The drive away from that mansion felt like a funeral procession. Silent. Heavy. The kind of quiet that happens when you've just watched your last hope die.
I stared out the window at Paris sliding past—tourists taking selfies, couples holding hands, people living their normal fucking lives while mine was imploding. Henri's face was burned into my brain. That smug, triumphant smile. The casual way he'd destroyed us over breakfast.
He was right. That was the worst part. He owned the patent. The labs. The formula. The cure.
He was the treatment. And Amélie was his hostage.
Alan drove with his jaw locked so tight I could see the muscle pulsing. White knuckles on the steering wheel. Every line of his body screaming barely controlled rage.
We were back to square one. Worse than square one. Because now Henri knew we were coming. Knew what we'd found. And he'd just shown us exactly how powerless we were.
"He's right," I whispered. My voice came out hoarse, broken. "We can't fight him for the patent. We have no power."
"No." Alan's voice was quiet but lethal. The kind of calm that comes right before someone does something violent. "We have no power over the serum. But he only has power over Veridian as long as the board believes he's sound of mind."
I turned to look at him. Actually look. His eyes were focused on the road but his mind was somewhere else—calculating, strategizing, finding the crack in Henri's armor.
"What are you saying?"
"He's an eighty-two-year-old tyrant obsessed with genetic purity." Alan's voice was cold, precise, building a case in real-time. "Using his own family for illegal human trials. Blackmailing his CEO—me—with the life of my child." He glanced at me. "He's not just immoral. He's unstable. And boards of directors hate instability more than anything else."
"But they're loyal to him," I argued, trying to find the flaw in his logic. "They won't turn on him just because you say so."
"They won't." He agreed too easily, which meant he'd already thought of this. "But she might."
I knew instantly who he meant. "Anna."
"Henri didn't just betray us." Alan turned the car, not toward his office or the hospital, but toward the 4th arrondissement. Toward money. "He betrayed her. Publicly postponed the wedding. Humiliated her and her father in front of Paris society. Treated her like a pawn."
He was right. And if there was one thing I'd learned about Anna Artois, it was that she didn't do humiliation well.
"Just like he treated us," Alan continued, his voice dropping. "She's ambitious. Calculating. She wanted the Delaunay name and access to Iris for her own political empire." A ghost of a smile. "Henri underestimated her. Thought she was just a pretty face to breed heirs."
"Big mistake," I muttered.
"Massive mistake."
Place des Vosges was stupid beautiful—all perfect symmetry and manicured gardens, the kind of Parisian square that shows up on postcards. Anna's apartment overlooked it all from the second floor of a seventeenth-century building that probably had its own Wikipedia page.
Old money. Real money. The kind that made even the Delaunays look nouveau riche.
We climbed narrow stairs that creaked with history. Alan knocked once, sharp and authoritative.
The door swung open immediately. Anna stood there in a silk robe—emerald green, probably cost more than my car—her hair perfect despite it being barely noon, phone clutched in one manicured hand.
She was mid-rant. "I don't care what the optics are, Papa! He made us look like fools!"
She saw us. Her eyes went wide—shock, then fury, then something calculating.
She slammed the phone down on a side table. Hard enough to make the marble rattle.
"Well, well," she said, voice dripping venom and ice. "The happy couple. Come to gloat?"
Her apartment was exactly what you'd expect. High ceilings. Original crown molding. Art on the walls that looked suspiciously like actual Matisse and Modigliani. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the square. The kind of space that whispered I could buy and sell you without raising my voice.
"We've come to make a deal," Alan said. No preamble. No politeness. Just business.
Anna's eyebrow arched. "How intriguing. Do come in." Sarcasm thick enough to choke on.
We stepped inside. I stayed close to Alan, united front, refusing to be intimidated by silk robes and million-euro views.
"Anna, you're right," I said, jumping in before Alan could go full CEO mode. "He made us all look like fools. He's been playing us—all of us—from the beginning."
Her eyes flicked to me. Assessing. Calculating whether I was worth listening to or just the mistress along for the ride.
"Henri doesn't care about the merger," Alan cut in, his voice sharp. "He doesn't care about your family's political connections except as a shield for his projects. He used your father. He used me. All he cares about is Iris."
He stepped closer, invading her space the way he invaded everyone's space when he wanted something. "It's his obsession. And he will burn everyone—including you—to protect it."
Anna was silent for a long moment. Then she walked to the window, her silk robe whispering against hardwood floors. She looked down at the perfect square, the tourists, the normal people living normal lives.
"What do you want, Alan?" Her voice was carefully neutral. But I could hear the calculation underneath. The wheels turning.
"I know what you want," Alan said. Not a question. A statement. "It was never me. It was the name. The power. The access."
He let that land. Anna didn't flinch, didn't deny it. Just kept staring out the window.
"You wanted a seat at the table," Alan continued. "You wanted Iris to build your own political data-brokering empire. You're just as ambitious as he is."
She turned around. A flicker of respect passed between them—two predators recognizing each other across the savanna.
"Here's the deal," Alan said, his voice dropping to that deadly quiet tone. "Henri thinks he's checkmated me. But he's unstable. I'm calling an emergency board meeting to oust him on grounds of incompetence and illegal activity."
Anna's eyes narrowed. "On what grounds?"
"Using company resources for illegal human experiments. Blackmail. Misappropriation of funds." Alan ticked them off like a grocery list. "Your father's vote, plus yours, plus mine—it's enough to force him out."
"And in return?" She tilted her head. "I get the honor of marrying you after you've saved your bastard child? No thank you."
"No." Alan's smile was cold. Sharp. "You get something better. Ten percent of Veridian. Free and clear. No marriage. No ties to me. You become independent."
He let that sink in. I watched Anna's face, saw the moment the offer clicked. Saw her mental calculator start running numbers.
"You get the capital and access to start your own dynasty," Alan continued. "You'll be a power in your own right. Not just someone's wife. Not just your father's daughter."
The silence stretched. Heavy. Pregnant with possibility.
"Or," I added, my voice quiet but cutting, "you can stay loyal to Henri. Go down with him when this blows up—and it will blow up. Let him throw you and your father to the wolves to save himself."
I stepped closer. "Because he will. The second you stop being useful, you're collateral damage. Just like me. Just like Alan. Just like every other person who trusted him."
Anna was silent. Calculating. Running scenarios. I could practically see the spreadsheet in her head.
She walked to a side table. Poured herself water from a crystal carafe. Took a deliberate sip. Made us wait because that's what power does—it controls the tempo.
Finally, she turned. A slow, dangerous smile spread across her perfect face.
"He underestimated us both, didn't he?" Her voice was ice and satisfaction. "He thought I was just a pretty face to breed heirs. And he thought you were just a..." She waved her hand dismissively. "Well, it doesn't matter what he thought. He was wrong."
She raised her glass in a toast. "You have your ally, Alan." Her smile sharpened. "Now let's go end that old man's reign."