Chapter 2
At eleven that night, the only sound in my bedroom was the steady tick of the clock.
Elsie was asleep next door. I had promised her I would not let anyone make her explain what happened at the gala. Then I had closed her door and finally allowed myself to look at the box.
I used a hairpin to force open its rusted lock.
There were no jewels inside. No money. No complete set of documents.
Only three things:
An old key.
A yellowed slip of paper bearing a trust-registration number.
And a section of a cut audio cassette.
I found my mother’s old tape player, slid in the cassette, and pressed Play.
Through a burst of static came Celestine’s familiar voice.
“...the Green Star belongs only to my daughter and granddaughter... Never trust anyone who signs your name for you...”
Click.
The recording cut off.
The following morning, I used the number on the note to open the safe-deposit box my mother had placed in my name years ago.
Inside was the original commercial-license agreement for the Green Star Collection.
I turned through the papers page by page, my fingers growing colder with every line.
The Veyne Group’s sales license was renewable only with the approval of the Trust’s two co-trustees: me and the independent trustee Celestine had appointed.
But the copy Dorian had submitted to the board told a different story.
The renewal date had been moved forward by three years.
My signature appeared beneath an amendment I had never seen.
And the registration number on that amendment belonged not to the Green Star Trust, but to a shell company controlled by the Veyne Group.
It was not proof that could destroy Dorian in a single blow.
It was proof that made a formal investigation possible.
I contacted Ronan, my mother’s longtime attorney, that same day.
We met in a private conference room at his firm. Ronan put on his reading glasses and compared the original filing with the corporate copy I had printed from the board archive.
“This is enough to preserve the records,” he said at last. “Enough to require the Trust to open a review. It is not enough to accuse Dorian publicly.”
“What do we need?”
“The original board submission. A statement from the records custodian. A preliminary handwriting opinion. And time.”
“He is launching the new campaign next week.”
Ronan looked up.
“Then we ask the court for a limited order. Not to decide ownership. Only to stop him from turning a disputed license into completed sales before anyone can look at the truth.”
“Do it.”
For the next four days, Ronan worked through the Trust’s records. I spent mine calling vendors, collecting old signature samples, and refusing to let the story in the papers become the story inside my home.
Elsie asked only once if we were getting her star back.
I knelt beside her and said, “I cannot promise you a date. But I can promise that no one gets to decide your worth in a ballroom.”
On Friday evening, Ronan called.
The calm in his voice was gone.
“Mireille, I have the records custodian’s comparison chart. Your signature is not the only problem.”
I opened the image he sent.
“Dorian may have altered the entire inheritance plan your mother put in place.”