A dangerous Attempt

Anne-Marie 's POV 

He didn't wait for me to ask him what the matter was as he turned on the television. Mr Marchand-Trottier’s face filled the screen, composed and devastatingly calm. His voice carried that polished authority men like him wore as easily as a tailored coat. Seeing him made me turn red in anger.

“Anne-Marie had purposely used my son, Èric,” he claimed, turning a youthful scuffle into a calculated attack. “ She had orchestrated it all, out of jealousy, bitterness, the wounded pride of a woman who couldn’t stand her ex-husband’s happiness. Seeing how happy Louis was, she decided to go for his step-brother causing tonight’s chaos.”

My stomach tightened as he went on, publicly apologizing for his son’s behavior with the benevolence of a king granting mercy. Then came the masterstroke, he announced he had personally intervened to repair Louis’s marriage, aligning him properly with Isla, the daughter of a wealthy French family. I had known Isla to be Louis' friend from college.

And then, how generous of him he said he forgave me. He would not pursue charges. Not for implicating his sons. Not for anything.

“Forgiveness?” I almost clocked in laughter.

Forgiveness From a man who had just dragged my name through every salon , company and café from Paris to Marseille. That was an abuse of the word.

I couldn’t breathe as the room suddenly felt too small. I switched off the television with a sharp click, as if the silence could erase what had just happened. All my plans had failed.

My hands were shaking. I turned and nearly collided with Léon, who had been standing by the window, his face pale, his jaw tight.

“I’m sorry,” I said immediately, the words tumbling out before the anger could find another target. “I— I didn’t know. I never imagined Louis’s father could be so… so selfish. So wicked.I underestimated him.”

Underestimated was too gentle a word. I had misjudged the depth of his cruelty, the elegance with which he wielded it. 

Léon stepped closer, lowering his voice as if the walls themselves might gossip. “Anne-Marie,” he said, steady, grounding. “Breathe. Men like him thrive on spectacle. That was the point.”

I pressed my palms together, as my grandmother had taught me when emotions threatened to spill over. Respire In and Out. 

“They think I’m finished,” I said. “That I’ll disappear quietly, like a scandal neatly folded away.”

He shook his head. “You won’t, we'll find another way.”

I looked at him, really looked at the quiet certainty in his eyes, the refusal to be intimidated. My anger shifted, sharpening into something colder, more precise.

“Yes,” I said slowly. “Another plan.”

Mr. Marchand-Trottier believed he had won because he controlled the narrative. But narratives, like empires, had cracks. And I had lived long enough in France to know this: no matter how polished the façade, the truth always found its way into the streets into whispers over espresso, into raised eyebrows at dinner parties, into the subtle exclusions that hurt far more than public shame.

I straightened my shoulders. The rage was still there, simmering, but it no longer threatened to consume me.

Let him forgive me publicly. Let him think I was grateful.He had just taught me exactly how dangerous he was.

And I would not make the mistake of underestimating him again.

Léon was still speaking something about patience, about letting the dust settle when my phone vibrated on the table. The sound cut through the room like a knife against porcelain. I glanced at the screen, it was an nnknown number.

For a brief, foolish second, I considered letting it ring. Paris had taught me caution; unanswered calls often carried less danger than answered ones. But something in my chest tightened, an instinct sharpened by years of surviving men like Louis’s father.

I answered.

“Oui?”

There was a pause just long enough to unsettle me. Then a voice slid through the line, smooth, familiar, unmistakable.

“Anne-Marie.”

My blood ran cold. I could never forget the wicked sneer that came with the voice of Marchand-Trottier.

I turned my back to Léon, pressing the phone harder against my ear. “You’ve said enough today,” I replied, forcing steadiness into my voice.

He chuckled softly. “Have I? I don’t think so.”

The sound made my skin crawl. This was not the benevolent patriarch from the television. This was the man behind the curtain.

“I’m calling to advise you,” he continued. “Stop your little games. Stop pulling strings you don’t understand.”

“I’ve done nothing,” I said, though my heart had begun to pound.

“Oh, Anne-Marie,” he sighed, almost indulgent. “You’ve always underestimated how visible you are.”

I swallowed hard, wiping the beads of sweat that had formed on my forehead. No matter how calm I tried to sound, I was scared. Marchand Trottier was a man who was feared by everyone.

“If you persist,” he went on calmly, “I will ruin you. Not only you but your father.”

The words struck harder than a slap.

“My father… What do you know about my father?” I snapped.

Another pause, this one was heavier.

“You still underestimate my powers?” Mr. Marchand-Trottier said softly. “After all, it must be exhausting caring for a sick man in that old mansion of his. Such a quiet place. So far from prying eyes.”

The room tilted. I felt the air leave my lungs as if he had reached through the phone and squeezed my chest. My fingers went numb. He knew. Somehow, impossibly, he knew.

“That’s impossible,” I whispered.

He laughed again, this time without warmth. “You see? Still underestimating me. Your father is very much alive, Anne-Marie. And you are hiding him quite lovingly, I must say. Admirable,Dangerous. But admirable.”

I closed my eyes wondering how he got the information about my father after I announced five years ago that he was dead.

“You wouldn’t,” I said, though doubt poisoned every syllable.

“I would,” he replied simply. “And I will—unless you disappear quietly. No more interference. No more heroic sacrifices. Return to your corner of the world and stay there.”

Silence followed, thick and suff

ocating.

“Bonne soirée, Anne-Marie,” he added, almost politely. Then the line went dead.