Read Chapter 25: The Damning Evidence

The conference room had never felt smaller. Camille stood at the head of the polished mahogany table, the morning light cutting through the tall windows like an accusation. Nine days until the presentation. Nine days, and she was about to light a match under everything her family had built.

The board members sat in their usual formation—her father at the far end, looking older than she remembered, his fingers resting on a folder he hadn't opened. Thibault slouched three seats down, a practiced ease in his posture that made her jaw tighten. Alexandre stood near the window, arms crossed, his face unreadable.

"I called this emergency meeting," Camille began, "because there's been a breach of trust that threatens everything we're about to present."

Thibault made a small noise, almost a laugh. "Dramatic, even for you, Camille. We have nine days. Shouldn't we be talking about production capacity instead of theatrics?"

"Funny you should mention production." She pressed a button on the console, and the screen behind her lit up with a photograph: the Maurel field, rows of jasmine visibly wilted, blooms curling at the edges like burnt paper. "This is what's left of our harvest. What should have been forty kilos of prime jasmine absolute is now barely a quarter of that."

A murmur rippled through the room. Her father leaned forward, squinting at the image.

"What happened?" he asked, his voice carrying the weight of years.

"Ethylene poisoning." Camille let the word settle. "Someone introduced ethylene gas into the field's irrigation system. It accelerates blooming catastrophically, destroying the flowers' aromatic integrity. This isn't a natural blight. This is sabotage."

Her eyes found Thibault. He held her gaze, unblinking, but something flickered in his jaw—a micro-tension she wouldn't have noticed if she weren't looking for it.

"You have proof of this?" her father asked.

"Better than proof." Camille advanced the slide. "I have a witness."

The door at the back of the room opened, and Marco stepped in. He was one of the seasonal field hands, a wiry young man from Antibes who'd worked the Roussel fields for three summers. He looked uncomfortable in his pressed shirt, but his chin was set.

Thibault's composure cracked. Just barely. A widening of the eyes, a sudden grip on the armrest.

"This is Marco," Camille said. "He was working the night shift two days ago when he saw a vehicle matching the description of a company van parked near the Maurel property's access road."

Marco cleared his throat. "I recognized the plate. It's the same van I've seen parked outside Monsieur Thibault's villa."

"Circumstantial," Thibault cut in, his voice sharp. "Anyone could have borrowed that van. Anyone could have parked it there. This is a reach, Camille, even for you."

"Then explain this." Camille advanced the slide again. A photocopy of a purchase order, dated six days prior, from an agricultural supply company in Valbonne. The delivery address was Thibault's home. The item: a pressurized ethylene canister with dispensing equipment.

The silence that followed was absolute.

Thibault's face cycled through colors—white, then red, then a mottled combination that might have been anger or fear. He pushed back from the table, his chair scraping against the marble floor.

"Five hundred grams of ethylene." He forced a laugh, but it came out hollow. "What would I do with that? The field's miles away. Do you think I drove there myself and sprayed it like a gardener?"

"Yes," Marco said quietly. "Because you did."

Thibault spun on him. "You're lying. You're being paid—"

"I'm not being paid anything." Marco's voice was steady now. "I thought about going to the police, but I wanted to tell Camille first. She's always been fair to us. Fairer than you've ever been to anyone."

The board erupted. Voices overlapped—accusations, demands for explanations, her father's hand slamming against the table. Camille let it wash over her for a moment, watching Thibault's panic mount as he realized how thoroughly she'd cornered him.

But then she saw it.

Thibault's eyes shifted to Alexandre. The panic cleared, replaced by something reptilian and cold. A calculation. A last resort.

"You want to talk about sabotage?" Thibault's voice cut through the chaos, and the room fell silent again. "Fine. Let's talk about the real threat sitting at this table."

He pointed at Alexandre.

"This man has been in contact with the Maurel family for weeks. Emails. Phone calls. Meetings after dark at that godforsaken field." Thibault's lips curled. "I know because I had someone watching him. You think I didn't notice how cozy he's gotten with you, Camille? How he always volunteers to drive you out there?"

The room shifted. Eyes turned to Alexandre, then to her, then back.

"I have copies of his correspondence," Thibault continued. "He's been feeding them information about our operations. Production schedules. Supplier contacts. He's been positioning himself to take over what's left of this house once you've burned it to the ground with your little confession stunt."

Camille's stomach dropped. Her confession. The one she hadn't delivered yet, tucked away in a sealed envelope in her apartment.

"How do you know about that?" she demanded, but Thibault was already shaking his head.

"Everyone knows, Camille. You think you're the only one paying attention? The only one with connections?" He laughed, a brittle sound. "Alexandre here has been playing you from day one. He's a Dubois. His grandfather lost everything because of yours. And he's been waiting for the perfect moment to make you pay."

Alexandre stepped forward, his face pale but calm. "That's not what's happening."

"Then what is happening?" Her father's voice was dangerously quiet. "Explain yourself."

Alexandre looked at Camille. For a long moment, the room disappeared, and it was just the two of them—the weight of everything unspoken pressing between them.

"The Maurel family and I have been in contact," he said slowly. "That's true. But not to undermine the house. To find a way forward. To heal what was broken—"

"Liar," Thibault hissed.

"—before it destroys all of us."

The board dissolved into chaos again. Voices rose, accusations flew, her father's face contorted with a mixture of grief and rage. Camille stood frozen at the head of the table, the evidence of Thibault's betrayal still glowing on the screen behind her, now eclipsed by a revelation she hadn't seen coming.

Alexandre had kept secrets from her.

And in the space between one heartbeat and the next, everything she thought she knew about him cracked open like a faulty foundation.