Chapter 2: Shadows from Paris
That night, Elara sat on the edge of the bed, the soft glow of the bedside lamp casting halos around her. Lucien had fallen asleep with his arm draped over a pillow where her body had been, his breaths slow and even. He looked peaceful. Vulnerable.
She envied that peace.
Her fingers hovered over her phone as she read the message again, this time fully.
> From: Bellerose, Fontaine & Cloutier, Notaries of Paris
Subject: Testament of Étienne Delacroix
Mlle Elara Delacroix,
You are formally summoned as the sole surviving heir to the Delacroix estate, per the sealed testament of your late father, Étienne Delacroix. Please present yourself in Paris within 21 days to confirm identity and accept inheritance.
Failure to respond will forfeit your claim.
Her heart twisted.
Étienne Delacroix. She hadn't heard that name since childhood—back when her mother whispered it in bedtime stories like a myth. A brilliant man. A cruel one. A ghost.
Elara Quinn was never supposed to exist in that world. She was the secret child. The mistress's daughter. Hidden. Protected. Forgotten.
But the world had a funny way of resurrecting secrets—especially the ones that refused to stay buried.
She closed the message and typed out a response.
> I will come to Paris. Please keep this confidential. No public disclosure. I travel under a private name.
—E.Q.
She hesitated before hitting send, then glanced back at Lucien.
He would be furious if he found out.
Not because he didn't trust her—but because he loved her.
Loved her too much to let her walk into the shadows of a dead man's empire alone.
But some things needed to be done in silence. For her. For their unborn child.
For answers.
---
Two Days Later
The morning air in Paris was colder than she remembered. Sharp, perfumed with old stone and distant rain. Elara stepped out of the black car in a beige coat and wide sunglasses, her hair tied back in a low twist.
The office of Bellerose, Fontaine & Cloutier loomed before her—an elegant gray building nestled along Rue de Grenelle, across from a cathedral still singing with morning bells.
Inside, she was greeted by a woman with silver hair and eyes like granite.
"Bienvenue, Mlle Delacroix," the woman said. "You have your mother's eyes."
Elara stiffened. "You knew her?"
A nod. "Everyone in Paris knew Camille Rousseau. The mistress who disappeared with the heir's child. The one Étienne never spoke of—but never stopped watching."
The woman led her into a sunlit chamber with high ceilings and a long mahogany table.
On it sat a single envelope.
Wax-sealed. Embossed with the Delacroix crest.
Elara's fingers trembled as she broke the seal.
Inside was a handwritten letter.
> To my daughter, Elara Camille Rousseau-Delacroix,
If you are reading this, I am dead. And the wolves will come for you, as they once came for your mother.
You were never supposed to inherit. But blood is blood. And in a family like ours… it is both a weapon and a shield.
Take what is yours. But beware: the one who calls himself Saint is neither holy nor kind.
—Étienne Delacroix
Elara's pulse pounded.
Saint.
She looked up at the lawyer. "Adrien Saint-Pierre?"
A pause. Then a grim nod.
"He is your cousin," the woman said. "And he knows you're here."
Outside the window, a black car idled across the street.
Inside it, a man in a dark coat and gloves lit a cigarette with precise, slow fingers.
Watching.
Waiting.
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