Chapter 8 - The Fall of Duval
Six weeks later, the federal court in the Southern District of New York handed down its sentence.
I didn’t attend the hearing. I spent the morning in the sun-drenched nursery of the Lancaster estate, arranging wooden toys on the shelves and watching Gabriel assemble a hand-carved mahogany crib. But my lawyer, David Ross, called at two o'clock with the news.
“Julian accepted a plea bargain,” David said over the speakerphone. “Twelve years at the federal correctional facility in Otisville. No parole for the first eight. Full restitution of forty-two million dollars, which effectively liquidates every remaining trust and asset he had left.”
“And Dalia?” I asked, leaning back against Gabriel’s chest as he sat behind me on the rocking chair.
“Four years for corporate conspiracy and aiding tax evasion,” David replied. “Her modeling contracts were terminated, and the court seized all the assets Julian bought her using embezzled funds. It’s over, Khloe. Completely.”
“Thank you, David,” I said, hanging up the phone.
The silence that followed was peaceful. For the first time in two years, the shadow was entirely gone. There were no more court dates, no more press conferences, no more lurking threats.
Later that afternoon, a visitor arrived at the estate gates.
Arthur Duval had asked to see me one last time before he moved to his winter home in the south of France.
We sat in the glass conservatory, surrounded by blooming white orchids. The old man looked frail, but the torment that had haunted his eyes for months had finally settled into quiet resignation.
“I came to bring you this, my dear,” Arthur said, sliding a polished wooden box across the small glass table.
I opened the brass clasp. Inside lay a heavy gold signet ring engraved with the Duval family crest—a ring that had been passed down to the eldest heir for five generations.
“Arthur… I can’t take this,” I whispered. “Julian was your son.”
“Julian destroyed his birthright,” Arthur said firmly, reaching out to cover my hand with his weathered fingers. “He proved himself unworthy of the name. When your son is born, Khloe, he will carry the Lancaster name, as he rightfully should. But he also carries your blood. He will carry the strength of your father and your grandfather. When he turns twenty-one, I want him to have this. To remind him that honor is not inherited—it is earned.”
Tears welled in my eyes. “Thank you, Arthur.”
The old man smiled softly, looking at my rounded belly, which was now in its seventh month. “Gabriel has been good to you?”
“He is my entire world,” I said honestly.
As if summoned by his name, Gabriel stepped into the conservatory, carrying a tray with fresh fruit and hot tea. He greeted Arthur with deep, respectful warmth, setting the tray down before settling beside me, his arm naturally wrapping around the back of my chair.
Arthur looked at the two of us, a sad, bittersweet smile playing on his lips. “You know, Gabriel… when Khloe was twenty, I told Julian that if he ever lost her, he would lose everything. I only wish he had possessed the wisdom to listen.”
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“Some men,” Gabriel said gently, “only realize the value of a jewel after they have thrown it into the fire. But I will spend the rest of my life making sure she never feels the heat again.”
***
