Chapter 8 - The Price of Pride
By Friday morning, the reality of his new existence had fully set in for Grégoire Belmont.
He stood in the middle of the living room of his rental house in Saint-Cloud, surrounding by cardboard moving boxes. He had hired two cheap movers to pack up his clothes, his golf clubs, his personal books, and his modest collection of wine.
The house was cold, quiet, and echoing with the sound of his own footsteps.
His phone rang. It was his bank.
"Mr. Belmont," a representative spoke crisply. "We are calling to notify you that your application for an emergency line of credit has been declined due to insufficient collateral holdings."
Grégoire closed his eyes, rubbing his forehead. "I have a senior executive salary at Global Logistics!"
"Yes, sir," the banker replied smoothly. "However, your current debt-to-income ratio, combined with the loss of secondary asset guarantees previously registered under your wife's holding structure, places you above our maximum risk threshold. Good day, sir."
He hung up.
Grégoire set the phone down on a cardboard box. Without my quiet backing—without the massive corporate deposits V. L. Holdings kept in reserve across partner banks—his perceived financial stature had evaporated overnight. To the financial world of Paris, he was no longer a wealthy rising star; he was simply a mid-level manager with a high lease payment and zero capital reserves.
At 2:00 PM, a sleek black sedan pulled up outside the Saint-Cloud house.
Grégoire walked to the window, his heart leaping with a sudden, foolish surge of hope. Had I come to see him? Had I decided to give him a second chance?
The car door opened, and Marc Vance stepped out, carrying a sleek black leather briefcase. He walked up the stone walkway, his expression cool, professional, and composed.
Grégoire opened the front door before Marc could even ring the bell.
"Where is Vivienne?" Grégoire demanded, looking past the lawyer toward the darkened rear windows of the sedan.
"Madame Laurent is currently at her offices on Rue de la Paix, finalizing the acquisition of a commercial portfolio in Bordeaux," Marc stated smoothly, stepping into the foyer without waiting for an invitation. "She sent me to deliver the final execution documents for your signature."
Marc opened his briefcase, pulling out two copies of the formal divorce and custody agreement, laying them out on the kitchen counter beside a silver Montblanc pen.
Grégoire looked down at the crisp white pages. The terms were brutally clear:
Full physical and legal custody of Chloé and Manon granted to Vivienne Laurent.
Supervised visitation for Grégoire every second weekend, conducted at a court-approved family center in Neuilly.
Total forfeiture of any claims by Grégoire Belmont or his relations to any assets held under V. L. Holdings or its subsidiaries.
A permanent legal injunction prohibiting Constance Belmont from approaching the children or their educational institutions.
"Supervised visitation?" Grégoire whispered, his eyes burning as he read the words. "At a family center? Like I’m some kind of dangerous deadbeat?"
"You stood by while your mother emotionally abused your daughters in a public venue, Mr. Belmont," Marc stated without a shred of sympathy. "And when your wife asked for your support, you prioritized your mother’s vanity and your social standing over your children's well-being. The court psychologist agreed that structured, supervised contact is in the girls' best psychological interest until you demonstrate adequate parental independence."
"I am their father!" Grégoire yelled, slamming his fist onto the kitchen counter.
"Then act like one," Marc replied coldly, pointing his finger at the signature line. "Sign the papers, Mr. Belmont. If we go to trial, my client will exercise her option to seek full financial restitution for eleven years of mismanaged joint expenses, including the offshore casino debt clearance for your mother. You will be completely bankrupt before the second hearing."
Grégoire stared at the black Montblanc pen lying on the marble counter.
He remembered the day he had bought that pen—five years ago, using his corporate allowance, boasting to me over dinner about how important it was for a "man of his position" to sign documents with high-grade instruments.
He picked up the pen. His hand shook so violently he could barely align the nib with the paper.
With a ragged, broken sob, Grégoire signed his name at the bottom of both copies: Grégoire Belmont.
May you like
Marc picked up the signed documents, inspected the signatures with a quick, professional glance, slid them back into his leather briefcase, and snapped the brass latches shut.
"Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Belmont," Marc said, turning toward the door. "The moving crew has four hours remaining to clear your personal belongings before the locks are changed. Have a good afternoon."
