Chapter 7 - The Gathering Storm
News of the impending divorce and the true identity of the owner of V. L. Holdings shattered the delicate world of Constance Belmont within forty-eight hours.
By Monday afternoon, Constance’s social circle had turned against her with ruthless efficiency. The very acquaintances she had tried to impress at the Chantilly estate were now circulating stories across the upper-crust salons of Paris: Did you hear? Constance Belmont’s 'poor, quiet' daughter-in-law actually owns half the commercial real estate on the Left Bank! Constance was treating her like a maid while sitting on her property!
At 3:00 PM, Constance arrived uninvited at her son’s office building in La Défense.
She practically burst into Grégoire’s corner office, her designer silk scarf askew, her face pale and lined with exhaustion.
"Grégoire!" she demanded, slamming her designer purse down onto his desk. "What is the meaning of this? I have had five different women from the opera board call me today asking if it's true! Is it true that Vivienne owns the Chantilly estate? Is it true she owns that mansion on Rue de Grenelle?"
Grégoire was sitting behind his metal desk, staring blankly at his computer screen. He looked like he hadn't slept in two days. His eyes were bloodshot, his beard unshaven, his expensive corporate tie lying discarded across his keyboard.
"It's true, Mother," he said, his voice completely dead of emotion. "She owns all of it. She owns the company that owns this office building's parking garage. She owns the holding group that bought out my company's primary logistics park in Lyon last month."
Constance gasped, pressing her gloved hand against her chest. "That's... that's impossible! She’s a country girl! Her father was an accountant! She wore off-the-rack dresses to our Christmas dinners!"
"She wore off-the-rack dresses because she didn't care about your stupid vanity!" Grégoire suddenly snapped, jumping out of his chair and glaring at his mother with a hatred he had never shown her in his entire life. "She spent eleven years playing the quiet wife while she built an eighty-four-million-euro empire!"
Constance stumbled back, shocked by her son's violent outburst. "Grégoire! Don't you dare speak to me in that tone! I am your mother!"
"You ruined my life!" Grégoire shouted, his voice echoing through the glass walls of his office, causing his secretary outside to freeze in place. "You humiliated her! You took the plates away from Chloé and Manon because you wanted to show everyone you were superior! And I stood there like an idiot and let you do it!"
"I was protecting our family’s dignity!" Constance shrieked back, her eyes flashing with defensive rage. "She was acting like an outsider! She didn't fit in with our guests!"
"Our guests?" Grégoire let out a bitter, manic laugh. "Mother, those guests don't give a damn about us! Half the people at that party only came because they thought I owned that estate! Now the whole city knows we were renting it from my wife—the wife we treated like trash!"
He slammed his hands down onto his desk, leaning forward until he was inches from his mother’s face.
"Do you know what her lawyer sent over this morning?" Grégoire whispered dangerously. "A formal financial disclosure statement. If I contest this divorce, her legal team will release full audit records of every cent I’ve spent from our joint account over eleven years—including the two hundred thousand euros I quietly transferred to pay off your gambling debts at the Deauville casino three years ago!"
Constance’s face went entirely white. Her mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water.
"She... she knows about that?" Constance whispered, her voice trembling violently.
"She knows everything, Mother," Grégoire said, dropping back into his chair with a heavy, broken sigh. "She knew everything the whole time. She just waited for us to prove how vile we really were."
The phone on Grégoire’s desk buzzed sharply.
He pressed the speaker button. "What?"
"Mr. Belmont," his secretary’s cautious voice came through the speaker. "Mr. Jean-Paul Mercier, your defense attorney, is on line two. He says it’s urgent."
Grégoire picked up the receiver with a numb hand. "Jean-Paul?"
"Grégoire," the lawyer's voice was fast, tense, and devoid of any professional warmth. "I’ve just reviewed the preliminary asset partition request from Marc Vance's office. It’s bad."
"How bad?"
"Madame Laurent is not seeking any spousal support, nor is she touching your corporate salary," Mercier explained rapidly. "However, she is exercising her right as sole legal guarantor of your lease in Saint-Cloud. You have seven days to vacate the rental property. Furthermore, she has filed for full physical custody of Chloé and Manon, with supervised visitation for you—and a total restraining order prohibiting your mother from coming within one thousand feet of the children."
Constance, listening near the phone, let out a sharp, hysterical shriek. "A restraining order? Against ME? I am their grandmother!"
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"Jean-Paul..." Grégoire choked out, ignoring his mother’s screams. "Can we fight the custody motion?"
Mercier let out a long, heavy sigh over the line. "Grégoire, her legal team has submitted the child advocacy evaluation from the hospital in Chantilly, along with statements from four guests who witnessed your mother snatching the children's plates while you told your wife 'not to make a scene.' If we go to court, a family judge will tear you to pieces in thirty minutes. My strongest professional advice? Sign the agreement."
