Chapter 3

The man's face remained impassive as he simply nodded in response to Chantelle's greeting. His gaze slid over her briefly, without apparent emotion, as if he were assessing her... or perhaps trying to forget her.

What Chantelle didn't know was that this man, sitting today in the family living room as Mégane's official fiancé, had been destined for her.

Her.

A few weeks earlier, Gérard, her father, had presented himself in Collen Wilkerson's vast, soundproofed office, in the group's central tower.

The businessman, rigid behind his desk, had raised an eyebrow upon hearing Gérard begin in a falsely embarrassed voice:

— I apologize, Mr. Wilkerson. My youngest daughter... the one who was to be your fiancée...

He paused, as if weighing the impact of his words.

— She categorically refused the marriage. She's uncooperative. Unstable. It would be a mistake on your part to wait for her any longer.

Collen simply stared at him. Not a word. Not a question.

Then Gérard smiled, polite, eager to propose a solution:

— I have another daughter. My eldest. Mégane. Beautiful, obedient, very cultured. She will meet your expectations.

And he concluded, as if closing a file:

— In all honesty, she is the better choice.

Collen said nothing. He watched the man leave, then turned his eyes to his grandfather's testament clause, framed on the wall:

"You will only touch the inheritance if you marry a daughter of Gérard Lemoine. No other."

It suited him.

This wasn't about sentiment.

Not about attraction.

Just contractual loyalty to a dead man and an inheritance to preserve.

So he had accepted Mégane.

After a few minutes, Mégane descended from her room, perched on heels too high for discretion. Her form-fitting, off-the-shoulder dress gave her the air of a starlet, and the smile she wore was that of a woman sure of her triumph.

Her eyes swept across the living room, then lit up with false warmth upon spotting Chantelle, seated slightly apart, upright and silent in a wicker armchair at the back of the room, a cup of tea in her hand.

With a graceful but calculated step, she approached.

— Ah, Chantelle! she exclaimed with almost affectionate enthusiasm. You're here, I'm so glad! Come, let me have the honor of introducing you to my fiancé... Collen Wilkerson.

She delicately took Chantelle's arm, as if this simple contact proved an intact complicity between them. But beneath her perfectly manicured fingers, Chantelle felt the insistence, the possession, and perhaps a hint of poorly disguised triumph.

Chantelle calmly looked up at her. Her gaze was neither hostile nor warm. Just... neutral.

— Yes, your mother already introduced us, she replied simply, without moving, barely tilting her head towards Collen.

Her voice was soft but devoid of warmth, as if each word carried its weight of lucidity.

Mégane gave a small, awkward laugh before turning to Collen. She naturally slid next to him on the sofa, her bare shoulder brushing the dark sleeve of the CEO's perfectly tailored suit. She leaned into him, as if to clearly mark her territory, and crossed her legs slowly.

But Collen didn't react. His gaze had lingered, a little longer than it should have, on Chantelle, before returning coldly to the center of the room.

Dinner was served. The steaming dishes were carefully arranged on the long, gleaming mahogany table, decorated with slender candlesticks and fine porcelain plates. The atmosphere was meant to be warm, almost solemn.

Gérard approached the small living room where his daughter was lost in her phone screen.

— Chantelle, come. Dinner is served.

She looked up at him without a word. Then, with the same distant elegance that characterized her, she stood up without flinching.

In the dining room, the places seemed already assigned. By a strange coincidence, the seat facing Collen had remained vacant. Without a word, Chantelle sat there, straightening her back, her gaze forward, her hands crossed on her knees.

Mégane, for her part, had already taken the seat just to Collen's right. Barely seated, she had rushed to cling to him, slipping her arm around his with emphatic familiarity. Her bright laugh punctuated each of her sentences, as if to fill the silence of the man beside her.

— Do you want to taste my gratin? I helped prepare it. Well, a little... she giggled, bringing a fork towards his mouth, which he politely pushed away without paying attention.

Collen, true to himself, remained impassive, his features smooth, his attitude irreproachable. He didn't push her away, but he didn't look at her either. He chewed slowly, his gaze lost on the tablecloth or... occasionally meeting Chantelle's eyes.

Rhonda, delighted with the scene, leaned towards Gérard, eyes shining.

— Look at those two. It's as if they were made for each other, isn't it?

Gérard, wine glass in hand, wore a forced smile, one of those smiles that speak volumes:

— Absolutely. Collen is an exceptional man, of rare class, a true business leader. Mégane is very lucky. This alliance will elevate our family like never before. You know, Chantelle, this is a great opportunity for all of us.

Then, turning to his daughter, his voice became soft, almost honeyed:

— I'm proud you're here tonight. It's important to me, and to your sister too. I know you understand that some things go beyond resentment. Family first, always.

Chantelle, for her part, felt her stomach knot. She had never accepted this family masquerade. Since her mother's death, her father Gérard had brought home Rhonda, his new "wife," and Mégane, a daughter two years older than her, whom he had presented to her as her new "mother" and new "sister." All of this only reinforced her suspicions: Gérard had surely cheated on them long before her mother's death.

Unable to bear this charade any longer, Chantelle placed her cutlery down with a slight clatter, then declared in a firm voice:

— I've eaten well. I'm going to get some fresh air.

— Stay here! Don't you have any manners?! Gérard snapped, his eyes flashing with anger.

Rhonda, falsely magnanimous, intervened with a glacial, almost mocking smile:

— Leave her be, it's not serious. After all, she didn't grow up with us. It's no wonder she lacks a little refinement...

These words chilled Chantelle's heart, like an invisible blade piercing her chest. She clenched her teeth, her hands tightening, then without a glance, she left the dining room, breath short, suffocated by this toxic family atmosphere, as heavy as a storm about to break.

Outside, Chantelle was bored and wanted to return to see her grandmother. What she had just experienced this evening was already enough. She walked quickly through the garden, her hurried steps betraying her impatience.

Without looking where she was going, she suddenly collided with a solid chest.