"Girls must learn to submit to men. The sooner your daughter understands that, the better."

Before I could deal with Thérèse’s grand opening, I had to clean out the poison at my own workplace.

At 9:00 AM the following morning, I walked into the glass tower of Mercier & Vance Designs on Boulevard Haussmann. I was dressed in a tailored crimson suit, black stilettos, my hair pulled back into a sleek, impenetrable knot.

The receptionist looked up, her eyes wide with shock. "Mrs. Vance! We... we didn't expect you in today. Mr. Vance said you were taking a long medical leave—"

"Mr. Vance is a liar," I said clearly, sweeping past her toward the executive boardroom.

I pushed open the double frosted-glass doors of the main conference room.

Sitting around the long oak table were the board members, three major private investors, and my senior partner, Jean-Paul Mercier. At the head of the table sat Damien, looking pleased with himself as he presented a series of floor plans to an important client from Dubai.

Damien froze mid-sentence, the digital laser pointer trembling in his hand.

"Véronique?" Jean-Paul exclaimed, standing up from his leather chair. "What are you doing here? Damien told us you were suffered a severe nervous breakdown and were staying at a private clinic!"

Damien’s face turned gray. He frantically slammed his laptop shut, stepping out from behind the podium. "Véronique, get out of here! This is a high-level client meeting! Security, call the building manager!"

"Sit down, Damien," I commanded, my voice slicing through the air like a guillotine blade.

I walked straight to the head of the table, placing a sleek leather briefcase onto the polished oak surface.

"Jean-Paul," I said, looking at my senior partner. "Did you authorize the transfer of my forty percent company shares to T.V. Horizon Investments eight months ago?"

Jean-Paul frowned, looking confused. "Of course. Damien presented the signed notary release form bearing your signature and fingerprint stamp. He said you wanted to focus on raising Sophie."

I pulled a thick document out of my briefcase and tossed it in front of Jean-Paul.

"That is a certified forensic handwriting report from the National Institute of Criminal Science," I announced to the entire boardroom. "It proves conclusively that the signature on that notary release form was forged by Damien Vance using a digital trace software."

Gasps erupted across the table. The client from Dubai lowered his coffee cup, watching the unfolding scene with sharp interest.

"That’s a lie!" Damien shrieked, backing toward the glass wall. "She’s unstable! She’s trying to ruin me because we’re getting a divorce!"

"And this," I continued, tossing a second document onto the table, "is a formal criminal indictment filed three hours ago by the Financial Crimes Unit of the Paris Police. Damien Vance is officially charged with Grand Larceny, Corporate Forgery, and Identity Theft involving over 1.4 million euros."

Jean-Paul picked up the police indictment, his eyes scanning the official government seals. His face contorted into absolute outrage. He looked up at Damien with pure disgust.

"Damien... you forged corporate equity documents under my roof?" Jean-Paul growled, his voice trembling with rage.

"Jean-Paul, listen to me—" Damien pleaded, raising his hands in a frantic gesture.

"Security!" Jean-Paul roared, pressing the intercom button on the wall. "Escort Mr. Vance out of this building immediately! Revoke his keycards, terminate his network access, and pack his personal belongings into cardboard boxes!"

Two large security officers stepped into the boardroom, grabbing Damien by his upper arms.

"You can't do this to me!" Damien screamed as he was dragged backward across the carpet, struggling uselessly against the security guards. "I built this firm! You’re nothing without me, Véronique! You hear me?! Nothing!"

I stood at the head of the boardroom table, completely unfazed, watching my husband be tossed out of the building like common trash.