Chapter 3: 赞助人的邀约

The downpour lashed ferociously against the archive room’s glass, water tracing angular paths down the frames until they looked like filthy tears, as if the building itself were weeping for a secret on the verge of exposure. Laya gripped her flashlight, the beam trembling wildly through the darkness before settling on Claire Perret’s pale, rigid face.

“Your father’s signature—the ink is still wet,” Laya’s voice echoed through the hollow archive, cold and metallic. “That settlement wasn’t a shield; it was a noose. Claire, you didn’t lead me to the truth. You led me to a corpse.”

Claire offered no reply. Only the distant roar of thunder masked their breathing. Laya quickly checked her phone signal; the single bar of connection flickered weakly in the rainy night. She realized that beyond this door, she would not face a simple insurance claim, but a complex game of bloodlines, wealth, and sin. She snatched the yellowed copy of the family tree, her fingertips turning white from the grip. Outside, the rain intensified, as if trying to wash away the city’s sins, yet some things had seeped into the foundation, impossible to clean.

Three days later, Cannes’ rainy season finally paused. Afternoon sunlight sliced through the gaps in the blinds, casting dappled shadows into the famous gold halls of the Ritz hotel. This was once the playground where Hollywood titans squandered their fortunes; now, Antoine Vayan stood there, watching every guest who crossed the threshold like a noble guardian of a mausoleum, elegant yet greedy.

Antoine Vayan wore a impeccably tailored charcoal-gray suit, a rare burgundy silk cravat at his neck, resembling a congealed bloodstain. Spotting Laya’s arrival, the corner of his mouth lifted into a polite yet distant smile. There was no warmth in it, only the cold calculation of precise weighting.

“Ms. Defour, I didn’t expect you to accept the invitation.” Antoine approached slowly, his dress shoes clicking crisply against the marble floor. “The champagne here is a long-aged traditional method vintage, but I know you’re more interested in something else.”

Laya remained standing in the edge of the shadows, not taking a step forward, her gaze locked on his turbid yet shrewd eyes. “Mr. Vayan, your invitation was worded with care. ‘Charity Gala’ is just a smokescreen. The real agenda is that you want me to disappear from your view entirely.”

“Disappear?” Antoine let out a short, sharp nasal laugh. “No, disappear from public view. As an insurance claims investigator, the old accounts you’ve dug up don’t just involve the hotel’s history; they touch the reputation of families who have already been laid to rest. My proposal: five hundred thousand euros.”

The number hung in the air, heavy and alluring. Laya felt the curious, wary gazes of the guests in formal attire around her; they were like sharks waiting to strike, smelling blood in the water.

“Five hundred thousand, to buy you stopping the retrieval of all documents related to Room Seven, and abandoning your investigation into the origins of the marriage between the Defour and Vayan families.” Antoine lowered his voice, carrying a tone of imperative command. “This is my final offer. Next month, I will initiate the asset transfer procedure. The archives you care about, along with that ‘settlement agreement,’ will be reduced to legal ash.”

Laya felt her heart contract sharply. Asset transfer. She had anticipated that Antoine might destroy evidence, but not that he would be so eager to buy time with money. This was a trap, and a signal. He was afraid. That fear was the key to breaking the deadlock.

“Mr. Vayan,” Laya spoke, her voice frighteningly calm. “You mentioned a family reputation ‘at rest.’ But among the files I received, there is a badge belonging to Jean-Marc Vayan, who passed away thirty years ago. The inscription on that badge is not your family’s usual motto; it reads, ‘Debts must be paid; blood must be cleansed.’”

Antoine’s face froze instantly, a fine crack forming in his elegant mask. He instinctively stepped back half a pace, a defensive posture rooted in aristocratic instinct.

“How dare you bring him up.” Antoine’s voice lost its previous composure, turning sharp. “That is a private matter of the previous generation, none of your business. Ms. Defour, do not overstep. Your professional ethics demand objectivity, but your personal feelings are making you lose your reason.”

“Personal feelings?” Laya sneered, pulling a transparent evidence bag from her suit pocket. Inside was a high-resolution scan of the family genealogy. “Here, objectivity is my weapon. Look here. Jean-Marc Vayan’s eldest son—your so-called ‘former heir’—his biological mother did not come from a noble house. She came from a laundress’s family in the old quarter of Cannes. This secret marriage was used to mask the flow of a massive sum of assets.”

Laya’s finger swept across the genealogy chart, her fingertip like a blade, cutting through the carefully woven lies.

“And this asset,” Laya continued, her pace quickening, each word like a nail driven into the air, “was activated in an offshore trust in 1998. The beneficiary was changed, pointing to a shell company currently under the name of a ‘Charity Foundation.’ The signature of that company’s actual controller shares over ninety percent similarity with your handwriting.”

The air in the grand hall seemed to congeal. Audrey Arnaud stood far back in the line of waitstaff, her body leaning slightly forward. Her gaze was fixed on Laya, her eyes holding a mixture of admiration and deep trepidation. As the hotel’s manager, she knew better than anyone the unspeakable secrets buried beneath these walls, and she watched with growing dread as Laya peeled them back, one by one, exposing them to the light.

Antoine Vayan inhaled sharply, trying to regain his composure. He adjusted his cuff, a movement so elegant it felt mechanical, as if he believed that perfect form could mask the collapse of his content.

"What you are offering is slander, Ms. Defour," Antoine said. His voice had smoothed back into calm, though a flash of violence lived in his eyes. "Until a court has spoken, all speculation is a house of cards. You think you are refuting me? No. You are only exposing your own ignorance. The agreement your father signed was to protect the entire community from bankruptcy. It was a sacrifice. It was wisdom. Not a crime."

"Sacrifice?" Laya stepped forward, her gaze sharp. "Mr. Vayan, your father wrote in the contract: 'To ensure the eternal rule of the Vayan family in Cannes, one must be prepared to sacrifice a pawn to save the rook when the time comes.' That 'pawn' refers to Jean-Marc Vayan’s eldest daughter, a twelve-year-old girl who vanished on the seventh floor of this hotel. And the 'rook' you are trying to save is every single euro you spend on your extravagance today."

The words struck like a lightning bolt, shattering the banquet hall’s pretense of peace. Several elderly guests in attendance began to whisper among themselves, their murmurs spreading like a tide. Antoine’s facial muscles twitched. His stare, once dismissive, had curdled into pure loathing and fear.

"Security, escort this lady out," Antoine said softly. His tone carried no emotion at all.

Two bodyguards in black uniforms moved quickly from the crowd, cutting off Laya’s path. Their movements were professional and swift, with no wasted motion. They built an invisible wall of flesh between her and the rest of the room.

Laya did not retreat. Instead, she reached into her other pocket and pulled out a small metal badge. It was a physical model, printed from photos she had stolen from the archive. She tossed it into the air. In the split second as the guards reached for it, the badge settled, with terrifying precision, back into her own hand.

"This badge," Laya called out, her voice cutting through the guards’ barrier, "has a unique serial number engraved on its inner side. According to the latest cross-reference from the French Archives Digital Center, it matches perfectly with the attachments of the trust document from 1998. Mr. Vayan, the assets you are attempting to move today are each stained by that girl’s grievance. Do you really think money can wash the rot out of a family’s bloodline?"

Antoine remained where he stood, hands at his sides, his knuckles whitening. He looked at Laya, and his mouth twisted into a cruel smile once more.

"Ms. Defour, you are indeed a dangerous opponent. But danger often comes with a higher premium." Antoine turned his head toward the shadows at the side of the hall, where a woman in a plain, long dress stood. It was Audrey Arnaud. Audrey gripped the napkin in her hand so tightly her knuckles had gone white. Her gaze was complex, filled with both a recognition of their shared kind and a fear of the one who threatened to destroy the order.

"I misjudged you, Laya." Antoine turned his back to her, his voice echoing in the hollow grandeur of the hall. "You think you are an embodiment of justice? No. You and your father are both just followers of greed. Your father betrayed the truth for his own reputation, and you are now, in your quest for so-called purity, trying to devour the entire Vayan family’s inheritance."

Laya held the badge and felt a bone-deep chill creep up her spine. Antoine’s words were vicious, yet they acted like a key, unlocking a sealed room in the depths of her heart. Was her father truly innocent? Or were they father and daughter simply two teeth, each with a different function on this monster, now tearing at one another?

"My father is dead, Mr. Vayan," Laya said, her voice cold as ice. "But his soul remains among the dust in the archives. You, however, are still alive. That is enough."

Antoine did not answer. He waved his hand, and the bodyguards forced Laya away. She was pushed toward the exit, her steps unsteady, but her eyes never left Antoine’s false face.

Stepping out of the Ritz, the Cannes sea wind, heavy with salty vapor, struck her face. Laya stood by the dock, watching the shattered sunset on the distant water. The badge in her hand glinted cold in the sunlight. She pulled out her phone and dialed Colette Lacombe’s number. The seventy-one-year-old used book dealer was silent for a long moment before her raspy voice finally came through.

"Laya, what did you hear?" Colette asked. The background sound of paper rustling was faint but clear.

"I heard the voice of greed, Mr. Lacombe," Laya replied. "Vayan says that my father and I are both followers of greed. He paints my father as an accomplice and me as an invader. He is attempting to use moral coercion to obscure the legal facts."

The other end of the line was silent for five seconds, followed by a heavy sigh.

"If your father actually signed it, he’s not just an accomplice—he’s the architect." Colette’s voice dropped to a whisper, laced with deep pity. "The Defour family’s roots in Cannes were built on a mountain of blood. You think you’re clearing your name, but you’re really digging up graves. Laya, stop. Some lids, once opened, can never be shut again."

Laya ended the call and stood by the railing of the dock, watching the sea swallow the last fading glow of the setting sun. The wind picked up, her coat flapping violently in the gale. She looked at the badge in her hand, then at the phone screen displaying an unreturned call from Claire Perret.

In that moment, she faced two choices.

The first: accept Antoine Vayan’s implicit suggestion, revert to the state of "greed," and leverage the evidence in her hands to extort massive wealth. Even if it meant continuing to dance with the devil, even if it meant repeating her father’s fatal mistake and becoming the new generation’s accomplice. This was the path of survival, a triumph of realism.

The second: ignore her personal fears and the family’s stained record, handing the genealogy chart and badge evidence over to the local prosecutor. Even if it meant utterly destroying the glory of two families, even if it meant becoming the public enemy of Cannes’ high society, even if it meant she might not be able to guarantee her own innocent birth, because on the other side of that agreement, there might still be truths she could not bear to uncover.

The sunset completely sank beneath the seabed, and darkness spread over her ankles like a tide. Laya clutched the badge tightly, her knuckles white from the strain, as if gripping the throat of her own fate. The wind howled past, and in her ears was nothing but the roar of waves crashing against the rocks—a call from the abyss, and a trial of her conscience. She raised her hand and dialed Claire’s number. What came through the receiver was not an echo, but a rapid, ragged breathing, as if waiting for the ultimate answer that would rewrite everything.