Chapter 5 - THE COURT AT AVIGNON
The historic Palais de Justice in Avignon was an imposing stone fortress built in the nineteenth century, standing tall over the sunlit cobblestone squares of the city.
It was 10:00 AM two days later.
The high-ceilinged marble courtroom of the Vaucluse Family Court was quiet, except for the soft rustle of legal papers being shuffled by six court clerks.
Richard Moreau sat at the defense table, wearing his best brown corduroy suit. He was smiling smugly, whispering to his court-appointed attorney. Sitting right behind him in the gallery were the two executives from Valence Energy Group, holding their leather briefcases, looking confident and relaxed.
Moreau believed he was here for a simple administrative hearing to declare his two stepdaughters as "runaway wards of the state," allowing him to assume emergency legal control over their inherited property.
The heavy oak doors at the back of the courtroom swung open.
Every head turned.
In walked Julian Vance.
He looked magnificent and lethal—wearing a bespoke dark navy Savile Row suit, a crisp white shirt, and a dark silver silk tie. His hair was impeccably groomed, his light gray eyes scanning the room like a hawk looking for prey.
Walking beside him was a team of eight senior French and international attorneys, led by Maître Henri Dupont—the most formidable civil litigator in Paris.
And walking between them, holding Julian’s hand tightly, was me.
I was wearing a simple, beautiful navy blue wool dress with white lace collars, clean black leather shoes, and my hair was styled into neat braids. Behind us walked Lev, holding sleeping Leo in his arms, while Elena carried Maya, who was wearing a matching blue dress.
Richard Moreau’s mouth dropped so wide his cigarette-stained lower lip trembled.
“What... what is this?” Moreau stammered, standing up from his chair. “Lia?! Maya?!”
“Sit down, Mr. Moreau!” the presiding judge, Judge Madeleine Laurent, commanded sternly, knocking her wooden gavel against the bench. “This court will maintain absolute order!”
Maître Dupont stepped forward, placing a massive, gold-embossed legal dossier onto the center of the judicial table.
“Your Honor,” Maître Dupont announced in a clear, resonant tone that echoed off the high marble walls. “I am appearing on behalf of Mr. Julian Vance, Chief Executive Officer of Vance Capital International, and brother of the late Claire Vance.”
Moreau’s lawyer stood up hastily. “Your Honor! This is an administrative custody hearing for two French minors! Mr. Vance is a foreign national who has had no contact with this family in—”
“Mr. Vance is the legal uncle of Lia and Maya Vance,” Dupont cut in smoothly, shutting the defense lawyer down with a single gesture. “And we are here today to present three specific documents to this court.”
Dupont opened the dossier.
“First: the original, hand-written last will and testament of Colette Vance, certified by the notary public of Avignon three years ago, explicitly naming Julian Vance as the primary executor of her estate and guardian of her grandchildren in the event of her daughter’s passing.”
Moreau went pale. “That’s a fake! She never signed that!”
“Second,” Dupont continued, ignoring Moreau’s outburst completely, “a certified toxicological and medical report from the University Hospital of Lyons regarding the death of Claire Vance two years ago.”
The courtroom went dead silent.
I looked at Julian. His face was completely impassive, but I could feel the intense vibration of anger running through his large hand as he held mine.
“A recent exhumation and forensic review authorized by the State Prosecutor’s office,” Dupont announced coldly, “has revealed high concentrations of industrial synthetic sedatives in Claire Vance’s system—sedatives prescribed directly to her husband, Richard Moreau.”
Moreau fell back into his chair as if he had been shot through the heart. His face turned a sickly, greenish white.
Behind him, the two executives from Valence Energy Group stood up instantly, grabbing their briefcases, attempting to quietly slip toward the back exit doors.
“Lev,” Julian said softly without turning his head.
Lev didn't even move from his spot, but two plainclothes officers from the French National Gendarmerie stepped out from the back hallway, blocking the exit doors, their hands resting on their sidearms.
“And third,” Dupont concluded, placing a thick stack of bank ledgers on the judge’s desk. “Complete wire-transfer records showing a secret account in Luxembourg registered to Richard Moreau, which received a transfer of five hundred thousand euros two weeks ago from a subsidiary of Valence Energy Group—a transfer executed in exchange for the illegal sale of four hundred million euros worth of state lithium rights belonging to these two minor children.”
Judge Laurent stared at the documents, her face growing colder and darker with every page she turned.
She raised her eyes, looking directly at Richard Moreau.
“Mr. Moreau,” Judge Laurent said, her voice dripping with absolute judicial disgust. “You are placed under immediate judicial arrest for child endangerment, grand fraud, illegal corporate conspiracy... and complicity in second-degree homicide.”
She struck her gavel down against the wooden block with a loud, thunderous CRACK!
Four armed gendarmes stepped forward, grabbing Moreau by his arms, snapping cold steel handcuffs over his trembling wrists.
“Lia!” Moreau screamed as he was pulled toward the side holding cell, his eyes wild and desperate. “Lia, tell them! I took care of you! I gave you a home! Tell them I’m your father!”
I didn't flinch. I didn't hide behind Julian’s coat.
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I stood tall on my clean leather shoes, looked Richard Moreau straight in his eyes, and spoke in a clear, firm voice that echoed through the entire courtroom:
“You were never my father, Richard. You were just the man who kept us in the dark.”
