Chapter 6 - The Forensic Execution
The rain began to fall over Paris at 8:00 PM, washing the cobblestone streets in a slick, shimmering sheen of gold reflected from the streetlights.
On the fashionable Rue de la Paix, the grand opening gala of Maison Thérèse was in full, dazzling swing.
Valet attendants in red coats were parking luxury sedans. Inside the two-story glass showroom, warm champagne lights sparkled against Italian marble floors, imported velvet furniture, and massive crystal chandeliers. Over a hundred high-society guests—local politicians, wealthy socialites, and fashion editors—were milling about, sipping vintage Dom Pérignon from crystal flutes.
Thérèse Vance stood near the grand marble staircase, wearing an exquisite gold silk gown, a three-strand diamond necklace, and holding court like a queen among her subjects.
Damien stood beside her, wearing an expensive tuxedo, trying his best to look confident despite his pale skin and dark circles under his eyes.
"Oh, Thérèse, darling!" a wealthy country club woman gushed, holding her champagne glass up. "This showroom is absolute perfection! You must have spent millions!"
Thérèse inflated her chest, tossing her head back with a loud, triumphant laugh. "Only the best for the Vance family, my dear! We come from old money and refined taste. Success is simply in our blood!"
"Yes," a clear, ringing voice echoed from the main entrance of the showroom. "Sourced directly from the veins of the people you steal from."
The music seemed to stop instantly.
A collective gasp swept through the crowd as hundred heads turned toward the entrance.
I stepped into the sparkling showroom.
I wore an exquisite floor-length midnight-blue velvet dress, my silver neckpiece catching the chandelier light like diamonds. Standing on my right was Maître Laura Mercer; on my left was Marc, holding a thick leather dossier. Behind us stood four uniformed bailiffs from the High Court of Paris, accompanied by two federal financial fraud investigators.
Thérèse’s golden champagne glass slipped from her fingers, smashing violently against the marble floor.
CRASH!
"Véronique?!" Thérèse gasped, her voice cracking into a high-pitched shriek. "What... what is this insolence?! Security! Throw this woman out!"
None of the venue security moved. They were looking terrified at the four court bailiffs holding legal execution badges.
Damien stepped forward, his hands shaking violently. "Véronique... please... don't do this here... not in front of everyone..."
"I wouldn't miss your grand opening for the world, Damien," I said, my voice echoing clearly off the high glass walls. "After all, I paid for every single tile in this building."
I turned my eyes onto the crowd of horrified socialites.
"Ladies and gentlemen," I announced, my voice rich with calm, absolute authority. "I apologize for interrupting this magnificent evening. But I feel it is my duty to inform you that the property you are standing in was purchased using 1.4 million euros stolen from my personal savings, my stolen architectural company shares, and a forged mortgage placed illegally on my grandmother’s estate."
A wave of loud, frantic whispers exploded through the crowd.
"She’s lying!" Thérèse screamed, her face contorting into a hideous mask of rage as she stomped toward me in her gold heels. "She’s an ungrateful, low-class lunatic who is trying to ruin my family’s name! I am Thérèse Vance! I am an aristocrat!"
"You are a criminal, Mrs. Vance," Laura Mercer said calmly, pulling an official Court Enforcement Order from her briefcase and holding it up for the entire room to see.
"By order of the High Court of Paris, docket number 409-B," Laura read aloud, her voice carrying over the crowd, "all physical assets, bank accounts, inventory, and real estate registered under T.V. Horizon Investments LLC and Maison Thérèse are officially seized under emergency criminal forfeiture protocols."
Two court bailiffs stepped past Thérèse, slapping large red government seizure seals across the glass display cases, the champagne bar, and the main entrance doors.
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"No! No! Stop them!" Thérèse wailed, lunging toward one of the bailiffs, but a federal investigator caught her arm firmly. "My diamonds! My furniture! You can't touch my things!"
"They aren't your things, Thérèse," I said, stepping close to her, looking down into her terrified, tear-streaked face. "They never were."
