Rodrigo’s wife stood in the marble entrance, a sharply dressed woman with cold, aristocratic composure, holding a thick leather folder.

Behind her stood two men in charcoal suits with briefcases — divorce attorneys.

“Ximena,” Rodrigo stammered, his poise collapsing.

“What are you doing here?”

“I came to return something your mistress sent to my personal email last week.” Ximena Santillan’s voice carried clear over the crowd.

She held up a stack of flight itineraries, hotel receipts, bank statements — for the crowd and the cameras both.