Marc moved forward suddenly, but before he could speak, the doorbell rang once. Then twice. Then three times. Camille opened the door. On the threshold stood Claire, Maître Morel, and two police officers. Behind them, near the gate, a black car had just stopped. Élodie Martin stepped out wearing sunglasses, a beige coat, and high heels, as if she were arriving to take possession of the home she had been promised. But when she saw the officers, she stopped halfway up the path. Marc saw her too. And in that moment, all his confidence collapsed.
“What’s going on?” Élodie asked, removing her sunglasses. “Marc, what is this?”
Camille walked to the entrance and looked directly at her.
“What’s happening is that the trip has been canceled.”
Élodie went pale.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Claire lifted the blue folder.
“You will have the chance to explain officially.”
Marc tried to move toward Élodie, but one of the officers stopped him with a hand gesture.
“Mr. Delcourt, we’re going to ask you to come with us so we can hear your version of events.”
“This is absurd!” Marc cried. “She’s doing this out of jealousy!”
A strange peace moved through Camille. For years, she had heard Marc minimize her work, smile at her achievements, call her caution coldness and her intelligence distrust. Now the very intelligence he had dismissed was the reason he would not succeed in destroying her.
‘Nee, Marc,’ zei ze rustig. “Ik doe dit omdat je probeerde mijn bezittingen verkeerd toe te eigenen, mijn handtekening te manipuleren en onze zoon te gebruiken als een onwillige getuige van je leugen.”
Hij staarde haar met haat aan.
“You’re going to regret this.”
Camille held his gaze.
“The only thing I regret is trusting you for so long.”
PART 3
When the police took Marc away, he kept repeating that it was all a misunderstanding. Élodie cried in the hallway, insisting she knew nothing. But the recovered messages, the documents, the call records, and the prepared steps already told another story. That night, Camille did not sleep at home. She slept at Claire’s house, with Leo curled against her, his little hand wrapped tightly around hers until he finally fell asleep. When her son’s breathing became slow and steady, Camille cried silently. Not for the marriage. That had died before that night. She cried for her frightened child, for the woman she had been, for the house that had stopped feeling safe, for the part of herself that had still hoped Marc was simply a flawed husband and not a man willing to sell his own family’s security for greed. Claire came quietly into the room and placed a cup of tea on the bedside table.
“You were very strong today.”
Camille wiped her face.
“I don’t feel strong.”
“No one feels strong when they’re only surviving. Strength is seen afterward, when you look back and realize you didn’t fall.”
The following days were hard, but decisive. The court suspended any practical use of the disputed documents. Camille’s accounts remained protected. The planned transfer was blocked before completion. Marc was removed from the house as part of the ordered measures, and Camille received strict control over communications concerning Leo until the proceedings ended. Élodie tried to deny her involvement, but during a preliminary hearing, the messages appeared.
“When she’s in Lyon, we’ll have time.”
“Once the funds are secured, you file for divorce.”
“She’ll never suspect anything.”
Camille listened with her chest tight, but she did not lower her head. This time, she was not alone. Claire and Maître Morel sat beside her. At the back of the room, her mother, Monique, had taken the first train from Nantes as soon as she heard what had happened. When the hearing ended, Monique held her daughter tightly in the courthouse corridor.
