Read Chapter 22: The Threat of Closure

The boardroom at Maison Lumière had never felt smaller. Meiling stood at the head of the table, the archive documents fanned before her like a hand of cards she wasn't sure she could play. The photographs of Isabelle Marchetti—the founder's lover, Léa's great-grandmother—stared up at her from the polished mahogany, sepia ghosts demanding justice.

Clothilde sat three seats to Meiling's right, her binder closed, her fingers steepled. She hadn't opened it once. Across from her, Antoine's father's face flickered on the video call, grainy and pale, the connection stuttering between Paris and wherever the old man had retreated. Two lawyers whispered to each other in rapid French, their pens poised over notepads.

Meiling had just finished her proposal—a public unveiling of the true story, a narrative pivot that would reframe the outsourcing scandal as a battle for the house's soul. She'd spoken for seven minutes without interruption, and the silence that followed was worse than any objection.

"We appreciate the... creativity," Clothilde said finally, her voice silk over steel. "But you're asking us to bet the house's future on a love story no one alive can verify."

"I just verified it," Meiling said. "The monogram, the letters, the provenance—"

"Provenance that came from a woman who may have stolen them from our archive." Clothilde's eyes flicked to Léa, who sat at the far end of the table, her hands folded, her face unreadable. "A woman whose claim to this house rests on a great-grandmother who was never married to anyone in the Lumière family."

"Who was erased from the record," Meiling shot back. "Who built half the designs that made this house famous and received no credit."

"Allegedly."

The word hung in the air. Antoine shifted beside Meiling, his jaw tight. He'd been silent since the meeting began, watching his father's pixelated face, waiting for a signal that never came.

The senior lawyer cleared his throat. "Mademoiselle Lin, you must understand our position. The consortium's offer is generous. It preserves the brand's intellectual property, the licenses, the perfume division. What it does not preserve is—"

"The atelier," Meiling finished. "The artisans. The soul of everything this house has ever stood for."

The lawyer inclined his head. "That is the cost of survival."

Antoine's father spoke, his voice crackling through the speaker. "The vote. We should take the vote now."

Meiling's stomach dropped. "You haven't discussed—"

"There is nothing to discuss." The old man's voice was flat, terminal. "The numbers have been presented. The risks have been articulated. We either accept the consortium's offer by Friday, or we face liquidation. Those are our options."

"They're not our only options," Meiling said. "The capsule collection. The client pre-bookings. The narrative shift—"

"Untested. Unproven." Clothilde's voice cut through like a blade. "The consortium offers certainty. You offer hope."

"Hope is what keeps houses like this alive."

"Hope does not pay severance to two hundred artisans."

The words landed like a physical blow. Meiling looked at Antoine, willing him to speak, to fight, to show the passion he'd shown her in private arguments, in midnight planning sessions, in stolen moments when they'd believed they could save this thing together.

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Looked at his father.

The old man's image flickered. "All in favor of accepting the highest bidder's offer?"

Clothilde raised her hand. The lawyer raised his. The second lawyer nodded. Antoine's father's own hand appeared on screen, raised in grainy confirmation.

"That's four," Clothilde said. "The vote carries."

"No." The word came from the far end of the table, small and fierce. Léa rose, her chair scraping against the parquet floor. Her hands trembled at her sides, but her voice held steady. "You cannot sell this house. It is not yours to sell."

Clothilde's eyes narrowed. "The board of Maison Lumière has jurisdiction over—"

"The board serves the founder's line." Léa walked toward the table, stopping at the head where Meiling stood. She placed her hands flat on the documents, over the photographs of Isabelle. "And I am the founder's line."

The room went very quiet.

"I am Léa Marchetti-Lumière." Her voice cracked on the last syllable. "Isabelle Marchetti was my great-grandmother. Her son—my grandfather—was Auguste Lumière's son, born in secret, sent away, erased from the family records when Auguste died and his legitimate heirs took control." She looked at the board, at Clothilde, at the flickering image of Antoine's father. "The house was never rightfully theirs. It was never rightfully ours either. It was theirs—Auguste and Isabelle's. The story Meiling wants to tell is not a marketing stunt. It is the truth."

The lawyers exchanged glances. Clothilde's face had gone very still.

"Show us," Clothilde said. "Show us proof of your lineage, and we will consider what you claim."

Léa's hands shook as she reached into her bag. She withdrew a bundle of letters, tied with faded ribbon, and a single photograph—a young woman with Léa's eyes, standing beside a man who might have been Antoine's grandfather, in front of the original atelier on the Rue Saint-Honoré.

But Meiling saw what the others didn't. She saw the tremble in Léa's hands, the hesitation before she placed the documents on the table. She saw the fear—not of rejection, but of exposure.

Because Léa's proof was beautiful, romantic, devastatingly convincing.

And it was, Meiling realized with a cold sweep of horror, entirely forged.