Chapter 13
SIMONE
The news vans are already camped outside the gates when I wake.
From the guest house window, I can see telephoto lenses pointed toward the estate, reporters doing stand-ups with the Pascal mansion in the background.
Someone leaked the board meeting details—not the postponement, not the tabling of the vote, just enough to feed speculation that LaCroix Petroleum's CEO is embroiled in scandal.
My phone has been buzzing since dawn. Texts from board members, some supportive, most carefully neutral. Voicemails from reporters I've never heard of asking for comment. Three messages from corporate communications wanting to coordinate a response.
I ignore all of it and head downstairs.
Luc's in the kitchen, coffee already brewed, his attention split between his laptop and the security feeds displayed on a tablet. He looks up when I enter, and before I can reach for the coffee pot, he catches my wrist. His grip is firm enough to stop me without hurting.
His thumb finds my pulse point. "How'd you sleep?" His voice is rough this early, darker than usual.
"Better than expected."
He holds my wrist a moment longer, then releases me and reaches for the coffee pot himself. He pours, adds cream the way I take it, sets the mug in my hands. The gesture claims me through care—he doesn't ask if I want coffee, he gives it to me because I need it.
"The media's been outside since early this morning." He closes the laptop and focuses entirely on me with that intense attention that makes my pulse spike. "They tried the gate, got turned away by security. Now they're setting up on the public road."
"They found me here too?"
"They're covering both locations. Your building's got twice as many vans as we do here." His jaw tightens, and anger flickers in his eyes—dark and controlled. "Someone's feeding them locations. Probably the same source that leaked the board meeting."
Armand. Of course. He wants to keep me off balance, keep the pressure building, make sure I can't operate without being followed by cameras documenting every move.
I take a sip of coffee, let the ritual steady me. "Detective Broussard's interview is today."
"Rapier Strategic. More private than the precinct." Luc's watching me with that predatory focus. "You ready for it?"
Am I? I've been living this nightmare for weeks, but putting it into an official NOPD statement makes it real in a different way. It makes it evidence. It makes it part of a criminal investigation that will eventually become public record.
"I don't have a choice." I lean against the counter. "The longer we wait, the more Armand controls the narrative."
"No." He moves closer, crowding me against the counter. His hand settles on the back of my neck, warm and firm. The touch grounds me instantly. "You always have choices. The question is which one keeps you safest and strongest. This interview does both."
The certainty in his tone steadies my breathing. It's not false hope, but the reminder that I'm not fighting this alone.
"Then let's do this."
He tilts my face up with two fingers under my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze. "Eat something first. You're not walking into that interview running on coffee and adrenaline."
"Yes, Sir."
The corner of his mouth lifts in approval. Then he releases me and pulls eggs from the refrigerator.
Words won’t come. My mind has drifted somewhere soft and weightless, everything sharp and demanding stripped away. No board meetings. No Armand. No corporate warfare. Only Luc, anchoring me in the quiet he’s created.
Later, the drive to Rapier Strategic takes longer than it should because Luc insists on a counter-surveillance route. We leave the estate through the service entrance, take surface streets instead of the highway, double back twice to confirm we're not being followed.
His palm rests on my thigh the entire drive, heavy and warm. It's not casual—he's claiming me with his touch while his eyes track every vehicle, every intersection, every potential threat.
"Get down and stay down if I tell you to," he says as we approach the warehouse district.
It's not a request.
"Yes, Sir."
His fingers tighten briefly on my thigh. By the time we pull into the underground garage beneath Rapier's building, I'm convinced we've lost any potential tail.
Remy's waiting in the conference room with Detective Andy Broussard.
"Simone. Thank you for making time for this." His grip is firm, professional.
" Andy. I apologize for the delay. The board situation complicated things."
"I understand. Family dynamics often do." There's no judgment in his tone, just acknowledgment. He gestures to the conference table. "Shall we?"
We settle into chairs. Luc doesn't sit—he positions himself behind mine, one hand resting on the back of my chair. He's close enough that I feel his presence like a physical weight. The message is clear to everyone in the room: she's mine, and I'm watching.
Remy sits at the head of the table, his presence a reminder that this interview is happening on Rapier Strategic's terms, not the precinct's.
Andy pulls out a digital recorder, sets it on the table. "This is a formal statement for the record. You're not under arrest, you're not being charged with anything. This is purely informational, helping us build a case against the individuals who've been targeting you. Understood?"
"Understood."
"Good." He activates the recorder, states the date, time, location, and names of everyone present. Then he looks at me. "Let's start at the beginning. When did you first become aware you were being surveilled?"
I take a breath, organize my thoughts. This is the story I've been living but saying it out loud makes it different. More real. More permanent.
Luc's fingers curl over my shoulder with steady pressure, the touch saying what he won't speak aloud: I'm here. You're not alone.
"Recently. Photographs were delivered to me at various locations which indicated whoever sent them knows my routine and the places I frequent.
Professional quality images taken inside Dominion, a private club I'm a member of.
" I keep my voice level. "The images showed me in the club's private rooms during scenes. "
"Scenes," Andy repeats, not as a question but as confirmation. His tone stays neutral, clinical. "You're referring to BDSM scenes. Negotiated power exchange between consenting adults."
He uses the terminology like someone who knows it. There's no stumbling over words, no loaded judgment. His delivery is matter-of-fact, the same tone he'd use to describe any other activity.
"Yes," I say carefully. "The photographs showed me in submissive positions during private scenes with various partners."
"Multiple partners over what time period?"
"The metadata showed dates spanning several weeks. The most recent images were from a scene that occurred the night before the photographs were delivered."
Andy makes notes on a tablet. "And the delivery method?"
"Left on my desk at LaCroix Petroleum. Building security reviewed footage but didn't find anything useful. Whoever delivered them knew how to avoid cameras."
"Or had access to bypass building security entirely." He glances at Luc. "Your team found the hidden cameras at Dominion later that same day?"
"Correct," Luc says from behind me. His voice is harder than mine, darker. "Multiple cameras planted in the private rooms, positioned in security blind spots. The tech was high-end, professional grade."
Andy nods. "And you identified one individual who planted the most recent camera. Julien LaSalle, posing as maintenance personnel."
"Yes." I force steadiness into my voice. "Julien was—he was a Dom I scened with occasionally. About a year ago. The relationship ended when his behavior became controlling outside of negotiated scenes. He didn't respect boundaries."
"Boundaries," Andy says, and again the word carries no judgment. Just professional acknowledgment. "In the lifestyle context, that would mean he violated protocols. Tried to extend power exchange beyond what was negotiated in scene."
I nod. "Yes. Exactly that."
"And when you ended the relationship, how did he respond?"
"Poorly. He showed up at my office, sent messages demanding explanations, accused me of leading him on." The memories taste sour. "Eventually he stopped, but there was always this sense that he was still watching. Still waiting for an opportunity."
"An opportunity to what?"
"To prove I needed him. To demonstrate that I couldn't actually function without his control.
" I hold his stare. "In the lifestyle, most Doms want to provide structure and support.
But Julien wanted submission to serve his own need.
There was no reciprocity, no actual power exchange. He wanted me dependent."
Andy's expression doesn't change, but his posture shifts slightly. He understands this on a level deeper than professional training.
Luc's grip on my shoulder tightens. Anchoring me.
"Let's talk about the escalation," Andy says. "The photographs were the first overt action. What happened next?"
I walk him through the timeline. The photographs that were delivered to my office, my penthouse and my gym. The surveillance warehouse Andy's team found with equipment aimed at Dominion.
With each detail, Andy takes meticulous notes. He asks clarifying questions that show he understands the technical aspects, the operational logistics, the timeline of escalation. But more than that, his questions about the lifestyle elements carry the same precision.
"And your assessment is that Julien wasn't working alone."