The sun was low in the sky by the time Elena reached the outskirts of Nice—a region so unlike the bustling elegance of Paris that it felt like a dream. The address Lucas had given her led to a quiet estate on a hill, surrounded by olive trees and guarded by silence.
The gates were open.
Her heartbeat pounded in her ears as she walked up the path, gravel crunching under her feet. In her bag was the file: property records, a forged death certificate, and a photograph of her father taken just two years ago. He was older, grayer, but unmistakably alive.
She stopped at the heavy oak door.
Raised her hand.
Knocked.
A long moment passed.
Then the door creaked open, revealing a tall man with kind but tired eyes and silver streaks in his beard. For a second, they just stared at each other.
"Elena," he said. His voice cracked.
She almost collapsed.
"You… it's really you?"
"Yes." He stepped back. "Come in. We have so much to talk about."
She stepped into a house frozen in time. Old family photos still hung on the walls, dust collecting around frames like forgotten memories. There was even a picture of her as a child—clutching a red ribbon at a school fair.
Her knees felt weak.
"Why?" she whispered. "Why did you let me believe you were dead?"
Her father sighed and led her to the sunroom. The late light spilled across the floor, making the room feel surreal.
"I had to disappear, Elena. I did it to protect you."
"From what? From Adrien's death? From your secrets? Or from yourself?"
He looked away. "It's more complicated than that."
"No," she snapped. "It's exactly that simple. Either you murdered Adrien… or you let it happen. Which one was it?"
Silence.
Then:
"I didn't kill Adrien. But I might as well have."
She stared at him, waiting.
He leaned back, eyes fixed on the horizon.
"I was a partner in the Moreau empire, yes. We built empires on oil and offshore deals. But Adrien… he found something we tried to bury."
"What was it?"
"A lab," he said quietly. "In North Africa. Funded by the Moreaus under a shell company. It was experimenting on locals—biochemical testing. Illegal. Inhumane. Adrien found out and wanted to expose it. But your mother… she was involved too. She was working in legal for the company. She begged him not to go public."
Elena reeled. "My mother?"
"She tried to stop him. So did I. But Adrien recorded everything. He threatened to leak it unless we shut it all down. He gave us a deadline. That night—he disappeared."
Elena's hands curled into fists. "So who did it?"
"I still don't know," he said. "But Lucien believes it was your uncle, Étienne. Adrien's death was too clean—an overdose staged to look accidental. Lucien always thought it was murder."
"But why fake your own death?" Elena asked, tears burning her throat.
"Because after Adrien's funeral, I got a package. Photos. Proof. And a note: You're next."
He opened a drawer and handed her a yellowed envelope.
Inside were photos of Adrien's body—before the paramedics arrived. Bruises on his wrists. Needle marks that didn't match the coroner's report.
"And that's when I ran," her father said. "I knew I was next. I faked the accident and vanished."
"And left me behind?" she whispered.
"I thought your mother could protect you."
Elena looked away, tears sliding down her cheeks.
"She died six months later."
He closed his eyes. "I know."
Hours passed. They talked, argued, cried. He showed her old letters he had written but never sent. News clippings he had saved. Records Lucien had smuggled out of the Moreau vaults. It all painted a picture of corruption so wide, so deep, that it felt like drowning.
Finally, she stood.
"I need to go."
"Stay," he said. "Even if just for tonight."
But she shook her head. "You made your choice years ago. Now I need to make mine."
He watched her go.
But just before she stepped out the door, he said, "Elena—one more thing."
She turned.
"Lucas knew you were my daughter the whole time."
The car ride back to Paris felt endless. Elena replayed the night over and over in her mind. Her father was alive. Her mother had helped cover up a murder. Lucas had known from the beginning who she really was. And Lucien—wasn't even Adrien.
The lies wrapped around her like chains.
By the time she reached the city, her exhaustion had turned to anger.
She didn't go home.
She went straight to Lucas.
He was in his office, sipping whiskey like nothing had changed.
"Elena," he said with a soft smile. "I didn't expect—"
"You knew," she said, voice shaking. "From the very beginning. You knew who I was."
He stood slowly. "Yes."
"You let me believe you were a stranger. You made me sign that contract. You manipulated me."
"I did what I had to do."
She stormed forward. "You don't get to say that."
"Elena—"
"Why?" she demanded. "Why me? Why not tell me the truth?"
He looked pained. "Because I knew what was coming. The Moreau empire is rotting from the inside. Adrien tried to save it. Lucien tried to bury it. But you… you might be able to burn it all down."
She laughed bitterly. "So I'm just your firestarter?"
"No," he said quietly. "You're the only one left who can tell the truth. And make people listen."
"And you think I'll do that for you?"
He looked at her, eyes filled with something like regret.
"No. I think you'll do it in spite of me."
That night, Elena sat on her balcony staring out at the city. It looked peaceful from up here, like the storm beneath hadn't touched it yet.
She pulled out her laptop.
Opened a blank document.
Title: The Moreau Files – A Legacy of Lies
She began typing.
The next morning, she received a call from Lucien.
"Elena… you need to come to the hospital."
"Why?"
"It's your father. He was attacked last night. He's in critical condition."
Her blood froze.
She rushed to the hospital, heart pounding. Her father lay unconscious, tubes in his arms, monitors beeping a steady rhythm. Lucien stood beside him, jaw tight.
"They found him in his garden," he said. "Someone wanted to finish what they started."
Elena swallowed hard.
"Do you think it was Étienne?"
Lucien nodded grimly. "Or someone else in the chain. We stirred the pot, Elena. Now they're stirring back."
Later that day, Elena received another envelope. No name. Just a wax seal she didn't recognize.
Inside was a single sentence typed on fine cream paper:
"If you publish, you die."
No signature. No blood. No threats. Just chilling certainty.
She looked up.
The game was still on.
But now—it was personal.