THE BILLIONAIRE'S LAST INHERITANCE

The limousine came to an abrupt stop outside a dilapidated apartment complex on the outskirts of Saint-Denis. The concrete walls were scarred with graffiti, and broken intercom buzzers dangled by exposed wires. Julien stepped out, paying no mind to the grime splashing against his bespoke Berluti oxfords.

"Top floor," Leo said, his voice laced with anxiety as he ran ahead, his worn-out sneakers squeaking against the wet linoleum stairs.

The fourth-floor hallway smelled of boiled cabbage and damp concrete. Leo pushed open an unlocked wooden door. Inside, the apartment was sparse but meticulously kept. Faded floral wallpaper peeled at the corners, and an old radiator hissed weakly against the autumn chill. On a narrow mattress beneath a faded patchwork quilt lay a frail woman, her skin glistening with fever sweat, her breathing shallow and raspy.

"Mom?" Leo rushed to her bedside, taking her limp hand. "Mom, we brought help. We didn't lose the car."

The woman’s eyelids fluttered open, glassy and unfocused. When she saw Julien standing in the doorway—his imposing frame filling the modest room, clad in an immaculate overcoat—her breath hitched.

"Who... are you?" she rasped weakly.

Julien knelt by the bed, ignoring the dust. "My name is Julien Vance. Your sons tried to pawn a toy car on Avenue Montaigne. A car with my name carved into the chassis."

Her eyes widened with recognition, a sudden spark piercing through her fever. "You're... Arthur’s boy. You survived."

Before Julien could demand answers, her eyes rolled back, and her hand went limp in Leo’s grip. Julien immediately reached for her neck, feeling an alarmingly faint, thready pulse.