Chapter 4 - VIVIENNE REALIZED HER “GIFT” COULD MAKE HER PART OF THE FRAUD
Vivienne called me at 7:12 the next morning.
I almost ignored.
Then answered.
“Camille.”
Her voice was thin.
Not entitled.
Scared.
“What?”
“Can I come see you?”
“No.”
Silence.
“Okay.”
That response surprised me.
Then:
“Can we meet somewhere?”
“Jacqueline’s office.”
She hesitated.
“Does it need to be lawyers?”
“Yes.”
Long pause.
“I understand.”
At ten, Vivienne arrived with Antoine.
No Genevieve.
No Gabriel.
Charlotte joined by video because she said she did not want to be in same room as her mother yet.
Vivienne placed a white binder on Jacqueline’s table.
“I found this in Mom’s car.”
Jacqueline did not touch immediately.
“Did you take it with permission?”
“No.”
Vivienne looked embarrassed.
“It was in a bag with my name.”
“Bring bag?”
“Yes.”
Good.
Chain.
Context.
No dramatic theft.
The binder contained interior plans for our apartment.
Furniture layouts.
Renovation estimates.
A draft cohabitation agreement between Vivienne and Antoine.
And near back—
the proposed donation agreement.
Unsigned.
Dated three weeks earlier.
Gabriel transferring his undivided interest to Vivienne for “natural love and affection.”
One paragraph stated Camille Dupont had “previously consented to the family transfer.”
No signature attached.
Because I had never consented.
Vivienne stared when Jacqueline read.
“I didn’t know that sentence was there.”
“I believe you didn’t read?”
Jacqueline asked.
Vivienne looked ashamed.
“No.”
That said a lot.
I had read everything I signed.
Vivienne had spent a lifetime assuming someone else would make documents safe for her.
Different forms of privilege.
Antoine leaned forward.
“Genevieve told us Gabriel owned the apartment.”
I looked at him.
“Did you ever ask why my name was on municipal tax bill?”
He went quiet.
He had seen it.
Of course.
Vivienne said:
“I thought spouses did that.”
“What?”
“Put both names.”
“Even when one person owns.”
I almost laughed.
“That’s not how ownership works.”
“I know now.”
She swallowed.
“Mom said you had Saint-Henri and didn’t care about Rue Clark.”
I stared.
“When did she tell you?”
“Last month.”
Gabriel discovered Saint-Henri through my tax records.
Then told Genevieve.
Then Genevieve used it to build story.
Camille has another apartment.
Therefore she does not need this one.
Need.
A dangerous word when discussing rights.
Vivienne pushed another envelope.
“There’s more.”
Of course.
A loan commitment.
Not Gabriel’s $2.8 million Laurent loan.
A second loan application.
$900,000.
Applicant:
Vivienne Fournier and Antoine Leblanc.
Purpose:
Renovation and wedding-related housing costs.
Collateral:
Expected gift interest in 2468 Rue Clark.
Antoine stared.
“I never signed this.”
His face went white.
Vivienne too.
Signature lines were blank.
Good.
Not fraud completed.
But the family plan was bigger.
Transfer Gabriel’s share to Vivienne.
Then Vivienne and Antoine borrow against future equity.
Use part of new loan to pay Gabriel.
Circular.
Messy.
Possibly designed to move value away from Laurent while giving Gabriel liquidity.
Jacqueline said:
“Do not sign anything.”
Antoine answered:
“We won’t.”
Vivienne whispered:
“Mom said the bank was approving us because of Gabriel’s relationships.”
“Which bank?”
“Not bank.”
She looked embarrassed.
“Private mortgage broker.”
Of course.
I asked:
“Did you know Gabriel owed Laurent?”
“No.”
“Did you know the transfer was meant to happen before default?”
“No.”
“Did you know my belongings would be put outside?”
Vivienne’s eyes filled.
“I knew Mom wanted you gone.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
She looked down.
“I knew she said your things should be packed.”
“When?”
“Sunday.”
Four days before.
“Did you tell me?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because I wanted the apartment.”
There.
I appreciated ugly truth more than pretty excuse.
“You didn’t think she would put everything outside.”
“No.”
“But you knew I was being removed without my agreement.”
“Yes.”
Antoine looked at her.
Pain.
Not shock exactly.
Maybe confirmation.
“Viv.”
She began crying.
“I thought Camille would stay in Saint-Henri.”
I said:
“You thought I would be angry.”
“Maybe divorce Gabriel.”
“And then?”
She covered face.
“You’d be done with the apartment.”
As though homes become abandoned property when marriages hurt.
I looked at Jacqueline.
“I’m done asking questions.”
Vivienne lowered hands.
“I’m sorry.”
“I believe you regret it.”
“That isn’t same thing.”
She nodded through tears.
Good.
Antoine said quietly:
“I’m postponing the wedding.”
Vivienne turned.
“What?”
“Not because of Camille.”
“I know.”
He looked at her.
“Because we planned a marriage while your mother planned our finances.”
“I didn’t—”
“You let her.”
Silence.
Hard.
Necessary.
“I love you.”
Antoine continued.
“But I’m not taking a home someone else was thrown out of.”
Vivienne cried harder.
Charlotte’s face on screen tightened.
Genevieve’s system was cracking.
Not because I defeated family.
Because adult children were finally seeing what dependency had cost them.
Then Jacqueline received email.
The Ordre des architectes had opened preliminary investigation into misuse of my seal.
Not against me as accused party initially, but they needed formal statement.
My stomach tightened.
Even when someone else forges your professional identity, you still have to prove where you were.
I had site logs.
Calendar.
Client records.
GPS from project-management app.
On date of Saint-Dominique “inspection,” I had been 26 kilometers away at church restoration in Outremont.
Louis had been with me.
Photographs timestamped.
Good.
Document first.
React second.
Then city inspection report arrived.
The Saint-Dominique rear wall had indeed undergone unauthorized partial repair.
No imminent general collapse was found after temporary shoring, but deficiencies were serious enough to require closure of the rear half and full engineering plan.
No one injured.
That mattered more than my license.
Still, fraud investigation widened.
Who created the false report?
Forensic metadata answered.
PDF had been generated on a computer registered to:
GDL Développement — Executive Office
User profile:
GFOURNIER
Gabriel.
My husband.
Not an administrator.
Not Marc.
Gabriel.
He called at 1:30.
“I need to explain.”
I put Jacqueline on speaker.
“Explain.”
“I used a template.”
I closed eyes.
“You created it.”
“Yes.”
“Why tell me yesterday you didn’t know?”
“I panicked.”
“You’ve used that word already.”
“I know.”
“Try truth.”
He breathed.
“The lender would have canceled final tranche.”
“So you took one of my reports.”
“Yes.”
“Changed address.”
“Yes.”
“Changed findings.”
“Yes.”
“Used my seal.”
“Yes.”
I felt sick.
“And you thought I would never see it.”
“I thought proper engineering would be completed before anything happened.”
There.
Again.
Before anything happened.
The same logic.
I’ll fix it later.
I’ll tell her later.
I’ll pay it back later.
I’ll transfer it back later.
People who build fraud rarely imagine themselves as thieves.
They imagine themselves as temporary borrowers from reality.
“What if the wall failed?”
“It didn’t.”
His answer came instinctively.
The moment he said it, he knew.
I closed my eyes.
“Goodbye, Gabriel.”
“Camille.”
I ended call.
Jacqueline said:
“That statement matters.”
“I know.”
Then Isabelle called.
She had found total exposure.
Not $2.8 million.
Not $2.4 remaining.
Gabriel’s companies had guarantees and private loans totaling almost $6.1 million.
Several tied to projects with inadequate equity.
One connected indirectly to Genevieve’s condo.
Another personally guaranteed by a family trust set up after Gabriel’s father died.
I stared.
“How much does Genevieve know?”
“Hard to tell.”
“Transfers to her suggest some.”
Then Isabelle found one more thing.
Eighteen months earlier, Gabriel had taken $240,000 from a corporate account designated for heritage restoration reserves.
The account was supposed to fund specialized work on—
our apartment’s mural.
My stomach turned.
That money was not mine personally.
It was part of renovation financing and a municipal incentive package tied to preservation commitments.
If diverted improperly, there could be repayment.
Penalties.
Maybe consequences for property.
“Where did it go?”
“Griffintown.”
Isabelle said.
“His project.”
Gabriel had used money reserved to preserve the mural inside our home to keep another development alive.
Then when debts caught up, his mother decided the solution was to hand my home to his sister.
I looked at the photograph on my phone.
The mural.
Green vines.
Gold details.
A painted landscape hidden for a century beneath wallpaper.
History surviving because someone did not tear it out.
I had once loved that apartment because it taught me buildings keep layers.
Good and bad.
Visible and hidden.
May you like
Now my marriage felt exactly the same.
And Jacqueline was about to help me peel back every layer Gabriel had worked so hard to cover.
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