Chapter 7 - The Gilded Cage
The officer tossed the manila envelope onto Julian’s lap. It landed with a dull thud.
""Get out,"" the man commanded, his previous polite demeanor vanishing entirely.
Julian’s heart hammered against his ribs. ""Who do you work for? Where is the French prosecutor?""
The driver unlocked the doors. ""You have five seconds to step out of this vehicle before we drag you out.""
Julian scrambled out into the damp, echoing garage. The car immediately backed up, screeched against the concrete, and vanished up the ramp into the blinding daylight, leaving him alone in the subterranean shadows.
The echo of the car's engine died away, replaced by the faint drip of water from an overhead pipe. Julian opened the envelope with trembling fingers. Inside was an airline boarding pass, a single one-hundred-dollar bill, and an eviction notice for his private estate in the Hamptons.
The boarding pass was for a one-way flight to Newark, New Jersey, departing in three hours. Economy class.
Tucked beneath the ticket was another folded note:
A modest start for a modest man. Take the flight, Julian. If you are still in France by sunrise, the real gendarmes will receive the financial records your wife left on my desk.
The note was unsigned, but the watermark at the bottom of the page bore the crest of the De Montmirail family—Elena’s maternal bloodline, an ancient dynasty with roots running centuries deep into French nobility and political power. They didn't just own real estate; they owned magistrates.
Julian felt a cold sweat soak through his linen shirt. He was being expelled from paradise like a common vagrant.
Clutching the envelope, he found an exit door leading to the street level of Nice. Blinking against the harsh glare of the Mediterranean sun, he emerged onto the crowded boulevard. His stomach growled painfully. He had no luggage, no functioning credit cards, and only a single American hundred-dollar bill.
He spotted a payphone near a cafe. Striding over, he dialed the private number of his closest confidant in Manhattan, Marcus Kane—his head trader and co-conspirator in the offshore hedge funds.
The phone rang four times before Marcus picked up, breathing heavily.
""Marcus! Thank God,"" Julian gasped. ""Listen to me, Elena went nuclear. She took the yacht, the accounts, everything. I need you to liquidate the Cayman reserve and wire it to—""
""Julian?"" Marcus interrupted, his voice hushed and panicked. ""Julian, don't ever call this number again.""
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""Marcus, what are you talking about?!""
""The FBI raided the trading floor twenty minutes ago,"" Marcus whispered terrified. ""They had warrants signed by a federal judge. Elena didn't just go to the French authorities, Julian. She went to the Department of Justice.""
