Chapter 2 - The Paris AwakeningThree thousand miles away, in a sun-drenched suite at the Hôtel de Crillon in Paris, Camille Voss stretched lazily across the king-sized bed, the Egyptian cotton sheets pooling around her hips. The morning sunlight caught the emerald pendant Damian had bought her just two days prior.
She reached blindly for her phone, scrolling through social media before turning to look at the empty side of the bed.
"Damian?" she called out, her voice honeyed and drowsy. "Darling, are you ordering room service? I want the brioche."
There was no answer from the suite's private study. Frowning, Camille slipped on a silk robe and padded across the plush carpeting. The door to the study was open, and the sight waiting for her made her breath catch.
Damian was standing by the mahogany desk, but he wasn't looking at his laptop. His phone was shattered against the marble fireplace hearth, the battery pack smoking slightly from the impact. His tie was ripped open, hanging loose around a neck drenched in cold sweat. His hands gripped the edge of the desk so tightly his knuckles were stark white.
"Damian?" Camille asked, her tone shifting from playful to sharp. "What on earth is wrong with you? You look like you’ve seen a ghost."
"Pack your bags," he said. His voice wasn't angry. It was dead. Hollow. The voice of a man standing over an open grave.
"What?" Camille scoffed, stepping closer and placing a manicured hand on his arm. "Are you insane? Our flight isn't until Thursday. We have dinner with the Bordeaux investors tonight—"
"I said, pack your bags!" Damian roared, spinning around with a fury that made Camille recoil. His eyes were bloodshot, wild, and dilated with unadulterated terror. "The company is gone. The accounts are frozen. Every asset, every property, every share of stock we thought we owned has been legally stripped away."
Camille stared at him, her mouth slightly open, waiting for the punchline. When none came, a cold knot of dread formed in her stomach.
"Stripped away by whom?" she whispered. "Your board? A hostile takeover?"
Damian let out a harsh, broken laugh that sounded like glass grinding together.
"No," he muttered, running both hands through his disheveled hair. "Not a hostile takeover. My wife. The quiet little mouse from Connecticut. My wife just took everything."
Before Camille could process the insanity of his words, the heavy oak door of their Paris suite rattled violently. Before either of could turn toward the sound, three men in dark, bespoke suits—men whose lapels bore the discreet, gold-embossed crest of Interpol—strode past the panic-stricken hotel security in the hallway and pushed their way directly into the room.
The lead agent didn't bother to knock. He held up a sealed international warrant.
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"Mr. Damian Moretti," the agent stated, his voice flat and absolute. "You are formally summoned for emergency extradition proceedings under suspicion of international corporate fraud, asset concealment, and systematic financial conspiracy. Anything you say can and will be used against you."
Camille screamed, dropping her phone as two more agents stepped forward, their wrists already unspooling cold steel handcuffs.
