Silva continued, his tone shifting imperceptibly into the gear of corporate damage control. “However, as you can imagine, the situation here is... extraordinarily delicate. Señora Renata Montalvo is currently in a state of severe shock. Furthermore, the financial implications for the group are immediate. The board of directors is already waking up. We need to convene the legal team and execute the mandatory protocols regarding the estate.”
“Why are you calling me, Héctor?” Camila asked, cutting straight to the marrow of the matter. “Renata is his legal wife. She is the primary beneficiary of his domestic life now. Call her.”
“Señora Montalvo...” Silva hesitated, choosing his words with surgical precision. “Señora Renata Montalvo is currently incapable of processing complex legal instruments. Moreover, under the specific terms of Esteban’s primary corporate holdings, certain foundational contingencies remain active—contingencies that require your direct presence and authorization.”
Camila stared out the high window at the dark silhouette of the cathedral steeple cutting into the predawn sky.
“Tell me one thing, Héctor,” she said softly.
“Yes, Camila?”
“Did Esteban update the master trust before he died?”
Another long, agonizing pause stretched across the phone line.
“That,” Silva said quietly, “is precisely why we need you at the office at nine o’clock this morning.”
The funeral two days later was an exercise in operatic hypocrisy.
Valle Oriente—the ultra-exclusive enclave perched high on the slopes of San Pedro Garza García, overlooking the sprawling lights of Monterrey—was choked with black luxury SUVs, Mercedes-Maybachs, and swarms of press photographers held back by private security guards in sharp suits.
The service was held in a private chapel carved from local stone, surrounded by towering pine trees that dripped with morning mist. The floral arrangements alone must have cost more than a small apartment in downtown Monterrey: ten thousand white roses imported from Colombia, cascading from the altar and framing an open bronze casket where Esteban lay looking unnaturally waxen, his skin powdered to mask the grayish tint of a sudden, violent exit.
Renata stood at the head of the casket, flanked by two weeping cousins she hadn't spoken to in five years and a cluster of sycophantic corporate executives eager to pay homage to the grieving widow who now held the keys to the kingdom.
She wore a custom Dior mourning dress—stark, architectural, and terribly expensive—with a black lace veil pulled halfway across her face. She looked devastated in the way only people who studied acting in front of a mirror could manage. Every tear was timed; every tremble of her lower lip seemed calibrated to draw maximum sympathy from the assembled titans of industry.
Camila stood near the back of the chapel, half-hidden behind a thick stone column. She wore a simple black wool coat, her hands tucked deep into her pockets, her expression an unreadable mask. She hadn't come to mourn. She had come to bear witness.
As the service concluded and the mourners began moving slowly toward the exit to process to the private cemetery grounds, Renata caught sight of Camila standing by the pillar.
For a fraction of a second, the mask slipped. A flash of pure, unadulterated territorial fury crossed Renata’s face—the instinct of a scavenger guarding a freshly claimed carcass. But then, remembering the cameras flashing discreetly from the side doors, she smoothed her features back into an expression of saintly, tragic grace.
She glided across the polished marble floor, her heels clicking like small hammers, until she stood directly in front of Camila.
She reached out, touching Camila’s arm with a hand that was remarkably steady for a newly minted widow.
“Thank you for coming, Camila,” Renata murmured, her voice dripping with a sickeningly sweet condescension. “It means a lot... knowing you could put aside the past to honor a man we both loved.”
Camila looked down at Renata’s fingers resting on her coat sleeve.
“We didn't love the same man, Renata,” Camila said, her voice low enough that only her sister could hear. “You loved the portfolio. I knew the balance sheet. There is a vast difference.”
Renata’s smile tightened into a thin, white line. The warmth in her eyes vanished entirely, replaced by the cold, flinty ambition that had defined every toxic interaction of their shared childhood.
She leaned in close, exhaling a sigh of absolute, unassailable confidence.
“Don’t worry, Camila,” Renata whispered, patting Camila’s arm as if consoling a stray dog outside a restaurant. “I know how hard things have been for you since the divorce. Esteban was generous in life, and he was generous in death. Once the estate is settled, I’ll make sure you’re taken care of. A small stipend, perhaps an apartment downtown... you won't have to worry about working in that dusty little office ever again.”
Camila didn't blink. She didn't pull her arm away. She simply looked into her sister’s eyes with a chilling, utter stillness.
“Save your charity, Renata,” Camila replied softly. “You’re going to need every cent you can scrape together very soon.”
Renata’s eyes narrowed, a flicker of genuine unease darting across her pupils before she masked it with a haughty laugh. “Still playing the bitter ex-wife? It’s unbecoming, Camila. Try to have some class. We have a will reading next week. Try to show up on time.”
She turned on her heel, her black silk skirts swishing around her calves, and glided back to the front of the procession to accept the condolences of the city’s elite.
Camila watched her go, a small, humorless smile touching the corner of her lips.
May you like
Let her play queen for one more week.
The throne she was sitting on was built on quicksand.
