The Truth Revealed

Chapter 3

Arielle stared at her phone until the screen went dark.

I know who you are.

She hadn’t been Arielle Laurent when her father was alive. She’d been Arielle Beaumont. Her father’s daughter. The girl who’d lived in a house with a backyard and a tree swing and parents who smiled at each other over morning coffee.

That was before.

Before the scandal. Before the accusations. Before her father’s name became synonymous with fraud and betrayal. Before he died in a car accident that the police ruled accidental but her mother never believed was anything but murder.

After that, her mother had gone back to using her maiden name. Laurent. And Arielle had followed. A clean break. A fresh start. A way to survive.

For three years, no one at Moreau Holdings had connected her to the man whose name had been scrubbed from every company record. The man who’d supposedly embezzled millions before disappearing into disgrace.

The man who’d actually been innocent.

And now someone knows.

Arielle’s hands were shaking so hard she could barely hold her coffee cup. She set it down before she spilled it everywhere.

Come alone.

This was a trap. Had to be. Someone is trying to blackmail her. Or worse.

She should delete the message. Block the number. Pretend it never happened.

But she couldn’t.

Because what if it was real? What if someone actually knew the truth about what had happened to her father?

She typed back. How do I know you’re not lying?

The response came fast. Your father’s briefcase. The one that disappeared the night he died. I have it.

Arielle’s vision blurred. She pressed her palm against her eyes, willing herself not to cry in the middle of a coffee shop.

Her father’s briefcase. Brown leather. Worn at the corners. He’d carried it everywhere. Called it his lucky charm. The police had never found it after the accident. They’d said it probably burned in the fire.

Her mother had never believed that either.

Proof, Arielle typed. Send me proof or I’m blocking this number.

Three dots appeared. Then it disappeared. Then it appeared again.

A photo came through.

The briefcase. Definitely his. The initials stamped on the front. TB. Thomas Beaumont. And next to it, a newspaper. Today’s date is clearly visible.

Arielle’s breath came out in a sharp gasp.

7 PM, the message said again. Don’t be late. And don’t tell Moreau.

The screen went dark again. This time, she didn’t try to respond.

She sat there for twenty minutes, staring at nothing. Her coffee went cold. People came and went. The barista called out names. Everything felt far away. Muted.

Finally, she packed up the contract, grabbed her bag, and left.

The walk back to her apartment took fifteen minutes. Enough time for her brain to start working again. Enough time to realize how monumentally stupid it would be to meet a stranger alone based on a single text message.

But also enough time to remember her father’s face. The way he’d looked at her the last time she saw him. Tired. Scared. But still trying to smile.

Everything’s going to be okay, sweetheart. I promise.

That was the last thing he’d said to her.

Three days later, he was dead.

Arielle unlocked her apartment door and went straight to her bedroom. She pulled a box out from under her bed. Old photos. Documents. Things her mother had saved from before.

She dug through until she found what she was looking for. A photo of her father at his desk. The briefcase is visible in the corner of the frame. Same worn leather. Same initials.

It could be a fake. Someone could have made a replica. But why? What would they gain from it?

Unless they wanted something from her.

Her phone buzzed. A different number this time. Her mother.

Arielle almost didn’t answer. But guilt won out.

“Hi, Mom.”

“Arielle. Finally, I’ve been calling all morning.” Her mother’s voice was warm. Concerned. “Are you alright? You sound tired.”

“I’m fine. Just busy at work.”

“That scandal with the CEO. Is it affecting your job?”

Arielle looked at the contract sitting on her kitchen counter. Two million dollars. Six months of lies.

“No. Everything’s fine.”

“Good. I worry about you in that place.” Her mother paused. “I know you think you need to be there. To understand what happened. But sweetheart, it’s been ten years. Maybe it’s time to move on.”

“I have moved on.”

“Have you?”

Arielle closed her eyes. “Mom, I have to go. Can I call you later?”

“Of course. I love you.”

“Love you too.”

She hung up before her mother could ask anything else.

The apartment felt too small suddenly. Too quiet. Arielle grabbed her keys and left again.

She spent the afternoon walking. No destination. Just movement. The city passed by in blurs of color and sound. She bought a sandwich she didn’t eat. Sat in a park and watched people who looked like they had their lives together.

At six thirty, she found herself three blocks from Fifth and Market.

This was stupid. Reckless. Possibly dangerous.

She was going anyway.

The corner of Fifth and Market was busy at seven PM. Office workers heading home. Tourists taking photos. A street vendor selling hot dogs.

Arielle stood near the stoplight, trying to look casual. Trying not to look like someone waiting for a mysterious contact who claimed to have evidence about her dead father.

Seven o’clock came and went.

Seven fifteen.

She was about to leave when a man approached. Older. Maybe fifty. Wearing a jacket despite the warm evening. He didn’t look at her directly.

“Arielle Laurent?” His voice was quiet. Careful.

“Who are you?”

“Someone who worked with your father.” He gestured toward a small cafe across the street. “Not here. Too many people.”

Every instinct told her to run. But she followed him anyway.

The cafe was quieter. They sat in a booth at the back. The man ordered coffee. Arielle ordered nothing.

“My name is Richard Cole,” he said once they were alone. “I was an accountant at Beaumont-Moreau Industries. Before it became just Moreau Holdings.”

Arielle’s hands gripped the edge of the table. “Prove it.”

He reached into his jacket. Slowly. Pulled out a worn leather briefcase.

Her father’s briefcase.

Arielle’s vision swam. She reached out before she could stop herself. Touched the leather. The initials. Real. This was real.

“How do you have this?”

“Your father gave it to me. The night he died.” Richard’s voice was heavy. Sad. “He knew something was going to happen. He asked me to keep it safe. To give it to you when the time was right.”

“Why now? Why not years ago?”

“Because you weren’t ready. And because I was scared.” He pushed the briefcase toward her. “But things are changing. Lucien Moreau is making moves. And I think you deserve to know the truth before you make any decisions about him.”

Arielle’s blood went cold. “What do you know about Lucien?”

“I know he called you into his office this morning. I know he offered you something.” Richard leaned forward. “Whatever he promised you, don’t take it. That family is poisonous. They killed your father. And they’ll kill you too if you get in their way.”

“How do you know what happened this morning?”

“I have friends who still work there. People who remember Thomas Beaumont. Who knows what really happened.” He tapped the briefcase. “Everything you need is in here. Documents. Recordings. Proof that your father was framed. Proof that Lucien’s father and uncle conspired to destroy him.”

Arielle’s hands were shaking again. She pulled the briefcase into her lap. Hold it like it might disappear.

“Does Lucien know? About what his father did?”

“I don’t know.” Richard stood up. “But I know his family has secrets. Dark ones. And I know that getting close to him is the most dangerous thing you could possibly do.”

“Wait.” Arielle grabbed his arm. “You can’t just drop this on me and leave. I have questions.”

“And I have a flight to catch.” He pulled away gently. “Read everything in that briefcase. Then decide what you want to do. But be careful, Arielle. The Moreaus have already taken your father. Don’t let them take you too.”

He walked out before she could respond.

Arielle sat there for a long time. The briefcase felt heavy in her lap. Real. Solid. Proof that everything her mother had suspected was true.

Her father had been murdered.

And the Moreaus were responsible.

She should go to the police. Turn over the evidence. Let justice run its course.

But she knew better. The Moreaus had enough money and power to bury anything. They’d done it once already.

No. If she wanted justice, she’d have to get it herself.

Arielle stood up and walked out of the cafe. The briefcase clutched tight against her chest.

By the time she got home, she’d made her decision.

She was going to say yes to Lucien Moreau’s contract. She was going to marry him. Get close to him. Close enough to learn the truth about what really happened.

Close enough to destroy the family that had destroyed hers.

Her phone buzzed. Another text. This one from a saved contact.

Gerald Kim. Just checking in. Hope everything’s okay with your family emergency. See you tomorrow?

Arielle typed back. See you tomorrow. Thanks for checking.

Then she opened her laptop and started typing an email.

Mr. Moreau,

I’ve reviewed the contract. My answer is yes. I’ll be in your office at 9 AM to sign the paperwork.

Arielle Laurent

She hit send before she could change her mind.

Then she opened her father’s briefcase and started reading.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​