Chapter 4 - The Dinner Party of Fools
Thursday evening arrived with the stifling heat of early autumn. Back at the apartment, Julien had decided to throw an impromptu celebration. He hadn’t bothered to consult me, of course. When I walked through the front door at 8:00 PM, carrying a slim leather briefcase, the living room was already filled with hazy cigar smoke, booming jazz music, and the loud, obnoxious laughter of four corporate colleagues Julien had invited over to impress.
Chloé was standing near the wet bar, wearing a tight, crimson cocktail dress that practically screamed desperation. She held a glass of champagne in one hand and was whispering something into the ear of Marc Dubois, Julien’s regional supervisor at Vaurien Pharma—a pompous man with thinning gray hair and an inflated sense of corporate authority.
When I stepped into the foyer, the music momentarily drowned out, but Julien spotted me first. He raised his glass, a smug, obnoxious grin plastered across his face.
"Ah, look who’s home! The domestic goddess herself," Julien announced loudly, drawing the attention of the entire room. "Come here, Élise. Show Dubois your new hairstyle. Tell him all about how you manage the grueling, high-pressure world of shampooing hair."
The four corporate executives burst into boisterous laughter. Chloé smirked, leaning against Dubois’s shoulder. "Careful, Julien," she mocked playfully. "Don't let her near the cheese platter; she might try to charge us a styling fee."
I didn't rush. I walked slowly into the center of the living room, my sharp French bob catching the warm chandelier light. I placed my leather briefcase on the coffee table with a soft, deliberate thud. I wore a tailored navy silk dress that cost more than Julien’s monthly car payment, paired with classic Christian Louboutin heels.
Dubois squinted at me, his corporate arrogance momentarily pausing as he took in my appearance. "I must say, Julien," Dubois remarked, swirling his scotch. "Your wife doesn't look quite like the country bumpkin you described in the office. That’s a very sophisticated cut."
Julien laughed dismissively, walking over and wrapping a heavy, condescending arm around my shoulders—a physical display of ownership for his colleagues' benefit. "Oh, she cleans up nice when I tell her to, Dubois. But don't let the outfit fool you. Underneath all that, she’s just a neighborhood hairdresser who thinks running a shampoo bowl is equivalent to running a Fortune 500 company."
I looked up into Julien’s eyes—eyes blind with arrogance, fueled by whiskey and utter contempt. He truly believed he was the master of this universe. He truly believed I was trapped in his web.
"You’re right, Julien," I said softly, stepping out from under his heavy arm with effortless grace. "Running a salon isn't like running a pharmaceutical division. My businesses actually turn a profit, pay their taxes honestly, and don't rely on embezzlement to fund lifestyle upgrades."
The room went dead silent. The jazz music hummed quietly in the background, feeling suddenly absurd.
Julien’s face flushed a deep, mottled red. His smile faltered, replaced by a flash of public embarrassment. "What did you just say?" he snapped, his voice dropping an octave.
"I said," I repeated, my voice clear, steady, and echoing off the Haussmann walls, "that your little game is over, Julien. And so is your career."
Chloé set her champagne glass down so hard it cracked against the marble bar. "Are you out of your mind, you pathetic little hairdresser? How dare you speak to Julien and Mr. Dubois like that in our home!"
Our home. That was the best part.
I reached down, unlatched the brass clasps of my leather briefcase, and pulled out three thick, notarized manila envelopes. I placed one on the table in front of Julien, one in front of Dubois, and kept the third in my hand.
"This," I said, looking directly into Dubois’s horrified eyes, "is an internal compliance audit detailing Julien’s systemic embezzlement of Vaurien Pharma’s marketing budget over the last fourteen months—funneled directly into the personal accounts of his mistress, Chloé Moreau."
Dubois stared at the envelope as if it were a venomous snake. "This... this is absurd! Julien is one of my top regional managers—"
"And this," I interrupted, dropping the second envelope in front of Julien, whose face had now turned the color of chalk, "is a formal notice of termination from Vaurien Pharma’s executive board, signed by the CEO this afternoon at 3:00 PM. Effective immediately, Julien is fired with cause, stripped of his stock options, and blacklisted from the industry."
Julien’s hands trembled as he reached down, tearing open the envelope. His eyes scanned the official corporate letterhead, his breath catching in his throat. "No... no, this is fake! You forged this! You're just a—"
May you like
"And finally," I said, turning to face both of them with a cold, triumphant smile, "this third envelope is an eviction notice for this apartment. Pursuant to French commercial property law, the deed for this building was purchased yesterday by Élise Holding BV. As the sole owner and majority shareholder, I am officially giving both of you forty-eight hours to vacate my property."
Silence swallowed the room whole. You could hear the digital clock ticking on the mantelpiece.
