PART 3
The silence that followed Gabriel’s revelation was not merely heavy; it was absolute, sepulchral. It was no longer the silence of a shocked high-society assembly, but the silence that precedes the fall of a guillotine blade.
Camille, short of breath, felt Gabriel’s warm, firm hand tighten around her waist—a vital anchor in the storm that had just descended upon her mind. She looked at the man who, for twenty-six years, had demanded that she call him “father.” Bernard Delmas, still on his knees on the white carpet stained with champagne, seemed to have aged twenty years in the span of ten seconds. His bulging eyes stared at Gabriel with the terror of a damned soul facing his judge.
— What… what are you talking about? Camille murmured, her voice trembling, not from fear, but from a dizzying incomprehension. Gabriel, tell me everything.
Gabriel turned his storm-gray gaze toward her, and the ice that resided within it melted instantly, giving way to an infinite tenderness.
— They stole your life, my love, he said softly, though his voice resonated all the way to the back of the room. They made you believe that you were the black sheep, the mistake, the bastard child to be ashamed of. But the truth is, the only thing that allowed them to sleep in silk sheets and drink vintage champagne was the money that belonged to you by right.
He snapped his fingers—a sharp sound that made the assembly jump.
One of the men in black, who was blocking the large oak doors of the salon, stepped aside to let a new silhouette pass. It was not a bodyguard, but a man of a very advanced age, stooped, walking with the help of a silver-pommeled cane. He wore an old-fashioned tweed suit and clutched a leather briefcase worn by time against his chest.
Hélène, Camille’s mother, let out a cry of pure horror upon recognizing the old man. She grabbed the tablecloth of the head table, knocking over candelabras and floral arrangements in a crash of shattered crystal.
— Maître Lemaire… Hélène stammered, her face pale, her lips trembling uncontrollably. But… we were told that you died in the south of France ten years ago…
— The rumors of my demise have been greatly exaggerated, Madame Delmas, the old notary replied in a quavering voice loaded with contempt. Or should I say, greatly financed by your husband to ensure my silence. Fortunately, Monsieur Sterling has a long reach and knew how to find me in my forced exile in Switzerland.
Maître Lemaire advanced toward Gabriel and Camille. He placed his briefcase on an intact table, opened it with hands trembling with emotion, and pulled out a bundle of yellowed documents sealed with red wax.
— Mademoiselle… or rather Madame Sterling, the notary began, bowing slightly before Camille, with tears in his eyes. Your grandfather, Auguste Delmas, was an honorable man. He knew what his son Bernard was capable of. He knew that Bernard had no talent for business, only a fierce appetite for vice, gambling, and destruction.
Bernard, on the ground, let out a pitiful groan, curling in on himself like a wounded animal. Adrien, meanwhile, watched the scene in total bewilderment, his world of privilege collapsing brick by brick.
— Before dying, the notary continued, Auguste had discovered a troubling truth. A truth that your mother, Hélène, had been hiding since your conception.
Camille abruptly turned her head toward Hélène. The woman who had ignored her, belittled her, and left her alone to face the cruelties of her husband and son was weeping hot tears, mascara ruining her facelifted face.
— Tell them, Hélène, Gabriel ordered, his voice cutting like a guillotine. Or I will let the tabloid press handle it starting tomorrow morning.
— Forgive me… Hélène gasped, broken, not daring to meet her daughter’s gaze. Camille… Bernard is not your father.
A murmur of stupor shook the room. The guests, frozen until now, began to whisper frantically. Victoire, the young bride, had backed up against a wall, looking at the Delmas family as if they were carriers of the plague.
— Your father… Hélène resumed, sobbing, was Alexandre de Vaucanson.
The name echoed in Camille’s head. Alexandre de Vaucanson. A visionary, genius architect who had worked for the Delmas group decades ago before tragically dying in a car accident that was never fully cleared up.
— Alexandre was your grandfather Auguste’s protégé, Gabriel explained, his gray eyes fixing upon Bernard with a murderous hatred. Auguste considered him the son he always wished he had. When Hélène fell pregnant with Alexandre, Bernard discovered it. Instead of asking for a divorce, he saw a diabolical opportunity. He blackmailed Hélène. And a few weeks later, Alexandre’s car mysteriously saw its brakes fail on a cliffside road.
Camille felt her knees give way. The room began to spin. The man she believed to be her father was in reality the murderer of her biological father. If Gabriel had not supported her firmly with his powerful arm, she would have collapsed.
— No… she murmured, tears of shock finally flooding her cheeks. It’s impossible. He is a monster.
— He is worse than a monster, Gabriel spat. He is a parasite.
Maître Lemaire tapped the documents on the table.
— Auguste had doubts about Alexandre’s accident. And he ended up discovering the truth about your parentage, Camille. In an ultimate act of justice, three days before dying of a heart attack that many today find suspicious… he drafted this will. He disinherited Bernard from the entirety of the holding company Delmas Immobilier. He placed 100% of the shares, properties, bank accounts, and patents into an inviolable trust.
The notary pointed an accusing finger at Bernard.
— This will stipulated that Bernard was only a temporary manager, paid at the minimum executive salary, until the day of your eighteenth birthday, Camille. Upon your majority, you were to inherit the entirety of the empire. Bernard knew it. That is why he hired henchmen to make me disappear, why he forged a fake will furnished with bought signatures, and why he treated you like a nobody your entire life, out of fear that you would discover your true worth.
— He hoped to break you psychologically, Gabriel added, his voice vibrating with a dark anger. He wanted to convince you that you were nothing, that you deserved nothing, to ensure that you would never dig into the past. He took your money, the inheritance of your real father and your grandfather, to finance the prince-like life of this waste…
Gabriel pointed at Adrien with a disdainful tilt of his chin. Adrien, livid, groaned:
— I… I didn’t know… I swear to you, Camille, I knew nothing!
— Shut up, you miserable wretch, Gabriel snapped. You savored every minute of your cruelty toward her. You wore fifty-thousand-euro watches bought with the money that was supposed to pay for Camille’s education, while she had to clean houses to afford her student room.
Bernard, suddenly finding the energy of despair, half-rose, his fists clenched.
— All of this is past the statute of limitations! he yelled, foaming at the mouth, his face scarlet. You have no proof for Alexandre’s accident! And as for the business, the company has been in my name for twenty-six years! You cannot just come in here and take everything from me! I am Bernard Delmas!
Gabriel let out a dark laugh, completely devoid of joy. A sound that made the waiters taking refuge in the corners of the room shudder.
— Statute of limitations? You truly think I play by the rules of the French courts, Bernard? You forget who I am. You forget what the Obsidian Group is.
Gabriel gently let go of Camille to take three slow, menacing steps toward Bernard, who immediately scrambled backward, crawling pitoyably on his back.
— I let you come begging into my office for months. I let you believe in that stupid merger. I gained access to all your private account books. I discovered your tax frauds, your illegal financial schemes in the Cayman Islands, and the money you embezzled from your own employees’ pension funds. This morning, I didn’t just buy up your debts. I sent a three-hundred-page dossier to the Financial Brigade and the Public Prosecutor.
As if to punctuate the billionaire’s grim sentence, the distant but insistent wail of several police sirens began to be heard through the mansion’s massive floor-to-ceiling windows. The sirens were approaching at a terrifying speed.
Bernard froze, the blood completely leaving his face. He seemed to have suddenly stopped breathing.
— They are here for you, Bernard. And for you too, Adrien, because your name appears as a co-signatory on every shell company, Gabriel continued in an icy tone. You will not get out of prison before your hair turns white. You are going to lose this company, your houses, your cars, your name, and your freedom. And everything that remains, after justice has taken its share, will revert to the sole legitimate heiress of this family.
Gabriel turned toward the assembly, scanning the paralyzed guests, the uncles, aunts, and cousins who had laughed just a few minutes earlier.
— All of you, who have been complicit through your silence and your scornful laughter, mark this well. The name Delmas died today. There is only Madame Sterling now. And if any of you dare to utter her name again without lowering your eyes in respect, I will personally ensure that you join Bernard in the sewers from which he will never emerge.
The sirens were now wailing right outside the forecourt of the reception hall. The blue flashing lights swept over the walls through the thin curtains, casting phantom shadows on the shattered faces of the family.
Victoire, finally realizing the scale of the disaster, tore off her bridal veil in a hysterical gesture.
— It’s over! she shrieked at Adrien. Don’t you ever call me again! My lawyer will send you the marriage annulment papers tomorrow morning!
She gathered her tulle skirts with both hands and ran toward a side exit, her heels clicking on the marble, fleeing the sinking ship. Adrien let out a long, heartbreaking cry, calling her name, but she had already disappeared.
The main doors burst open once more. A dozen uniformed police officers, accompanied by plainclothes detectives, entered the majestic room.
— Monsieur Bernard Delmas? Monsieur Adrien Delmas? the chief detective asked, pulling out a bundle of warrants. You are under arrest for fraud, embezzlement, organized money laundering, and suspicion of homicide on the person of Alexandre de Vaucanson.
Hélène fainted heavily onto the white carpet. No one made a move to catch her. Bernard, for his part, did not fight back. The police picked him up roughly and handcuffed him, as well as his son who was weeping loudly, ruining his magnificent ivory suit with his own tears and snot.
As he passed by Camille, flanked by two officers, Bernard raised his head one last time. His eyes no longer expressed arrogance, only an abyssal emptiness—the terror of a man who realizes that Hell has just opened beneath his feet. He wanted to speak, to formulate a pitiful excuse, but Gabriel stepped in, forming a wall of muscle and darkness between the old man and his wife.
— Take these pieces of garbage away, Gabriel ordered the police. They are stinking up my air.
Once the family was evacuated, the room remained in a cathedral-like silence. The remaining guests made themselves tiny, hoping to become invisible before the cold fury of Gabriel Sterling.
Camille looked at the spot where her “father” had stood. Her split lip still hurt, but the pain in her chest had evaporated. Twenty-six years of burdens, belittlement, doubts, and tears had just been erased in a single stroke. She felt incredibly light. Free.
She looked down at the ring on her finger. The blue diamond caught the light of the chandeliers, sparkling with a triumphant glow.
She was not a mistake. She was the masterpiece they had all tried to destroy.
Gabriel turned toward her. The mask of the ruthless tyrant he wore for the rest of the world had vanished, leaving place for the devoted husband she had learned to love in the secrecy of their private life. With infinite delicacy, he ran a thumb across her cheek to wipe away a final, rebellious tear.
— How do you feel, Madame Sterling? he whispered, his gray eyes locked into hers.
Camille took a deep breath, inhaling the comforting scent of cedarwood and rain that emanated from him. She placed both hands on her husband’s powerful chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart. She sketched a smile—a real smile, the first of her new life.
— I feel ready to go home, Gabriel.
Gabriel smiled back at her—a magnificent smile that illuminated his usually harsh features. He took off his black suit jacket and placed it gently over Camille’s shoulders, covering her with his scent and his protection, hiding the humble midnight blue dress beneath the priceless fabric.
— Then let us go home, my love. Your empire awaits you.
He took her hand, firmly intertwining his fingers with hers. Without casting a single look back at the frozen guests or the ruined banquet, the king and queen of Obsidian walked across the grand golden room. The bodyguards opened the immense sculpted wooden doors for them, letting in the cool night air of Paris.
Behind them, the Delmas dynasty was nothing more than a pile of smoking ashes. Before them, the future shone brightly, mirroring the blue diamond on Camille’s hand.
