Chapter 3
The following Monday, Dorian made sure I understood what it cost to question him.
At eight in the morning, my studio’s finance manager called to say every Veyne Group order for the quarter had been canceled.
At nine, the school portal notified me that Elsie’s education fund had been withdrawn.
At ten, Dorian’s black Bentley stopped outside my studio.
He lowered the window and held out a document.
“Sign it, Mireille.”
It was a temporary separation agreement.
Every clause was designed to draw blood.
First: I would withdraw my objection to the new Green Star authorization.
Second: I would issue a public statement recognizing Orson as the Collection’s new public representative.
Third: I would agree not to discuss Dorian’s relationship with Camille in public or with the board.
If I signed, our accounts would be unfrozen. My studio’s orders would be restored. Elsie’s tuition account would be funded again.
“You can keep pretending to be a proud mother,” Dorian said, reclining against the leather seat as if we were negotiating a routine business deal. “But do not make your daughter pay for your pride. Without me, you cannot even cover her school fees.”
I looked at his smug, untouchable face.
Then I laughed.
I took the agreement, folded it once, then again, and slid it into the pocket of his suit jacket.
“You are not giving me a choice, Dorian,” I said. “You are putting a price on the peace of my home.”
His expression turned to ice.
He told the driver to pull away.
Not long after, Camille appeared outside my studio in couture and the diamond necklace that had once been mine.
She set an elegant jewelry box at my feet.
“Sell it,” she murmured. “At least you will not have to explain to Elsie why her mother could not afford a decent necklace.”
I did not touch the box.
“You are wearing stolen things,” I told her. “And you still think you have won.”
That evening, Ronan arrived with the preliminary opinion we had been waiting for.
An independent document examiner had found enough differences to support an emergency application. The Trust’s records custodian had signed an affidavit confirming that the number on Dorian’s amendment did not belong to the Trust.
It still was not a verdict.
It was a door cracked open before Dorian could slam it shut.
“The launch is Friday at ten,” Ronan said. “If the court grants a temporary restraining order, it will only preserve the status quo for seventy-two hours. Dorian will call it a technicality. He will fight it immediately.”
“Good.” I signed the authorization page. “Let him fight where people can see him.”
Seconds after I sent the documents back, my phone lit up with a message from Dorian.
Stay home on Friday.
Watch what happens when you forget who holds the power.
I read it once.
Then I forwarded it to Ronan.
“File tonight,” I said.