Chapter 7 - The Total Ruin
Three months passed.
Winter had settled over Paris, covering the Haussmann avenues and the stone bridges of the Seine in a quiet, pristine layer of white snow.
In the maximum-security wing of Fresnes Prison, south of Paris, the morning bell clanged loudly against the cold steel bars.
Cell 114 was a dark, six-by-eight-foot concrete box that smelled of damp stone and cheap disinfectant.
Isaac Vance sat on the edge of his narrow iron cot, wearing a rough, gray cotton jumpsuit that chafed against his pale skin. His hands were red and cracked from the freezing drafts blowing through the small barred window near the ceiling. His hair, once styled weekly by the top barbers on Avenue Montaigne, was patchy, greasy, and long.
He picked up a plastic tray of cold, watery cabbage soup that the guard had slammed onto his door slot ten minutes ago.
Two months ago, his father, Arthur Vance, had suffered a massive stroke following the total bankruptcy of Vance Infrastructure Group. He was currently residing in a low-cost state care facility, unable to speak or walk.
His mother, Valérie, had been forced to sell her remaining jewelry to pay off back taxes, moving into a tiny, cramped studio apartment in the suburbs of Saint-Denis—a neighborhood she had spent forty years looking down upon with utter disgust.
And Chloé? She had been extradited to Italy to face federal fraud and espionage charges brought by the Milan prosecutor's office.
Isaac picked up a dented metal spoon, his hand shaking so violently he dropped it onto the cold concrete floor.
CLANG.
"Vance!" a booming voice echoed down the corridor.
A heavy-set prison guard knocked his wooden baton twice against the iron bars of Cell 114.
"You have a visitor," the guard said dryly, unlocking the door with a massive ring of brass keys. "Five minutes. Don't make a scene."
Isaac’s heart leaped into his throat. A wild, desperate hope surged through his chest. Flora? Had she finally come to forgive him? Had she realized that she still loved him?
He scrambled out of his cell, pulling his thin jumpsuit around his shivering frame as two guards escorted him down the long, echoing corridor toward the visitor room.
He stepped into the small room divided by a thick panel of bulletproof glass.
Sitting on the other side of the glass was not Flora.
It was Julien Sterling.
Julien looked immaculate. He wore a three-piece charcoal suit made of vicuña wool, a silk tie held by a small ruby pin, and gold-rimmed glasses that caught the harsh fluorescent light above. A sleek, black leather folder rested neatly on the stainless-steel counter in front of him.
Isaac slowly sat down on the metal stool, picking up the heavy plastic intercom receiver with trembling fingers.
"Julien..." Isaac rasped, his voice rough and dry. "Did... did she send you? Is Flora ready to drop the civil damages lawsuit?"
Julien picked up his receiver, looking at Isaac with the same polite, detached curiosity a scientist might use to examine a dead beetle under a microscope.
"Drop the lawsuit?" Julien echoed smoothly. "Oh, no, Isaac. I came to deliver the final judgment."
Julien opened his folder, pressing a single page of certified legal paper against the bulletproof glass.
"This is the final decree of absolute divorce issued by the Paris Family Court," Julien announced. "Under the terms of the settlement, every remaining asset bearing the Vance family name—including your grandfather’s chalet in Courchevel, your art collection, and the remaining liquidation funds from your father’s estate—has been awarded to Flora as compensation for severe physical and psychological trauma."
Isaac stared at the document, his breath fogging up the glass. "Everything... she took everything..."
"She didn't take it, Isaac," Julien corrected softly. "You gave it to her the moment you picked up that leather crop."
Julien slid the paper back into his folder and stood up, smoothing the front of his tailored vest.
"Oh, and one last thing," Julien added, leaning close to the glass, his eyes cold as granite. "The warden of this facility had his mortgage refinanced through Léo’s private bank this morning. I suggested he transfer you to the laundry detail starting tomorrow."
Isaac froze. "The laundry detail? That’s... that’s twelve hours a day of boiling water and heavy machinery!"
Julien smiled—a bright, beautiful, terrifying smile.
"Consider it good exercise, Isaac," Julien whispered. "It’ll teach you to stay in your place."
May you like
Julien hung up the receiver, turned on his heel, and walked out of the visitor room without looking back once.
Isaac sat alone on the stool, holding the cold plastic receiver against his ear, listening to the hollow, eternal dial tone echoing into the dark.
