Chapter 6 - Shadows on the Promenade
Julian felt the cold click of reality settling over his skin like an iron shroud. ""On what grounds?"" he asked, attempting to summon the imperious tone that had once terrified junior analysts in New York. ""Do you have any idea who my lawyers are?""
""Monsieur Sterling, you are not currently under arrest, but you are required to accompany us to the prefecture in Nice,"" the officer stated calmly, his English impeccable and devoid of sympathy. ""An emergency complaint has been lodged regarding maritime endangerment and international tax evasion. A prosecutor is waiting.""
Chloe let out a horrified shriek, dropping her designer weekend bags onto the pavement. ""Tax evasion? Julian, what did you get me involved in?!""
""Quiet, Chloe!"" Julian hissed. He turned to the officer. ""This is a misunderstanding orchestrated by my estranged wife. I need to make a phone call.""
""You may make your calls at the station,"" the officer replied, stepping aside to reveal an unmarked black sedan waiting with its rear door open. ""Please do not make a scene.""
Passersby were already stopping, filming the encounter on their smartphones. Julian saw tourists whispering, their lenses reflecting the afternoon sun. By nightfall, his humiliation would be trending across every financial forum in North America and Europe.
He had no choice. Head bowed, Julian stepped toward the car.
""Wait! What about me?"" Chloe cried, reaching for his arm. ""Where am I supposed to go? I don't have anywhere to stay!""
Julian didn't look back as he climbed into the back seat. ""Go home, Chloe.""
""With what money?!"" her voice pierced through the window just before the door slammed shut.
The car glided into the coastal traffic, heading toward Nice. Inside, the quiet was suffocating. Julian leaned his head against the glass, his mind racing through escape routes, shell accounts, and favors owed to him by powerful men. But every favor had been tied to Elena’s fortune. He was a satellite whose star had just exploded.
Thirty minutes later, the car pulled into a private underground garage rather than the main police prefecture. The driver killed the engine.
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Julian frowned, looking around the dim, concrete space. ""This isn't a police station.""
The officer in the front seat turned around, reaching into his coat—not for a badge, but for an envelope. ""No, Monsieur Sterling. It is not.""
