Chapter 5 - The Threshold
By 11:00 AM, the news had begun to spread through Grégoire’s social circle like wildfire.
In the insular world of bourgeois Paris, gossip travels faster than a private jet. By mid-morning, three different people who had attended the Chantilly reception had already called Constance to "check on her," subtly probing for details about why private security guards had kicked the Belmont family off the property before the Sunday brunch could even begin.
Grégoire didn't return to his mother’s apartment. He didn't return to his empty rental house in Saint-Cloud.
He drove straight into the heart of Paris, his mind a chaotic, screaming whirlwind of disbelief, anger, and mounting terror. He had hired a private investigator three hours ago—paying a five-thousand-euro rush fee—to locate where I had taken our daughters.
The result of that search had brought him to the corner of Rue de Grenelle.
Grégoire pulled his Audi up to the curb, staring through the windshield at the massive, five-story limestone townhouse sitting behind dark wrought-iron security gates. A polished brass plaque beside the double doors read: 18 Rue de Grenelle.
He knew this building. Everyone in Parisian real estate knew this building. It was one of the grandest private residences in the 7th Arrondissement, a historic structure that had been completely restored two years ago in a high-profile architectural feature published in Le Figaro.
The article had listed the owner simply as a "private institutional investor."
Grégoire got out of his car, his legs feeling like lead. He walked up to the iron intercom panel beside the main entrance, his heart pounding against his ribs like a sledgehammer.
He pressed the brass button.
After a brief pause, the smooth, professional voice of the concierge, Henri, came through the speaker. "18 Rue de Grenelle. How may I assist you?"
"I’m here to see my wife," Grégoire demanded, trying desperately to inject some of his old corporate authority into his voice. "Vivienne Laurent. Tell her Grégoire is downstairs."
"One moment, sir."
Grégoire stood on the pavement, wiping sweat from his brow. He looked up at the second-floor balcony, where long velvet curtains were pulled back, revealing a glimpse of an opulent ceiling adorned with gold leaf molding and a sparkling crystal chandelier.
The heavy iron gate gave a sharp, electronic click and slowly swung inward.
"You may enter, Mr. Belmont," Henri’s voice instructed through the speaker. "Madame Laurent will see you in the primary reception room."
Grégoire stepped through the threshold, his eyes scanning the immaculate courtyard, the paved stone driveway, and the private underground garage where a sleek black Bentley and a vintage Porsche were parked side by side.
Henri met him at the double wooden doors, clad in a formal dark suit, his expression completely unreadable.
"This way, sir."
Grégoire followed the concierge into the soaring marble foyer. His expensive leather shoes clicked softly against the pristine herringbone floors. He looked at the walls—lined with original oil paintings, modern abstract art, and lit by subtle, recessed museum spotlights.
He passed a door that stood slightly ajar. Inside, he caught sight of a massive private library with floor-to-ceiling walnut bookcases, accessible by a sliding brass ladder.
His head was spinning. "How... how long has she owned this?" Grégoire blurted out, unable to stop himself, turning to Henri.
Henri paused, looking at Grégoire with a faint, almost pitying tilt of his head. "Madame Laurent purchased the property four years ago, sir. She supervised the entire structural restoration herself."
Four years ago.
Four years ago, Grégoire remembered, he had brought home a bonus check of fifteen thousand euros from his job. He had presented it to me at the kitchen table in Saint-Cloud with great flourish, telling me he was taking five thousand euros to upgrade his golf club membership, and giving me two thousand euros to "buy yourself a nice dress or some kitchen appliances."
He remembered how I had smiled, thanked him softly, kissed his cheek, and put the money into our household account.
While he was boasting about a five-thousand-euro golf membership, his wife was purchasing a fifteen-million-euro mansion in the most expensive neighborhood in Paris.
Henri pulled open two massive pocket doors at the end of the hall, stepping aside.
"Mr. Grégoire Belmont, Madame."
Grégoire took three hesitant steps into the primary reception room.
I was sitting behind a sleek, dark-wood executive desk near the floor-to-ceiling windows. Beside me stood Marc Vance, holding a thick leather folder. On the corner of my desk sat a simple porcelain cup of tea, sending a thin ribbon of steam into the quiet air.
I looked up from my documents, my eyes meeting his.
May you like
I didn't look angry. I didn't look triumphant. I looked entirely, completely composed.
"Hello, Grégoire," I said softly. "You're trespassing on my property, but since you drove all the way from Chantilly, I’ll give you five minutes."
