Chapter 4 - The Paris Line
Back in the Parisian hotel suite, the shards of broken porcelain had been carefully swept away by hotel staff, but the air in the room remained charged with relentless tension.
Elena sat at the mahogany writing desk, her laptop open to a secure video conferencing portal. The screen flickered, and Vance’s face appeared in high definition, looking exhausted but triumphant.
“It’s done, Elena,” Vance reported, adjusting his glasses. “The FBI intercepted them at Gate 4B just as they were handing their boarding passes to the agent. All five hundred thousand dollars from the fraudulent title sale have been successfully intercepted in the escrow holding account before they could be laundered offshore. The title transfer has been voided by a federal emergency injunction, and the deed is officially locked back under your sole name.”
Elena closed her eyes for a long, quiet second, letting out the breath she felt like she had been holding since she saw that photo in the JFK lounge. The grief for her grandmother’s stolen sanctuary finally dissolved, replaced by a deep, immovable sense of justice.
“And my parents?” Elena asked, her voice steady.
“Currently sitting in a holding facility in Queens,” Vance said grimly. “They tried to claim parental privilege and legal guardianship over your assets. Agent Miller laughed them out of the room. They’re being formally arraigned tomorrow morning. Without bail, given their clear intent to flee the jurisdiction.”
“Good,” Elena said softly. “Let them sit there.”
“What are your next steps?” Vance asked. “Are you flying back to New York?”
“Not yet,” Elena replied, looking out the window at the morning sun rising over the rooftops of Paris. She had just closed the biggest corporate acquisition of her career, and she had just defended her grandmother’s legacy from the people who raised her. “I have one more meeting here in Paris this afternoon to finalize the European expansion portfolio. Once that’s signed, I’ll fly back to Lake Placid. I want to stand on the porch of that lakehouse myself, change the locks, and make sure my parents never come within five miles of my front door ever again.”
As she ended the call, her phone buzzed against the wooden desk.
It wasn't an email from Vance, nor was it a message from the FBI. It was a direct, unknown mobile number calling from a New York area code.
May you like
Elena stared at the screen, watching the caller ID flash. It was her mother’s cell phone number.
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