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✦ France — Paris ✦

✧ The following morning ✧

❖ In broad daylight ❖

The luxurious carriage glided through the city the way an idea does when it does not wish to be noticed—
with calculated calm, untouched by haste.
The wheels did not rush the road, and the coachman understood that silence was part of the journey,
that the noise outside was already enough to fill every void.

Inside, Victor sat facing Émile.
Both were elegant—but elegance here was not an agreement; it was a measured contrast.

Victor wore a black suit, severe in its darkness, like a starless night.
Yet it softened upon him, as things do when they finally find their rightful owner.
His red tie appeared like a quiet pulse within the shadow—
it did not demand attention, yet it could not be missed by anyone who knew where to look.
His hair was straight, orderly without appearing arranged,
as though disorder had considered visiting him—then thought better of it.

Émile, on the other hand, wore deep blue—the color of confidence that needs no explanation.
His attire was formal, unmistakable, his black tie perfectly aligned.
Every detail spoke without sound: *I belong here. This is my world.*

The carriage passed through the crowd.

Faces shifted like pages of a book flipped too quickly—
fleeting laughter, vendors' calls,
life walking on its own feet, unaware of those who passed above it on softened wheels.

Émile gazed through the window and smiled faintly.

"They seem happy," he said gently, watching the bustle.
Then added, curious,
"Is there some occasion today?"

Victor did not turn immediately.
He was looking out the opposite window.

A small girl stood beside her mother on the pavement—
a simple dress, eyes wide and honey-colored, like windows not yet closed to the world.
Her gaze met his.
Victor raised his hand and waved softly, with a sincere, unconditional smile—
the kind that cannot be taught, nor learned.

The child's eyes widened with joy. She tugged excitedly at her mother's hand.
"Mom! That nobleman is smiling at me!"

The mother stiffened instantly,
as cities do when something unexpected passes through them.
She gently pulled the child away and whispered a familiar warning,
memorized by fear.

Victor lowered his hand calmly.

Inside him, there was no sadness—
no anger, no disappointment.
Only understanding.
An old, settled understanding that no longer hurt.
A natural reaction, he told himself—
like locking doors at dusk.

He finally turned to Émile and said quietly,
as though the question had never been about the crowd alone:

"I don't think there's an occasion."

He paused, then smiled faintly.

"People look happy… when they survive an ordinary day."

Émile looked at him, then back at the street.

"You see strange things, big brother."

Victor returned his gaze to the window and did not answer.

At last, the carriage arrived.

It stopped before the Rochefort estate.

The mansion was… terrifying in its size.

Not tall in reach, but immense in presence—
a block of stone deliberately placed in the heart of the earth
to remind those who entered of their true scale.
It did not rise high enough to impress the sky,
but it was wide enough to press upon the chest.
The walls here were not built for protection,
but for dominance.

Victor parted his lips slightly without realizing it,
as one does when seeing a sleeping beast for the first time.
He noticed himself only a second later.

Émile caught it and smiled lightly.

"…Big," Victor said, as though admitting something he would rather not.

"Bigger than I expected."

The footman opened the carriage door and bowed.

They stepped down.

Victor placed his foot on the ground and slowly lifted his head—
the towers, the high windows, the heavy shadows unmoved even by light.
He said softly, with sincere admiration untainted by caution:

"I can't believe we were invited here."

He paused, testing the thought.

"And hosted."

He smiled—
the smile of a child entering a library for the first time,
unsure where to begin.

But the moment was not allowed to linger.

The guards approached—
bodies taut, faces rigid, eyes full of the estate's arrogance,
as though the stone itself had trained them how to stand.

One extended his hand bluntly.

"Identification."

Émile moved instantly—a step forward, a shielding presence.

"We are guests," he said, politely rigid.

Victor did not tense.
He produced the letter calmly and raised it with a light smile that asked for no permission.

"A formal invitation."

The guard's arrogance faltered.
Another stepped forward, inspected the seal with exaggerated care, then fell silent.

Émile remained standing in front of his brother—a quiet barrier.

Victor glanced at him, then at the mansion, and said lightly, almost amused:

"…Large doors,"
then added,
"like to be certain. Twice."

The guard cleared his throat and gestured them inside.

The iron gate opened—not with a single sound, but with a prolonged groan,
as though complaining about everyone who passed beneath it.

They walked through the garden.

Green spaces trimmed with ruthless precision,
as if nature here did not grow—it was trained.
Everything in place. Everything knew its limits.
Even the grass looked afraid to grow too tall.

…Then—

Victor stopped.

White flowers.

He approached them slowly, as if forgetting where he was,
or deciding that the place no longer mattered.
He bent down—almost knelt.
His eyes widened with genuine, childlike wonder.

"…Ah."

He whispered to himself.

"Iberis."

He touched the tips of the petals with extreme hesitation,
the touch of someone afraid to wake a dream.

"I haven't seen them planted this densely in years."

He smiled.

"They're strong… despite their appearance."

A guard hurried forward, anger sharp in his voice.

"Step away. Now."

Émile moved before the voice could rise further,
standing directly before Victor—shoulders squared, brows drawn.

"My brother likes to touch things," he said, sharply polite.
Then added, without apology,
"Forgive him."

The guard sneered and stepped closer.

"This is not a public garden."

Émile did not move an inch.
His gaze was steady—knife-sharp.

"And my brother," he said coolly, dangerously,
"is not an ordinary man."

A brief silence fell.

Victor slowly lifted his head, stood, brushed his hand gently,
as if it still carried the flower's scent.
He looked at the guard and smiled—

A calm smile.
Not provocative.
But confident—confident enough to unsettle.

"Don't worry," he said warmly.
"I didn't harm it."

Then added, as though comforting the flower, not the man:

"I was only… getting to know it."

The guard stepped back.

Not out of respect—
but confusion.

Émile remained where he was.
A silent shield, knowing when to be drawn and when to remain simply a barrier.

They were led into a hall.

Beautiful—too beautiful.
As though beauty here was not for comfort, but display.

The ceiling soared high enough to make those beneath it feel small.
Mute gold flowed across the walls without warmth—
like a perfected smile that never reaches the eyes.
The windows did not welcome; they observed, weighed, judged
with cold, glassy stares—
as if the hall itself were a living thing that trusted no one.

Then they were left alone.

Before departing, the guard turned sharply.

"Do not move from your places.
And do not touch anything."

The door closed.

Émile sat down with visible force, as if the chair itself were guilty.
He tightened his gloves and exhaled restrained anger.

"Rude," he said plainly.
"From the garden, to the guards, to this deliberate waiting."

Victor sat calmly, crossed one leg over the other,
a faint smile touching his lips.

"It doesn't matter," he said gently.
"Castles like to test their visitors."

Émile turned to him.

"And you enjoy this?"

Victor shook his head no—
but lowered it slightly.
Under the light, the red in his eyes deepened,
and another smile appeared—narrower, sharper.
A thought that should not be spoken.

"If we were in their place," he murmured,
"we would have done worse."

A chill ran lightly through Émile.

He knew that smile.

Suddenly—

The door opened.

And a woman entered.

No—
she did not enter.

She seized the scene.

She was stunning—not innocently so, but with deliberate elegance, fully aware of its effect.
Her blonde hair was styled with unsettling precision, strands gleaming like living gold—
not like the mute gold on the walls.
Her blue eyes shone beneath clever makeup—never overwhelming, only suggesting—
and they brightened further when they fell upon him.

She advanced with confident steps,
the steps of a woman accustomed to being seen before being heard.
Her red lips curved into a wide smile—a smile that knew it was a weapon.

"…Welcome," she said softly.
Then added, with unapologetic pride,

"I am Elise Marguerite de Rochefort."

She paused, as though the name itself demanded silence.

"Henri's first wife."

She looked at Victor.

And stopped.

Truly stopped.

As if something had suddenly opened within her—
a flower blooming for no reason other than the moment.
Her smile changed—wider, warmer, less formal, more sincere.

"My God…"
She stepped closer.
"You are both… very handsome."

In her imagination, red roses bloomed—
too many, too vivid, nearly melting from heat.

Émile shot Victor a sideways glance—the familiar look that said:
*Here we go again.*

Victor froze for a second. Surprised.
He blinked, caught off guard, then smiled politely—
the smile of a man unprepared for this kind of assault.

"Madam… the honor is ours."

He inclined his head slightly, hand resting over his chest with measured nobility.

"My name is Victor Louis de Lormont, the current Baron."

Then gestured calmly beside him.

"And this is my brother, Émile Louis de Lormont—
my partner in inheritance… and my counsel."

Émile bowed lightly, a small formal smile forming.

"Our pleasure, madam."

…But Elise was still looking at Victor.

As women who have seen everything do—
yet surprised themselves this time.

She sat quickly upon a lavish chair, almost eagerly,
as if time were a personal enemy she feared might steal another second from her.

"Please—please."

She waved her hand, and the scene unfolded like a rehearsed stage curtain.
A maid entered at once, bearing opulent trays of pastries—
colors loud as paintings of unapologetic excess.
Steam rose from the tea, warm and rich—
the scent of houses that do not know poverty.

The trays were placed with ritual care.

The maid began pouring.

When she reached Victor, he lifted his hand gently.

"Please… no sugar."

The maid hesitated—as though a silent rule had been broken—
then poured as instructed.

Elise turned to him at once, blue eyes filling with curiosity.

"You don't like sugar?"

He smiled faintly.

"I don't dislike it," he said gently.
"My body simply disagrees with it."

Her eyes widened, a hand flying to her chest.

"Oh my— I didn't know!"
"I'm terribly sorry."

Victor's smile warmed—
the smile of a man who soothes others without exposing himself.

"There's no need to apologize," he said calmly.
"I haven't lost anything."

He glanced briefly at the pastries.

"They are beautiful… more than they are necessary."

Elise laughed—short, clear, like a sudden crack in a tense mirror.

"You are truly different."

Émile cleared his throat lightly.

"Madam, you mentioned you are Henri's first wife."

She tilted her head, smile unchanged.

"Yes."

"He has married six wives… so far."

Émile raised a brow.

"Six? …So far?"

She nodded calmly.

"I'm the first. And the longest-standing."

She paused, then added coolly,

"The estate is mine. I am its true owner."

Victor regarded her with genuine interest.

"And that doesn't bother you?"

She laughed—but this time, something cracked beneath it.

"At first, yes," she admitted.
"Then I realized Henri loves possession more than love."

She lowered her gaze.

"We are married in name only.
This place—and this system—are mine."

Émile nodded, impressed.

"You are a strong woman."

She smiled with evident pride.

"I learned that here."

Then her gaze returned to Victor and Émile—longer now, warmer.

"Your presence is… refreshing."

Victor lifted his teacup slightly.

"The tea is good," he said simply.

Elise laughed again.

Victor then raised his eyes and spoke calmly, as if the thought had slipped accidentally:

"Hypothetically…"

He paused.

"Since the estate is yours—and so is the authority—
the letter was written at your request, wasn't it?"

She laughed lightly, covering her mouth.

"Caught."

"Yes. I asked for it to be written."

She added apologetically,

"I didn't wish to reveal myself."

Émile leaned forward slightly, glancing at the letter.

"The handwriting is elegant… but not typically feminine."

She smiled confidently.

"Because I didn't write it."

At that moment, a side door opened.

A man entered—dressed in impeccable servant attire, disciplined to the bone.
Dark hair streaked with white, sharp eyes carrying respect—
the eyes of a witness who knows more than he speaks.

Elise gestured to him.

"This is Andrew," she said.
"My personal servant… and the letter's scribe."

Andrew bowed with perfect discipline.

Victor and Émile inclined their heads in return.

Elise's voice softened—more cautious now.

"I wrote because I'm worried about my husband."

She stopped.

Silence fell—awkward, heavy.

Her finger traced the rim of her cup.

Victor noticed immediately.

Tension.

He smiled gently—silent reassurance.

"I don't want this reaching the newspapers," she continued.
"Nor the great investigators."

She looked up.

"That's why… I went outside."

She smiled shyly.

"I wanted your counsel—without Henri knowing."

She sighed, burdened.

"He would be furious if he knew."

Silence pressed down.

Then Elise laughed nervously, followed by a heavy sigh.

"This is our first meeting… and I've already burdened you with all this."

Émile smiled warmly.

"It's all right," he said calmly.
"And we'll overlook the… harsh reception earlier."

"It seems you meant no ill."

Elise relaxed slightly.

Andrew spoke quietly, the voice of a man long accustomed to shadows.

"Despite his many marriages…
the lady holds a very high place in his heart."

Elise glanced at him, then laughed shyly.

"That's true."

Émile chuckled softly. Even Victor smiled faintly.

Then Émile returned to seriousness.

"What exactly happened?"

Elise fell silent. Lowered her head.
Golden strands curtained her eyes like a theater curtain falling—
signaling the end of a performance.

A heavy silence passed.

She lifted her head slowly.
Her blue eyes had lost some of their shine.

"We were robbed."