Read Chapter 11: The Investor's Demand

The morning light through the atelier's tall windows did nothing to warm the chill that settled over Maison Lumière when the front desk called up. A Monsieur Devereux was waiting in the foyer. No appointment. No card. Just a name that made Antoine's jaw tighten the moment Meiling repeated it.

"Who is Devereux?" she asked, following him down the spiral staircase.

"Your answer to where the money went," Antoine said, his voice low. "My grandfather's oldest friend. And the man holding our promissory notes."

The man standing in the marble foyer was older than Meiling expected—seventy at least, with silver hair swept back and a charcoal suit that cost more than her monthly salary in New York. His smile was polished, practiced, the kind that had opened doors for decades. But his eyes were flat and watchful.

"Antoine," Devereux said, extending a hand. "You look well, considering."

"Philippe." Antoine shook it briefly, his posture rigid. "This is Lin Meiling, our director of strategy."

Devereux's gaze slid over her with the dismissiveness of a man who had assessed and filed her in under three seconds. "The Chinese girl making headlines. I read about your troubles. Rather theatrical."

Meiling smiled thinly. "The house has always known how to put on a show."

A flicker of something crossed Devereux's face—amusement, perhaps, or annoyance. He turned back to Antoine. "We should speak privately."

"Anything you have to say to me, you can say in front of Meiling. She's aware of the house's position."

Devereux's eyebrows rose. "Is she now. Then you'll both be interested in this." He withdrew a slim folder from his coat and held it out. Antoine didn't take it.

"What is this?"

"A summary of your outstanding balance. Principal, accrued interest, penalties for the restructuring clause you triggered when you missed the September payment." Devereux's tone remained pleasant, conversational. "I wanted to deliver it personally. Out of respect for your grandmother."

Antoine's jaw worked. "We have a schedule. You agreed to the extension."

"I agreed to an extension contingent on the house meeting its production targets. But then your production moved to Milan, and the whole world found out about it." Devereux dropped the folder onto the reception desk, where it landed with a soft thud. "My partners are nervous, Antoine. Nervous men make demands."

Meiling stepped forward. "What kind of demands?"

Devereux finally looked at her properly, and she saw the calculation behind his eyes. "The house owes me eighty-four million euros. Non-negotiable, verified by contract. You have two options, as I see it. Pay it in full—which we both know you cannot do in your current state—or transfer controlling interest of the maison to my consortium, and we will liquidate the assets." He paused. "The brand name alone will fetch something. The archives, the pattern books, the heritage pieces. There are collectors who would pay handsomely."

"The heritage is not for sale," Antoine said, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Everything is for sale, my boy. You simply haven't found the right price." Devereux glanced at his watch. "I'll give you until Friday to consider. If I don't hear from you, I'll be forced to initiate proceedings. The courts will be sympathetic to a creditor whose debtor has been hiding factory locations and lying about production capabilities."

He turned to leave, then paused at the door. "One more thing. There's been talk—idle talk, I'm sure—about some documents in Liège. Claims about ownership. If that nonsense gains traction, it could complicate my recovery of funds. I'd advise you to keep such matters quiet." His eyes met Meiling's. "For everyone's sake."

The door swung shut behind him.

The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the distant sound of Léa's sewing machine from the workroom upstairs. Meiling turned to Antoine. His face had gone pale, and he gripped the edge of the reception desk as if the floor might fall away.

"Friday," she said. "That gives us three days."

"Three days to find eighty-four million euros." Antoine laughed, a bitter, hollow sound. "My grandmother used to say the house would survive anything except its own family. She was wrong. It's the family's friends who will kill it."

"How much of that number is real?"

Antoine looked at her sharply. "What do you mean?"

"Devereux said the restructuring clause triggered when you missed a payment. But you showed me the records—your father borrowed against the house for years. That debt is older than your tenure." She watched his face. "How much of the eighty-four million is actually yours?"

Antoine was silent for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was raw. "Fourteen million. The rest is my father's legacy. But the paper is signed in my name now. The debt doesn't care whose mistakes created it."

Meiling's mind was racing. "The letters Léa mentioned. The promise transferring the house to the C.S. artisan's descendants if the family failed. If that claim is legitimate, then your father's borrowing was illegal. He never owned the collateral he pledged."

Antoine's eyes widened. "You're suggesting we fight the debt by proving my own family didn't own the house?"

"I'm suggesting we need leverage. Devereux wants the heritage because it's valuable. But if the heritage is legally contested, he can't liquidate it until the ownership question is resolved. That could take years in court." Meiling paused. "Years you could use to find real investors. To bring production home. To rebuild."

"And if the claim is real?" Antoine asked quietly. "If the house rightfully belongs to someone else?"

Meiling met his gaze. "Then we'd better find that person before Devereux does. Because whoever holds that secret holds the house. And I don't trust Devereux to use it gently."

Antoine's phone buzzed. He glanced at it, and his expression shifted from despair to something sharper. "It's Clothilde. She's called an emergency board meeting for tomorrow morning. She's requesting a formal review of my leadership."

"Requesting or demanding?"

"Demanding." He looked up at her. "She knows about Devereux's visit. She must have been waiting for him to make his move."

Meiling felt the pieces clicking into place—Clothilde's silence during the strike, her distance from the archive letters, her sudden interest in leadership now that the house was cornered. "Your grandmother's assistant," she said slowly, "has been very patient."

"Or very strategic." Antoine's voice hardened. "Devereux said to keep Liège quiet. But Clothilde has been in that archive. She knows the letters exist. She knows what they might prove."

Meiling looked toward the staircase leading to the atelier, where Léa's machine still hummed steadily overhead. "Then we need to know what she's hiding. Before tomorrow's meeting decides who controls this house—and who gets to bury its secrets."

Antoine followed her gaze. "You think Léa knows more than she's told us."

"I think Léa knows exactly what she's told us, and exactly what she's held back." Meiling started toward the stairs. "It's time we found out why."