Of Fire and Loss

Angèle The sky is the color of slate, a heavy, impersonal gray that mocks the solemnity of this day. A bone-penetrating cold that my black coat can't stop. I stand still, a straight, pale silhouette in the middle of the small group huddled against the wind, in front of the freshly dug grave. My father's coffin is a spot that's too shiny, too new, at the bottom of that hole in the earth. One last expensive purchase, a final debt he'll never have to settle. A bitter thought that twists my lips into a grimace I hope will pass for sorrow. I haven't cried. Not when I found his body, not during the formalities, not during the wake. Tears are a luxury, an overflow that my new reality no longer permits. My father, the man who taught me the value of things, vanished, leaving behind a chasm of debt and one single certainty: a name. Néron Valesco. The name resonates in my head, a knell far more deafening than the priest's hollow words. Néron Valesco, the architect behind "Valesco & Co.," the king of predatory finance. The man who, with a crocodile smile, convinced my father to invest everything in a toxic fund. An investment that devoured a lifetime's savings, the family factory, and ultimately, the will to live of the man who built it. As they lower the coffin, I lift my eyes from the hole to look beyond the bowed heads. In the distance, behind the stripped-bare trees of the cemetery, the city skyline stands out, merciless and glittering. Up there, at the very top of the most arrogant tower, Néron Valesco is probably sipping cognac, indifferent to the little drama unfolding below. Indifferent to the life he shattered. A cold anger, so intense it's almost calming, tightens in my chest. That's my inheritance. Not the money, not the security, but this white rage, pure and sharpened like a blade. — I promise you, Dad, I whisper, so low that the words are lost in the wind. He will pay. The promise isn't addressed to a god or to the memory of the deceased. It's a contract I sign with myself, sealed in the frozen ground. — Two months later. The woman in the impeccable, impersonal black suit and white blouse has nothing in common with the grieving girl from the cemetery. I've become a projectile, polished for a single target. Weeks of intensive preparation. Now, I'm in the lion's den. The main lobby of Valesco & Co.'s headquarters is a temple dedicated to power and money. Veined marble, brushed steel, walls of glass. The air is conditioned, silent, charged with the nervous energy of those walking towards their destiny or their ruin. — Angèle Derval for an interview with Mr. Valesco, I announce to the receptionist, in a voice I've rehearsed to be both soft and unassailable. The elevator taking me to the top floor is a glass cube that seems to defy gravity. The city recedes beneath my feet. I clench my fists, feeling my nails dig into my palms. Respect, but not submission. Interest, but not greed. The doors open in muffled silence. A glacier-faced assistant leads me down a corridor to a massive mahogany double door. — Mr. Valesco will see you now. I push the door open. And time freezes. The office is immense, minimalist, with a wall-sized bay window flooding the room with light. Seated behind a desk that resembles a sculpture more than furniture, Néron Valesco looks up at me. He is… different. The photos don't capture his animal magnetism. Fifties, salt-and-pepper hair cut with surgical precision. But it's his eyes that pierce through me. Steel-gray, they undress me, evaluate me, and categorize me in a fraction of a second. No warmth, only a cold intelligence and a predatory curiosity. — Mademoiselle Derval, he says. His voice is deep, velvety, a caress that can turn into a whip. He doesn't stand, doesn't offer his hand. He simply gestures with his chin for me to sit in the leather armchair facing him. — Mr. Valesco, I reply, complying, hoping my pounding heart isn't audible.