The iron gates of Jacques Moreau's estate closed behind Isabelle with a sound like a verdict.
She stepped out of the carriage alone, spine straight, face composed—no trace of fear, no hesitation. The mansion glowed with warm light, chandeliers blazing like a promise of excess. Guards nodded as she passed. They always did.
Inside, Jacques waited in his private study, back turned, hands clasped behind him as he stared at the city through tall windows.
"You're late," he said mildly.
Isabelle smiled.
"On the contrary," she replied, removing her gloves with unhurried grace. "I'm exactly on time."
Jacques turned.
And in the privacy of that room, the mask fell from both of them.
He studied her for a moment—not as a predator, not as a creditor—but as family. Then, slowly, he inclined his head.
"You did well," he said. "They suspect nothing?"
Isabelle let out a soft laugh, the sound sharp and cold—nothing like the trembling woman she had been at home.
"They're playing heroes," she said. "Mary thinks she's saving me. Thomas thinks he's avenging his father." Her eyes gleamed. "They're perfect."
Jacques poured two glasses of wine and handed one to her. "You're certain they'll move against me?"
"Oh, they already are," Isabelle replied smoothly. "That notebook I left behind? Carefully curated. Just enough truth to make them reckless. They'll expose exactly what we want them to expose."
Jacques raised his glass. "To bait."
Isabelle clinked hers against it. "To the trap."
For a moment, silence settled—comfortable, conspiratorial.
Then Jacques sighed, almost fondly. "Your mother would have been proud. You have her mind."
"And your patience," Isabelle said. Then, with deliberate emphasis: "Thank you… Uncle."
The word hung in the air, heavy with history.
Jacques smiled—not the cruel one he showed the world, but something colder, sharper. "Family looks after its own."
Isabelle walked toward the desk, where maps and deeds lay neatly arranged. She traced a finger over the marked estates. "Once Thomas exposes you, the council will freeze your assets. Public outrage. Investigations." She looked up. "And then I step in."
"As the betrayed niece," Jacques said approvingly. "The innocent heir."
"The grieving one," Isabelle corrected. "Forced into your shadow. Escaping at last."
Jacques chuckled. "They'll hand you control out of guilt."
"And Mary," Isabelle added lightly, "will never forgive herself."
Jacques studied her. "You're sure about sacrificing them?"
Isabelle's expression didn't change. "Power requires belief. They believe in me." A pause. "Belief is the most useful thing to exploit."
Jacques nodded. "Then everything proceeds as planned. By the time they realize the truth—"
"It will be too late," Isabelle finished.
Outside, music began to rise in the grand hall as guests arrived, unaware that the real performance had already begun.
Far across the city, Mary clutched the notebook with shaking hands, and Thomas prepared to light a fuse he believed would burn a monster down.
Neither of them knew that the monster was not the man in the mansion—
—but the woman they were trying to save.
And as Isabelle took her place beside Jacques, heir and architect both, one truth settled quietly into the night:
They hadn't stepped into Jacques's trap.
They had walked straight into Isabelle's.