Chapter 4 - The Digital Confession
Back inside the quiet sanctuary of a downtown Lyon motel room—where he had driven after leaving Montchat to ensure Sabrina didn't catch him returning—Lucas sat at a small wooden desk. The room was dark except for the harsh, blue glow of his laptop screen.
He plugged Madame Leroy’s flash drive into the USB port.
A single folder appeared on the desktop, labeled simply: Montchat_2026_10_01. Inside were three high-definition video files, captured with the steady, zoomed-in precision of an expensive digital camera resting on a tripod behind a second-story window.
Lucas clicked on the first file, holding his breath.
The video opened with a clear view of his own back patio. The timestamp in the corner read: Wednesday, Sept 30, 4:14 PM.
Sabrina was standing near the outdoor table, speaking angrily on her smartphone. Through the crystal-clear audio picked up by an external microphone, her voice rang out sharply: "No, Marc, I’m telling you, Lucas is getting too close to auditing the offshore accounts. If he finds out about the property transfer in Cannes, we’re both finished. He trusts the business records too much."
Lucas’s jaw dropped. Offshore accounts? Property in Cannes? He had never owned any property in Cannes. Sabrina and Marc had been systematically looting his corporate assets behind his back, using forged signatures and corporate proxy loopholes.
The video continued. Little Chloé suddenly stepped out onto the patio holding a glass of orange juice, looking for her mother. Startled by Sabrina’s venomous tone, the little girl dropped the glass. It shattered against the stone tiles.
Sabrina spun around, her face contorted with vicious rage. She didn't just scold the child; she lunged forward with terrifying speed, grabbing Chloé by the upper arm and hurling her backward against the heavy wooden frame of the back door. The sickening thud of flesh hitting wood echoed loudly through the laptop speakers. Chloé screamed in agony, collapsing to the ground while Sabrina stood over her, hissing, "If you tell your father about this—or about the man who visits when he's away—I will make sure you never see him again!"
Lucas slammed his fist down on the desk, the wood groaning in protest. Tears of blinding fury pricked his eyes, but he forced himself to watch the second and third videos.
The second video, recorded an hour later, showed Marc Vanes arriving at the house through the front gate, letting himself in with his key, and meeting with Sabrina in the kitchen. They weren't just discussing corporate embezzlement; they were calmly discussing how to frame Lucas for financial misconduct and domestic instability to push through a rapid, one-sided divorce that would strip him of all assets and parental rights.
The third video was the most damning of all. It showed Marc handing Sabrina a legal document—a pre-drafted medical waiver and a false guardianship transfer—while whispering, "Once the child is out of the way or fully intimidated, we push Lucas out of the firm. The board is already on my side."
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Lucas closed the laptop. The room felt suffocating. He wasn't just dealing with a straying wife or a moment of parental loss of control; he was the target of a premeditated conspiracy designed to ruin his life, steal his fortune, and rob him of his daughter.
And he decided right then: he wasn't going to call the police immediately and let them navigate bureaucratic red tape for months. He was going to dismantle Sabrina and Marc’s empire piece by piece, starting at sunrise.
