Read Chapter 20: Ambushed

The footsteps echoed off the marble vestibule before we reached the door. A man in a charcoal suit appeared, his badge glinting under the fluorescent lights.

“Mademoiselle Delacroix, Monsieur Laroche. I’m afraid the bank is closing for a private audit. You’ll need to vacate the premises immediately.”

Étienne’s hand pressed against my back, steadying me as I clutched the manila envelope containing the letter and the old will. My arm throbbed where the box’s edge had caught me, but I barely felt it. Every instinct screamed that this was wrong.

“Of course,” I said, forcing composure. “We were just leaving.”

We moved toward the exit, our footsteps too loud in the sudden silence. The employee held the door, his smile too tight, his eyes tracking the envelope in my hands like a hawk watching prey.

The street hit us with cold evening air. Étienne guided me toward his car, parked two blocks away in a side alley off Rue des Vignes. The cobblestones were slick with recent rain.

“Did you see his face?” Étienne whispered. “He knew what we had.”

“He knew *something*.” I quickened my pace. “Vanderhoeven’s reach extends further than I thought.”

We rounded the corner into the narrow alley. Shadows pooled between the old stone buildings, the streetlamps casting weak pools of yellow light. His car sat thirty meters ahead.

That’s when I heard the scrape of shoe leather behind us.

Étienne heard it too. His hand shot out, grabbing my wrist, pulling me into a sprint. The envelope nearly slipped from my grip. I clamped down, papers crinkling against my chest.

“Run!”

We didn’t make it five steps. A figure in a dark hoodie erupted from a doorway to our left, moving fast, tackling Étienne against the wall. He grunted, fighting back, but the attacker was wiry and quick, going for the envelope.

I spun, pulling it away. The masked face turned toward me, eyes dark holes in black fabric. A gloved hand shot out, grabbing my forearm, fingers digging into the cut from the safety deposit box.

I screamed.

The attacker yanked me forward, reaching for the envelope with the other hand. I twisted, trying to keep it away, but my grip faltered. Papers scattered across the wet cobblestones.

Étienne lunged, catching the attacker’s shoulder. They crashed to the ground together. I dove for the papers, scooping them up—letter, will, fragments skittering across stone.

The attacker shoved Étienne off with brutal force. His head cracked against the wall. For a horrible second, he went limp.

“Étienne!”

I threw myself at his side, but the attacker was already moving. A gloved hand snatched a torn page from the ground—the bottom corner of the will, the section with signatures. Then they were gone, disappearing into the shadows at the alley’s end, footsteps fading.

Étienne groaned, hand going to the back of his skull. Blood smeared his fingers.

“Are you okay?” I dropped to my knees beside him, scanning his face.

“I’ve been better.” He grimaced, letting me help him sit up. His eyes found mine. “Camille. Your arm.”

I looked down. The sleeve of my jacket was torn, a gash running along my forearm where the attacker had clawed at me. Blood seeped through the fabric.

“It’s nothing.” I gathered the remaining papers, counting. The letter was intact. Three of the four will pages were safe. The fourth—the page with the key signatures and the date—was gone.

“He took the signature page,” I whispered. “Why the signature page?”

Étienne’s jaw tightened. “Because without it, the will means nothing. Anyone could have written it. And he knows that.”

We stayed there a moment, breathing hard, the weight of surveillance pressing down on us. Somewhere in the shadows, eyes watched. I felt them like cold fingers on my neck.

“We’re being followed,” I said. “Watched. He knew exactly when we’d be here.”

“The bank employee,” Étienne said. “He called someone.”

I pulled out my phone, hands shaking. “We need to tell our fathers. Tonight. Before Vanderhoeven moves again.”

The drive to Château Bellevue was silent, every shadow on the road feeling like a threat. My arm burned. The letter weighed heavily in my jacket pocket, its secrets straining against the fabric.

Henri Delacroix’s face went white when we stumbled into his study. Étienne’s father Paul arrived within twenty minutes, his mother Hélène close behind. The Laroches and Delacroix together in one room without lawyers or accusations—I couldn’t remember the last time.

“What the hell happened to you two?” Henri demanded.

We told them everything. The journal. Antoine Moreau. The will. The letter. The attack.

“The will declares joint management,” I said, my voice steady despite the trembling in my hands. “It predates the feud. It was supposed to bind our families, not break them.”

Henri stared at the photograph I’d carried from the attic—the one with both families and the young winemaker with Antoine’s face. His hands shook.

“You need to read the letter,” Étienne said. “Together.”

“Not yet.” Paul’s voice was harsh, but something in his eyes looked broken. “There are things… things I need to say first. Things your grandmother—”

“Paul.” Hélène’s hand found his. “It’s time.”

A knock at the study door made us all freeze.

François, our longtime butler, entered with a folded note on a silver tray. “A messenger delivered this.” His face was pale. “He said it was urgent.”

I took the note, unfolding it. The handwriting was crude, block letters cut from newspaper.

*You found what should have stayed buried. Return what remains, or the third parcel becomes property of a new owner. You have 48 hours.*

“It’s Vanderhoeven,” I breathed. “He knows.”

Henri’s face hardened. He looked at Paul, something passing between them—decades of anger and grief, and something older. Something like recognition.

“We need to talk,” Henri said quietly. “All of us. Now.”

But as I looked around the room, at Paul’s averted gaze, at Hélène’s too-careful composure, at my father’s sudden pallor, I realized something cold and sharp lodged itself in my chest.

One of us had told Vanderhoeven about the box before we ever reached the bank.

A traitor sat in this room.