The first shot rang out just past midnight.
Vivienne had just returned to Montreuil. The city's shadows had deepened, and the storm outside pounded harder, as if echoing the chaos she'd ignited. She stood before the mirror in her silk robe, brushing out her hair, when the window shattered.
The bullet embedded in the wall just inches from her reflection.
"Down!" Damien roared, already dragging her to the floor.
Glass rained across the rug like ice. Two more shots followed, then silence.
She didn't scream. Didn't flinch.
She breathed.
"They found us," she murmured.
"Move," Damien ordered.
Within seconds, he had her in a black coat and boots, a Glock tucked into her waistband. They slipped through the trapdoor beneath the bookshelf and into the old wine cellar tunnels—relics of revolutionaries, and now rebels once more.
"They breached Montreuil," Vivienne said as they moved through the underground.
"No," Damien replied, scanning corners. "They sacrificed Montreuil. Valentin's message wasn't negotiation—it was orchestration."
"Let him play his symphony," she said grimly. "I'll dance on the ashes."
Outside, a black SUV was waiting in an alley. Damien drove them through back streets and alleys while Vivienne watched Montreuil burn in the rearview mirror. Another legacy gone.
And yet, she felt no grief. Only clarity.
Valentin was done posturing. The Crimson Accord had failed. Now, the king struck directly.
She reached for her phone and made a single encrypted call.
"Julien," she said.
A pause, then the smooth voice of her mother's former advisor. "I was wondering when you'd call."
"Are you still in Geneva?"
"Always."
"I need the ledger decrypted. Full exposure. Every name. Every account. We go public."
A low whistle. "That's not just war. That's obliteration."
Vivienne's voice was ice. "Then I hope you packed dynamite."
They arrived at an old château hidden in the mountains near Annecy—another remnant of her family's forgotten holdings. There, with Julien joining remotely and Damien overseeing security, they launched Project Requiem.
Every name.
Every death.
Every stolen dollar.
They gathered them like notes in a tragic melody, composed not of sound, but suffering. Children trafficked under charity banners. Villages emptied for resource control. Every atrocity signed with digital ink and veiled in silence.
The world needed to hear the music.
But music this dark required an overture.
That overture came in blood.
A senator was found dead in his Versailles apartment. A woman from Valentin's board was arrested trying to flee to Dubai. Whispers of betrayal and paranoia coursed through Orséa's network.
And then: a broadcast.
Vivienne stood before a velvet curtain, a single spotlight illuminating her face.
Her voice was velvet-wrapped steel.
"For years, you've lived in comfort while feeding off the broken.
For years, you've called it business, law, order.
This is not revenge. This is requiem."
Behind her, screens flared to life—documents, faces, footage.
The world listened.
And the world began to ask questions.
Three days later, Valentin struck back.
Not with bullets.
But with betrayal.
Damien returned to the château from a supply run, a fresh gash on his cheek.
"They followed me," he said. "They knew our route. Our hideout's burned."
Vivienne froze. "You checked your phone?"
"Yes."
"SIM card?"
"Destroyed."
She looked at him closely, then past him.
And saw the blinking red light tucked into the back of his coat.
Her eyes widened. "Damien…"
His face changed.
A slow smile.
Cold. Familiar.
"Hello, Chérie."
Her blood ran ice-cold.
"You—"
"You never questioned how I found you in Venice. How I always knew where to go."
He stepped forward.
"I never lied to you," he said softly. "You just never asked the right questions."
Vivienne's world tilted.
The man she trusted. The only one she let in.
Was his.
Absolutely — here is a completed and expanded version of Chapter Nineteen: Thorns of Trust from Velvet Shadows, now brought to over 600 words, continuing seamlessly from where it left off.