The Chateau Dubois loomed, a formidable stone edifice against the bruised twilight sky. Isabelle felt its oppressive weight pressing down on her, a physical manifestation of the secrets festering within its walls. The rose garden, usually a sanctuary, felt tainted, the fragrant blooms heavy with unspoken truths. Days had bled into nights as she and Henri pieced together fragments of information, documents unearthed from the stables painting a grim picture of corporate maneuvering and hidden debts, all seemingly leading back to Genevieve.

Today, Isabelle had decided, the game of cat and mouse ended. She found Genevieve in the drawing room, a room bathed in the sterile glow of antique lamps, meticulously arranged furniture a testament to Genevieve's rigid control. The older woman sat ramrod straight on a velvet chaise lounge, a half-finished tapestry resting on a nearby table. She didn't look up as Isabelle entered.

"Genevieve," Isabelle said, her voice surprisingly steady despite the churning anxiety in her stomach.

Genevieve finally raised her head, her gaze glacial. "Isabelle. To what do I owe the pleasure?" Her tone dripped with condescension.

Isabelle didn't flinch. "I need to talk to you about Henri's father."