Bitter inheritance

chapter 8

### chapter 8 Fontaine

Raphael Fontaine arrived on a Monday morning looking like old money that had learned to enjoy being underestimated — silver at the temples, a tailored coat that cost more than Elena's first car, and the kind of smile that never once reached his eyes.

"Ms. Voss. Mr. Cross." He inclined his head to each of them in turn, settling into the chair across from Damian's desk like he owned it. "Thank you for seeing me on short notice."

"You didn't give us much choice," Damian said. "Your email implied litigation."

"My email implied *documentation.*" Fontaine set a slim leather folder on the desk between them. "In 1998, your father, Ms. Voss, sold a Restoration-era necklace — provenance listed as a private Belgian estate — to my late uncle. Six months ago, my uncle's own archivist found the original bill of sale. Cairo, not Belgium. Stolen from a museum during the '67 conflict."

Elena's mouth went dry. "That's not possible. My father was meticulous—"

"Your father," Fontaine said, not unkindly, "was very good at making stolen things look clean. I imagine it wasn't the only piece." His eyes moved, deliberate, between the two of them. "I'm not here to destroy either of your houses. I'm here to discuss what it's worth to me not to."

After he left, Elena sat very still in the sudden quiet of Damian's office, watching the folder like it might catch fire on its own.

"He's blackmailing us," she said.

"He's *negotiating*," Damian corrected grimly. "There's a difference, and it's about to cost us a great deal of money either way."

"How many pieces, Damian? If my father did this once—"

"Then we find out together. All of it. No more letters that wait for someone to die before they tell the truth." He reached across the desk and took her hand, thumb tracing slow, steadying circles over her knuckles — the same gesture he used when he wanted her to feel something other than fear. "Whatever's in those archives, we go through it side by side. That's the only way I'm doing this."

She turned her hand over to lace their fingers together, and for a moment the office felt smaller than it was, the two of them the only steady thing in a room suddenly full of ghosts.

"Side by side," she agreed. "But tonight, I need you to make me forget about Raphael Fontaine's face for a few hours."

Something dark and pleased flickered behind Damian's eyes. "I can manage that."