Elena stared at the estate from her bedroom window, the USB drive still hidden behind the false panel in her jewelry box. Lucas had shown her the secret room—his confession in architecture. But that didn't mean he trusted her. No, it was a warning. One last opportunity to back down.
But she wouldn't.
She'd seen the rot inside the Moreau empire. She'd seen how her father's silence had been bought with fear, how Adrien's disappearance had been orchestrated by the same hands that now offered her diamond necklaces and a seat at an empty table.
She wouldn't be another pawn.
She'd be the player.
And Lucas Moreau wouldn't see it coming.
---
Her plan began with Camille.
If there was anyone who still held the power to sway both Moreau men, it was the woman they'd both loved — the woman who vanished after Adrien's disappearance and was rumored to be dead herself. But Elena knew better. Camille was a ghost, yes, but one who left faint footprints.
Adrien had mentioned a name during their brief meeting in Vienna: Gaspard Lestrange. A private banker with a reputation for discretion and a history with the Moreau family. Elena had found him listed in one of the hidden files — and more interestingly, she'd found a security transaction that suggested he had rerouted money into a hidden trust under Camille's maiden name.
Elena booked a flight to Geneva under a false name and met Gaspard in the quiet luxury of a lakeside hotel lobby.
"I know why you're here," he said before she even introduced herself. "She told me someone would come."
Elena's pulse quickened. "Camille. Is she alive?"
Gaspard nodded, slowly. "She lives in self-exile. Disillusioned, but not defeated. She never stopped watching."
"Can you get me to her?"
"No," he said. "But I can get her to you. If she chooses."
---
Three days later, Elena returned to the Moreau estate.
She moved through the halls like a shadow, pretending everything was fine. Lucas had grown more affectionate lately — or more possessive, perhaps. He wrapped his arm around her in public, kissed her cheek in front of guests, and smiled like a man who had nothing to fear.
But every night, Elena returned to her room and recorded her observations.
Names. Faces. Meetings.
Lucas's network extended further than she realized: a senator from Spain, a venture capitalist from Dubai, even an art dealer from Prague who served as a courier for confidential contracts.
And always, there were whispers about something called Project Aurelian.
She didn't know what it was — yet. But she would.
Because she wasn't alone anymore.
---
Camille arrived under a false name and tinted glasses.
She met Elena at a small café near the Seine, disguised as a passing tourist with an elegant scarf and no past.
"You look like him," Camille said softly.
"My father?"
"No. Adrien." Her voice caught. "You have the same fire behind your eyes."
Elena fought a surge of emotion. "He's alive. He told me everything."
Camille gave a sad smile. "I know. He never stopped writing… though he never sent a single letter."
"I need your help," Elena said. "Lucas is planning something. And the world needs to see who he really is."
Camille sipped her espresso. "He's charming. Brilliant. Deadly. And a master at covering his tracks. You won't get to him with files alone."
"Then how do I bring him down?"
Camille leaned in. "You don't destroy him. You make him destroy himself."
---
The next phase began with whispers.
Elena let Lucas catch her reading old journals in the library — her father's, Adrien's. She left a folder of photos open on the piano bench, just long enough for Lucas to notice. She asked questions that seemed innocent but were laced with implication.
Then she vanished for a day.
Just one.
No explanation.
Lucas didn't confront her when she returned. But the surveillance increased. She felt the eyes — in the hallway mirrors, behind the paintings, in the reflection of her teacup.
He was watching.
Good.
He was afraid.
---
A week later, Elena hosted a charity gala in Lucas's name — a grand affair held at the Louvre, where politicians and aristocrats toasted the future of France's "most influential couple."
Camille arrived, unrecognizable, playing the part of a foreign benefactor.
Adrien, watching from a balcony above, disguised as one of the security staff, texted a single word to Elena: Ready.
Halfway through Lucas's speech, Elena stepped onto the stage.
"Before we toast," she said, microphone in hand, "I'd like to honor a few people who made this event possible — including some names we don't hear often."
A hush fell.
"Elise Charpentier," she said, watching Lucas flinch. "The secretary who was fired after discovering accounting discrepancies. Jonas Moretti, the banker who vanished after declining to sign a forged document. And of course… Camille Durant."
Murmurs rippled through the audience.
Elena smiled.
"A woman who once gave her heart to the wrong man, and paid the price for her loyalty to the right one."
Lucas's hand gripped the edge of the podium.
He smiled. Barely.
"Thank you, Elena," he said, guiding her away from the mic. "I think that's quite enough nostalgia."
But it wasn't nostalgia.
It was a warning.
---
That night, Lucas confronted her.
In the drawing room. No staff. No masks.
"You think you're clever," he said quietly.
"I know I am," she replied. "And you're slipping, Lucas."
He laughed. "You think a few poetic speeches and ghost stories will undo me? I built this empire."
"You built it on bones," she snapped. "On betrayal."
He stepped closer.
"You don't want to be my enemy, Elena. You still have a future with me. Everything I've done — I've done for us."
"No," she said. "You did it for control. For power. For fear."
Lucas's smile vanished.
"I warned you," he whispered. "You could've been untouchable."
"I'd rather be truthful."
And then she handed him the envelope.
Inside was a single photo.
Camille. Standing in front of the Eiffel Tower.
Alive.
Lucas paled.
"Elena…"
"She's back. And so is Adrien. You're not alone anymore, Lucas. The dead are walking. And they remember everything."
She turned and left him in the dark.
---
The next morning, the press leaked a story.
An anonymous file dump — thousands of pages of documents — released to a global whistleblower network. Financial corruption. Bribery. Manipulation of judicial proceedings.
Lucas's name was all over it.
Elena hadn't sent it.
Not yet.
Adrien had.
"Consider it a first strike," he messaged. "The rest is yours."
Elena smiled.
Because for the first time, Lucas Moreau was on defense.
And she was just getting started.