Read Chapter 23: The Court Date

The courtroom smelled of old paper and polished wood, the kind of institutional permanence that made Camille feel like a child playing dress-up in her mother’s heels. She sat at the plaintiff’s table—no, the *defendant’s* table, she corrected herself—across from Bernard and Philippe, who flanked their lawyer like mismatched bookends of resentment.

Bernard’s arm was still in a sling from his stumble over her trip lines, and he wore it like a medal of martyrdom. Every few minutes, he shifted in his seat and shot her a look that said *you did this to me*, as if she had pushed him into the vineyard herself instead of merely letting physics take its course.

Judge Moreau was a thin woman with silver hair pulled so tight it looked painful, and she read through the pile of documents before her with the slow, deliberate pace of someone who had seen too many family wars disguised as property disputes.

“Mademoiselle Delacroix,” she said finally, looking up over her reading glasses. “Your uncles claim you entered the eastern parcel without authorization, damaged fencing, and caused bodily harm to your uncle Bernard during an altercation on the property. They further claim that you have no legal standing on that land, as it was never included in your father’s estate.”

Camille’s lawyer, a brisk woman named Sylvie Rousseau whom she had hired from Libourne on two days’ notice, rose smoothly. “If it please the court, the eastern parcel was never included in Monsieur Delacroix’s estate because it was never *his* to leave. It belonged to my client’s mother.”

Bernard snorted audibly. Philippe placed a restraining hand on his brother’s arm.

“Your client’s mother,” Judge Moreau repeated, “who, according to the record before me, has been absent from France for over twenty-five years and was declared legally deceased seven years ago.”

“The declaration was premature,” Camille said, unable to stop herself.

Judge Moreau’s eyebrow rose. “Mademoiselle Delacroix, I appreciate your investment in these proceedings, but you will address the court only through counsel.”

“Forgive me, Your Honor.” Camille pressed her palms flat against the table, steadying herself. The letter from her mother was a folded weight in her jacket pocket. She had read it so many times the creases had begun to tear.

Sylvie continued, “The defense has submitted documentation establishing that the eastern parcel—the land in question—was conveyed by Madame Isabelle Delacroix, née Marchand, to a shell company called Maison Mère, registered in Bordeaux in 1983. My client is the sole beneficiary of that company’s holdings.”

Philippe’s lawyer, a portly man in an expensive suit who had introduced himself as Maître Fortier, stood with visible effort. “Your Honor, this is a transparent document forgery. My clients have never heard of this ‘Maison Mère.’ Their brother—may he rest in peace—never mentioned any such arrangement. The land has been in the Delacroix family for six generations, and it passed to my clients upon their brother’s death by blood right.”

“The land in question,” Sylvie countered, “was purchased by Isabelle Marchand in 1979, three months before her marriage to Marcel Delacroix, using funds from her own inheritance. The deed was never transferred to the family estate. It remained in her name, and was subsequently placed in the Maison Mère trust.”

Judge Moreau shuffled through papers, frowning. “These documents appear to be copies of originals lodged with a barrister in Libourne. One Arnaud Delmas.”

“We have not been able to reach Maître Delmas,” Fortier said quickly. “He is elderly, infirm. His practice is shuttered. My clients believe these papers are either fabrications or stale documents that have been superseded by later conveyances.”

Camille’s hands curled into fists beneath the table. She had not been able to reach Delmas either. The anonymous texter who had summoned her to Café Ségur had never shown—no, that was wrong. They had *shown*, but she had not gone. The warning about Bernard moving on Delmas had sent her scrambling to secure what she could from the ledger’s codex, and somewhere in the chaos of the past three weeks, the café meeting had simply… dissolved. She had found the documents themselves, tucked inside a false bottom of her mother’s old escritoire that Jean-Marc had discovered two days after she returned from Italy.

The irony was almost too much. The deed had been in the château the entire time.

Judge Moreau set down her pen. “I will take the matter under advisement.”

“Your Honor,” Sylvie said, “my client respectfully requests an expedited ruling. The harvest is imminent, and the grapes on that parcel are scientifically significant. Delay could destroy their value entirely.”

Fortier scoffed. “Grapes. Your Honor, this is a dispute over land and ownership, not a boutique wine tasting.”

“The grapes are the land,” Camille whispered, too low for anyone but Sylvie to hear.

Sylvie squeezed her arm. Then she said, louder, “The grapes on that parcel are pre-phylloxera varietals. They are irreplaceable. And the value of the parcel is inextricable from the fruit it bears. My client has already begun vinification of a trial batch from this harvest.”

Murmurs rippled through the small gallery. Camille spotted Rose in the second row, wearing her best dress, her hands knotted in her lap. Jean-Marc was beside her, looking pale but present. He was supposed to be at the château watching the fermenting wine, but he had insisted on coming.

“The trial batch,” Judge Moreau repeated. “Produced from grapes harvested from a parcel my court has yet to determine you legally possess.”

“The harvest had to happen when the fruit was ready, Your Honor,” Camille said. “Vines do not wait for legal calendars.”

A ghost of a smile crossed the judge’s face before she suppressed it. “Indeed they do not.” She looked at her notes for a long moment, then removed her glasses and set them down with the precision of a chess player completing a decisive move.

“I have reviewed the documents submitted by both parties,” she said. “Maître Fortier, your clients base their claim on intestate succession—the Delacroix family’s unbroken possession of the eastern parcel for six generations. However, the documentation before me establishes that the parcel was removed from the family patrimony nearly fifty years ago by a legal purchase, and that the subsequent conveyance to Maison Mère was properly executed and notarized.”

She paused, letting the silence build. “Mademoiselle Delacroix’s standing as sole beneficiary of Maison Mère is established by the articles of incorporation and the trust documents, which bear the notarized signature of Isabelle Marchand Delacroix. Given that the land was acquired prior to her marriage, it constitutes separate property, and does not fall into the marital estate.”

Bernard’s face went the color of spoiled wine. “This is absurd! My brother’s wife was a—she was just a—he would never have allowed—“

“Order,” Judge Moreau said sharply. “One more outburst and I will hold you in contempt.”

Philippe put a heavy hand on Bernard’s shoulder, more restraint than comfort.

“My ruling is as follows,” the judge continued. “The eastern parcel is the property of Maison Mère, and by extension, of Mademoiselle Camille Delacroix. The claim of trespass is therefore dismissed, as is the claim of damages to fencing that Mademoiselle Delacroix had every right to repair or replace. The matter of Bernard Delacroix’s injury during his unauthorized entry onto the parcel is likewise dismissed—the court finds he was trespassing at the time of the incident, and any hazards encountered were of his own making.”

Bernard made a sound like a kettle about to boil. Philippe held him down.

“The counterclaim for the entirety of the château estate is dismissed as without merit,” Judge Moreau concluded. “Marcel Delacroix’s will is unambiguous. The château and its surrounding vineyards pass to his daughter.”

Camille’s breath left her in a rush. She gripped the edge of the table, suddenly dizzy.

Rose was already rising from her seat, eyes shining. Jean-Marc remained still, but his shoulders lowered with visible relief.

“That’s not the end of it,” Bernard growled as the courtroom began to empty. He had wrestled free of Philippe’s grasp and was leaning across the barrier that separated the tables, his good hand white-knuckled on the rail. “You think a piece of paper saves you? The bank still wants their money. We’ll appeal. We’ll file motions until you bleed out on legal fees alone.”

Philippe pulled him away, muttering something about dignity and losing with grace, but Bernard shook him off. He pointed a trembling finger at Camille.

“Your father’s debts don’t rest on my shoulders. You can keep your precious vines, but you can’t keep the château. The bank will take it before the harvest is even in.”

The doors banged shut behind them.

Camille stood alone at the defendant’s table, the judge’s ruling echoing in her ears. She had won the land. She had won the estate. And Bernard was right—none of it mattered if she could not pay the debt.

Her phone buzzed against her chest. She pulled it out, expecting Lucas, still silent in Paris after her last message had gone undelivered.

Instead, the screen showed an unknown number. The message was only four words long.

*Someone wants to see you.*