Chapter 26 - The Ghost in the Archive
"What did you do?" Hector hissed, his grip on the silver cane tightening until his knuckles cracked.
"Did you really think Chloe gave you that key out of loyalty?" I leaned closer, letting the scent of my bespoke tuberose perfume wash over him. "Julian treated Chloe like an escort with a shelf life. When I had Julian arrested, I didn't just freeze his bank accounts—I bought Chloe's medical debts and her brother’s bail bond. She belongs to me, Hector. She has for four weeks."
The salon fell into dead silence. Guests pretended to admire the frescoes, but every ear was strained toward our table.
"The key on your tray is an exact replica with an embedded RFID tracker," I continued, voice velvety and merciless. "The moment your courier transferred that titanium token into your offshore vault in Geneva forty minutes ago, French financial police raided the premises. Not for my mother's patents—but for the three hundred million euros in laundered Russian art assets you’ve been hiding behind Julian’s shell companies."
Hector rose abruptly, his silver cane knocking against the table and sending crystal crashing to the floor. The sound cracked through the ballroom like a gunshot.
"You insolent little—"
"Step back, Monsieur Vance," a sharp voice sliced through the tension.
Three plainclothes inspectors from the Brigade Financière stepped out from the Salon Vendôme's terrace doors, badges glinting under the chandeliers. The lead inspector, a stern woman with a dossier under her arm, walked straight toward Hector.
"Hector Vance, you are under formal investigation for international tax evasion, intellectual property theft, and conspiracy to commit commercial fraud. You will accompany us."
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Hector stood frozen, the undisputed king of Paris fashion stripped bare before the very peers who had bowed to him an hour before. His icy eyes locked onto mine with blistering hatred. "You think you've won, Clara? Julian wasn't the head of the snake. He was the tail. There are people in this city who will burn your atelier to ash before they let a Rostova reclaim the throne."
"Let them bring the matches," I whispered back. "I was born in the fire."
