Chapter Three

Aveline Rousseau

They are here for you,

What?”

My heart dropped into a dark, bottomless pit.

The police.

Zephyrin didn't let go of my hands. If anything, his grip tightened, his broad frame shifting just enough to block me from the view of the two hundred guests sitting in the grand conservatory. But the inaudible commotion at the heavy doors was already echoing off the vaulted stone ceiling.

Suffocating gossip broke out like dry brush catching fire. Camera flashes exploded from the gallery balcony above, blinding and relentless.

"Zephyrin, what is happening?" I whispered, my voice trembling as panic surged through my veins. "Why would the police be here for me?"

"Keep your chin up and walk," he commanded softly, his eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that held me together by sheer force of will. "Do not answer any questions. Do not look at the press."

Before I could process his words, he laced his long fingers through mine and pulled me down the altar steps. My heavy silk parade dragged behind us, gathering dust and crushed white rose petals.

"Mr. Delacroix! Mademoiselle Rousseau!" a voice boomed across the aisle.

Two officers in dark blue uniforms were pushing past the venue security, followed closely by a sharp-faced detective in a charcoal overcoat. Behind them, through the tall glass doors of the estate, a sea of reporters swarmed against the iron gates, their microphones raised, cameras flashing furiously against the falling Quebec snow.

"Stop right there!" the detective called out, holding up his badge as he reached the edge of the sanctuary. "Aveline Rousseau, you need to come with us for immediate questioning regarding the offshore insolvency of Rousseau Enterprise."

My breath faltered. The entire room went dead silent.

My father let out a strangled groan, staggering back against a marble pillar as Vess caught his arm. The high-society guests turned to one another, eyes wide with cruel delight, hungry for the scandal unfolding before them.

"This is a civil matter, Detective," Zephyrin said, his voice dropping into that quiet, terrifying register that made the room freeze. He stepped directly between me and the officer, his six-foot-three frame an unyielding wall of charcoal wool and raw authority. "And you are interrupting my wedding."

"It ceased to be a civil matter twenty minutes ago, Mr. Delacroix," the detective replied, unbothered by Zephyrin’s stature. He pulled a folded paper from his coat. "An anonymous tip was filed with the RCMP half an hour ago, accompanied by leaked internal ledgers. The allegations state that Mademoiselle Rousseau deliberately diverted twelve million dollars out of her father's firm into an untraceable Cayman account before this morning's merger."

The ground seemed to tilt beneath my feet.

"Twelve million?" I gasped, stepping out from behind Zephyrin’s shadow. "That’s a lie! I don't even have access to the main corporate treasury! I’ve never touched those accounts!"

"Save it for the station, Mademoiselle," the officer said, reaching for the handcuffs at his belt.

"Touch her, and I will have your badge before the sun sets," Zephyrin growled. The air in the chapel turned lethal. He didn't raise his voice, but the sheer menace in his tone made the officer pause, his hand hovering over his belt. "She is my wife. You will not put hands on her, you will not parade her in front of those cameras outside, and she will not answer a single question without my legal team present."

"Zephyrin, you can't interfere with a federal investigation" Henri-Pierre’s sharp, grating voice cut through the air. My father-in-law stepped forward, leaning heavily on his ivory-handled cane, a cold, calculating sneer playing on his thin lips. "If the girl is a thief, let the law handle her. Do not drag the Delacroix name into the mud for a bankrupt fraud."

I looked at Henri-Pierre, a cold nausea settling in my stomach. He wasn't surprised. He wasn't shocked. His eyes gleamed with a quiet, triumphant satisfaction.

Zephyrin turned his head slowly, casting a glance at his father so dark it could have withered stone. "The Delacroix name was dragged into the mud the moment you let your younger son run away like a coward, old man. This is my wife now. And I protect what is mine."

The words sent an electric spark straight down my spinea strange, conflicting mix of terror and an unwanted, searing heat.

Zephyrin didn't wait for his father to respond. He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a small black leather book, and tossed it to Vess. "Vespera. Intercept the police transport. Tell my personal legal team in Montreal to clear their schedules. We meet at the station in one hour."

"On it," Vess said, her sharp eyes blazing with anger as she pulled out her phone.

Zephyrin grabbed my hand again, his fingers crushing mine in a grip that left no room for argument. "We're leaving through the private side entrance."

"Mr. Delacroix, you cannot take her!" the detective shouted, stepping forward to block us.

Zephyrin didn't even slow his pace. He raised a hand, and four towering men in plain black suits his private security detail stepped out from the side archways, silently forming a physical wall between the police and us.

"File the summons at my Montreal office, Detective," Zephyrin called back over his shoulder, pushing open the heavy wooden door leading to the estate's private courtyard.

The freezing winter air hit my face like a slap, carrying the wild, frantic roars of the press waiting beyond the stone walls. Snow whirled around us in blinding sheets. Waiting in the snow-dusted driveway was a massive, armored black Maybach, its engine idling silently.

Zephyrin pulled me toward the car, opening the door and ushering me inside before sliding in right beside me. The door slammed shut, cutting off the noise, the cold, and the flashing lights, plunging us into total, suffocating silence.

I leaned back against the plush leather seat, my chest heaving, tears finally spilling over my lashes. "I didn't steal that money, Zephyrin. I swear to God, I didn't—"

"Of course,”I know you didn't," Zephyrin said quietly, his voice unusually soft in the dim interior of the car.

I blinked through my tears, looking at him. He was staring out the tinted window as the Maybach accelerated out of the estate gates, past the screaming reporters.

"How can you be so sure?" I asked, my voice cracking. "You barely know me."

Zephyrin turned his head, his eyes searching my face in the shadows. He reached into his suit jacket one more time, but he didn't pull out a legal document.

He pulled out a heavy, wax-sealed envelope. The red wax bore the crest of the Delacroix family, but the handwriting on the front wasn't Esmond's.

It was my father's.

"Because the tip wasn't filed by an enemy, Aveline," Zephyrin murmured, handing me the letter. "It was filed to frame you. And the person who signed off on those fake Cayman transfers... was the man sitting right beside you in your dressing room."