Chapter 3

Paris in November was grey and sharp, the Seine cutting through the city like a steel blade. I hadn't been here in four years—not since I'd walked away from the Delacroix name, desperate to prove I could build a life without my family's shadow.

That decision had led me straight into Gabriel's arms.

Ironic.

The Delacroix Pharmaceuticals headquarters occupied an entire block on Avenue Montaigne. Glass and limestone, old money dressed in modern architecture. The lobby alone was worth more than Ashford Industries' entire Manhattan office.

My heels clicked on the marble floor. Every head turned.

I wasn't the woman who had left New York yesterday. I had stopped at the Delacroix private residence first. Showered. Changed. Put on armor.

A tailored black Dior suit. Hair down, blown straight. Red lipstick—the exact shade my grandmother used to wear to boardroom battles.

The receptionist's eyes widened. "Miss Delacroix. Welcome home."

"Is my grandfather in?"

"He's expecting you. Thirty-second floor."

The elevator ride felt like ascending a throne.

Henri Delacroix sat behind a desk the size of a small car. He was eighty-one years old, silver-haired, and sharper than men half his age. He had built Delacroix from a single pharmacy in Lyon into a global empire.

He looked up when I walked in. His eyes—the same grey as mine—softened.

"Margaux," he said. Just my name. But it carried the weight of every unanswered phone call, every missed Christmas, every year I had spent trying to be someone else.

"Grand-père," I said.

He stood. He walked around the desk. He hugged me. He smelled of sandalwood and old books.

"You look thin," he said.

"I've been busy."

"Being mistreated is not busy, child." He pulled back, studying my face. "Sit. Tell me everything."

I told him. The marriage. The patents. The liver donation. Vanessa. The divorce papers. The IP clause.

His expression didn't change. Henri Delacroix hadn't built an empire by being emotional.

When I finished, he opened his desk drawer and pulled out a thick dossier.

"I have been watching," he said. "Did you think I would let my only grandchild disappear into that man's world without keeping eyes on her?"

He slid the dossier across the desk. It was labeled: ASHFORD, GABRIEL — CONFIDENTIAL.

I opened it.

Financial records. Board meeting minutes. And photographs.

Photos of Gabriel and Vanessa at a restaurant in the Hamptons. Dated fourteen months ago. She was laughing, her hand on his chest. He was looking at her the way he used to look at me—during the first month of our marriage, before I became furniture.

"Fourteen months," I whispered.

"At minimum," my grandfather said. "My investigators believe the affair started eighteen months ago. Shortly after you filed the provisional patent for your leukemia compound."

I closed the dossier.

"He needed you quiet and compliant while he figured out how to steal your work," Henri continued. "The divorce isn't about Vanessa. It's about MX-7. His R&D team hit a wall six months ago. Every project is stalling. He needs a breakthrough to keep his investors happy, and he's betting your research belongs to him."

"It doesn't," I said. "The foundational work predates the marriage."

"I know." Henri smiled. It was a cold, precise smile. "Which is why, as of this morning, Delacroix Pharmaceuticals has filed a formal patent challenge against Ashford Industries' three core drugs."

My heart stopped. "All three?"

"All three. Your original research. Your formulas. Your intellectual property, stolen and filed under his name." Henri leaned forward. "The hearing is in twenty-eight days. And, Margaux—Ashford's biggest contract, the one that accounts for forty percent of his revenue? It's with us. It expires in thirty days."

"He doesn't know I'm a Delacroix," I said.

"No. He married a woman named Margaux Laurent. You used your mother's maiden name, as I recall, because you wanted to be 'independent.'" His tone carried a gentle reproach.

"I was stupid."

"You were young. There is a difference." He stood. "Now. You are the Head of Research and Development at Delacroix Pharmaceuticals, effective immediately. Your first task is to prepare the patent defense. Your second task—"

He paused, looking out the window at the Paris skyline.

"Your second task is to sit across from Gabriel Ashford at the contract negotiation and show him exactly who he threw away."

I stood. My hands were steady. My heart was quiet.

"Twenty-eight days," I said.

"Twenty-eight days."

I walked to the door. Then I stopped.

"Grand-père? Thank you. For watching over me. Even when I didn't deserve it."

"You always deserved it," he said. "You just needed to believe that yourself."

I walked out. My phone buzzed.

A text from Gabriel: Sign the papers, Margaux. Don't make this difficult. My lawyer says you have until Friday or we go to court.

I stared at the message.

Then I blocked his number.