Chapter 4 - THE DAUGHTER THEY COULDN'T CONTROL
Sophie Moreau had never liked living behind security gates.
Her father had offered her a luxury condominium overlooking Boston Harbor, complete with private elevators and round-the-clock guards.
She had refused.
Instead, she rented a modest apartment above a bookstore in Beacon Hill.
She liked the old floors, the uneven windows, and the smell of coffee drifting up from the shop downstairs.
Most of all, she liked knowing that the people around her had no reason to care who her father was.
At 3:19 a.m., someone knocked on her door.
Three slow knocks.
Sophie froze.
She had been awake for hours.
Camille had called shortly after midnight.
Her voice had trembled as she delivered the news.
“There was an accident.”
Sophie remembered gripping the phone.
“What accident?”
“Your father fell overboard.”
“Where?”
“On the yacht.”
“Is he alive?”
A pause.
Then Camille began sobbing.
Sophie had known immediately that something was wrong.
Not because Camille sounded insincere.
Because she sounded rehearsed.
She had repeated the same sentence three times.
We did everything we could.
But Sophie knew her father.
He was a strong swimmer.
He was careful on boats.
And he had told her only two days earlier that he was investigating suspicious financial activity.
Now someone was standing outside her apartment.
“Sophie?” a male voice called.
She did not recognize it.
“Who is it?”
“Building maintenance.”
“At three in the morning?”
“There's a water leak downstairs.”
Sophie looked toward the bathroom.
Everything was quiet.
“Call the landlord.”
“We already did.”
She stepped backward.
Her phone vibrated.
A message from her father.
DO NOT OPEN THE DOOR. POLICE ARE COMING.
Sophie stared at the screen.
For several seconds, she could not breathe.
Her father was dead.
Camille had told her.
Yet here was a message from him.
She typed quickly.
Dad?
The reply came immediately.
I'M ALIVE. TRUST ME. STAY INSIDE.
Outside, the man knocked again.
“Sophie, we need you to open up.”
She backed toward the bedroom.
Her father had taught her one rule when she moved into the apartment.
If something felt wrong, she did not need to be polite.
She needed to be safe.
Sophie locked herself in the bedroom and called 911.
She gave her address.
Explained the situation.
Then she listened.
The knocking stopped.
Footsteps moved down the hallway.
A door slammed.
Minutes later, sirens sounded outside.
By the time officers entered the building, the stranger was gone.
But he had left something behind.
A small electronic device had been attached to the hallway's security camera.
Its purpose was not immediately clear.
The police collected it as evidence.
Sophie sat on her bed, trembling.
Then her phone rang.
“Dad?”
“Sweetheart.”
She burst into tears.
“Camille said you were dead.”
“I know.”
“What happened?”
“I'll explain everything.”
“Are you hurt?”
“A little.”
“Where are you?”
“Somewhere safe.”
Sophie wiped her eyes.
“Please don't lie to me.”
Julien closed his eyes.
He had spent years protecting his daughter from unpleasant truths.
He had told himself that was what fathers did.
Now he understood that keeping someone ignorant was not the same as keeping them safe.
“Camille and Victor tried to kill me,” he said.
Sophie went silent.
Then she whispered, “I knew she was dangerous.”
Julien swallowed.
“You warned me.”
“I didn't know she'd do this.”
“Neither did I.”
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then Sophie asked the question he had been dreading.
“Did you love her?”
Julien stared at the wall.
“Yes.”
“Even after everything?”
“I loved the person I believed she was.”
Sophie began crying again.
“Dad, I almost lost you.”
“I know.”
“And you almost died because you didn't want to believe me.”
The words hurt.
But Julien did not defend himself.
“You're right.”
Sophie sounded surprised.
He continued.
“I should have listened. I should have taken your concerns seriously. And I should never have put myself in a position where you might have lost your father tonight.”
She drew a shaky breath.
“Just promise me something.”
“Anything.”
“Don't turn into them.”
Julien frowned.
“What?”
“Camille and Victor. Don't let what they did make you cruel.”
He looked toward the window.
Outside, the first faint suggestion of dawn touched the horizon.
“I won't.”
But even as he said it, Julien knew the promise would be tested.
### 8:42 a.m.
Camille sat in the breakfast room of the Moreau estate, wearing a cream silk robe and staring at a cup of untouched coffee.
Victor entered without knocking.
“You need to get dressed.”
She looked up.
“For what?”
“The police are coming.”
Her face drained.
“Why?”
“Routine questions.”
“Routine?”
Victor poured himself coffee.
“Your husband disappeared at sea. Of course they'll ask questions.”
Camille stood.
“You said everything was handled.”
“It is.”
“Then why hasn't anyone recovered his body?”
Victor looked at her sharply.
“Because the ocean is large.”
She began pacing.
“What if he survives?”
Victor set down his cup.
“He didn't.”
“You don't know that.”
“I watched him go under.”
“The chain—”
“Stop talking about the chain!”
Camille flinched.
Victor lowered his voice.
“Listen to me. We tell them Julien had been drinking. He was emotionally unstable. He went outside, lost his balance, and fell.”
“He wasn't drinking.”
“They don't know that.”
“The crew does.”
“The crew understands what's at stake.”
Camille looked toward the doorway.
“And Sophie?”
Victor's expression changed.
“What about her?”
“She called me last night. I told her Julien was dead.”
“That was premature.”
“You told me he was!”
Victor stepped closer.
“From now on, you say nothing without consulting me.”
Camille stared at him.
For the first time, she saw something beneath his charm that she had previously mistaken for strength.
Control.
He had never intended to make her his equal.
He had intended to use her.
And now she was trapped.
The doorbell rang.
Victor smiled.
“Showtime.”
Camille turned toward the hallway.
Two detectives stood outside.
One introduced himself as Detective Paul Mercer.
The other, Detective Elena Brooks, carried a notebook.
“Mrs. Moreau?”
Camille nodded.
“We'd like to ask you a few questions about your husband's disappearance.”
“Of course.”
Mercer studied her.
“Before we begin, there's something you should know.”
Camille felt her knees weaken.
“What?”
The detective opened his notebook.
“We found something floating near the yacht's last reported position.”
Victor appeared behind her.
“What did you find?”
May you like
Mercer looked directly at him.
“A piece of rope. And traces of blood.”
