Claire did not reply.
She didn't look at Camille.
She only stared at Alexander.
There was no hatred in his eyes.
There was something worse.
A sadness so profound it seemed infinite.
And then the past hit him.
One year earlier.
The white marble vestibule of the Beaumont residence in Neuilly-sur-Seine .
Documents scattered on a glass table: transfers of millions of euros from company accounts.
Blurry photos of her entering a hotel with a man.
Her mother's diamond necklace found in Claire's suitcase.
Camille was next to him, feigning indignation.
— I didn’t want to say anything, Alexandre… but I couldn’t bear to see how she betrayed you anymore.
Claire on her knees.
In tears.
— It's not me… I swear… I'm pregnant…
He didn't let her finish.
Pride blinded him. Humiliation poisoned him.
"Get her out of my house," he ordered the security guard. "Don't let her take a single cent."
She was never able to tell him that she was expecting his children.
She never had the chance.
A distant car horn brought him back to the present.
Camille crumpled a twenty euro note and threw it into the dust.
— Here. For some milk… or whatever you want.
The note fell near Claire's damaged sandals.
She lowered her eyes for a second.
Then he looked at Alexander again.
And in that look, there was compassion.
Compassion for him.
She covered the babies' heads with her hands to protect them from the dust.
Then she left.
Without asking for anything.
Without saying a word.
Alexandre felt something tear inside his chest.
But he does not act.
Not yet.
Because he understood one essential thing: if he confronted Camille without evidence, she would erase every trace.
That night, he dropped her off in front of a luxury boutique on Avenue Montaigne .
He did not return home.
He went directly to the Beaumont Tower .
Fiftieth floor.
Office closed.
Encrypted line.
" Étienne Caron, " he said as soon as he heard the former detective's voice. "I want to know everything. About Claire. About the divorce. About every piece of evidence that incriminated her. I don't trust anything anymore."
— Give me forty-eight hours.
Those were the worst days of his life.
He did not sleep.
He kept seeing the worn sandals, the twins, the bag of cans.
When Caron returned, he was carrying a black briefcase.
— Everything was fabricated.
The transfers originated from a digital clone linked to Camille's phone.
The alleged lover was a failed actor paid to pose in front of cameras.
The collar had been put on by the bribed head of housekeeping staff.
And there was worse.
Photos of Camille in a luxury apartment.
Embracing Julien Rivière .
His biggest rival in the business world.
Transmitting confidential documents.
And the last piece:
