Mathilde negotiates with Frédéric at the Comptoir des Marronniers and offers two million euros for him to disappear. Sophie, who has been watching her mother for days, records the conversation with a hidden microphone and confronts Mathilde in the parking lot, revealing that she discovered emails proving David knew about the defective parts. Mathilde makes the transfer the next morning, despite Véronique's warnings. Three days later, Frédéric is already demanding an additional 500,000 euros. Mathilde opens David's safe and discovers a handwritten letter where David confesses his complicity and cowardice, confirming he knew everything. Mathilde realizes she has just entered an endless cycle of blackmail, repeating her husband's mistakes.
Le Comptoir des Marronniers breathes discretion. Its ochre walls, its Art Deco chandeliers filtering warm light, its isolated alcoves—everything has been designed so that sensitive conversations disappear into the complicit murmur of other patrons. It's a place where secrets are sealed over glasses of burgundy.
Mathilde arrives first. She chooses a table at the back, back to the wall, facing the door. A control reflex. She places her phone face down, removes her kidskin gloves, adjusts her black blouse three times. She breathes slowly, as before a closing argument. It's just negotiation. She's already negotiated with bankers, investors, unions. Frédéric is just a man. A man who needs money.
When Frédéric arrives—ten minutes late, deliberately—he wears a charcoal suit that probably costs more than a mechanic's monthly salary. His hair is carefully slicked back. He smiles when he sees her, that smile that slightly creases his eyes, which could be benevolence or mockery. Impossible to tell.
"Frédéric, thank you for accepting this meeting," says Mathilde, voice measured but tension perceptible. "I think it's time we talked... frankly."
He sits without responding. The waiter brings menus. Neither of them opens theirs.
"I have a proposal for you," Mathilde continues, leaning slightly forward. "Two million euros. Immediate transfer. In exchange, you disappear permanently from Rousseau Air and from our lives."
Frédéric lifts his glass of red wine—a Côtes-du-Rhône—and looks at it against the light, as if studying something in the liquid. He wears a gold signet ring on his left hand, their father's, stolen from David years before. A silent trophy of ancient victories. While he listens to Mathilde, he caresses this ring with his thumb. A repeated gesture, mechanical, almost affectionate.
"My dear Mathilde... Two million euros. That's generous, truly generous," he says finally, charming smile. "You know, David had this same way of... negotiating. This quiet confidence."
Mathilde notices the gesture with the ring, fleeting disturbance crossing her face. She recognizes this signet ring. She recognizes it too well. "Why are you...?" She stops herself. It doesn't matter. She must stay focused. "So? What do you say?"
"Three days to think it over," Frédéric responds, voice honeyed. "That's not too much to ask, is it? For a decision that will change... so many things."
Mathilde believes she's taken control of the situation. She straightens slightly, relieved. She's obtained a tacit promise. Frédéric doesn't say no.
What she doesn't know—what Frédéric understands while savoring his wine—is that he's already won. He's already obtained what he wanted: proof that Mathilde is willing to pay. Willing to pay again and again.
Six weeks before the crash. A Rousseau Air office. Late afternoon.
David was thinner back then. More smiling too, but with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. He was sweating slightly. Frédéric, seated across from him, was impeccable as always, the signet ring gleaming on his finger.
"David, my big brother... You know I've only ever wanted the best for Rousseau Air," says Frédéric, feigned affection, tapping documents. "These papers? A simple debt restructuring. Cash flow optimization. Completely standard in the industry."
David scans the documents. The terms are technical, the euphemisms convincing. He knows aviation, not creative finance. Frédéric explains with assurance, with the confidence of someone who masters a domain. David wants to believe. He wants to believe in his brother.
"You're my brother, David. My only brother. How could I betray you?"
David signs. Three documents. Maybe four. He understands partially, but chooses to trust. Why not trust your own brother?
Frédéric smiles exactly as he smiled with Mathilde. The same smile. The smile of someone who has just closed a trap.
The underground parking garage smells of damp concrete and gasoline. The fluorescent lights create hard shadows, without nuance. Sophie waits there for her mother around 10:15 PM, arms crossed, phone in hand. She's followed Mathilde for three days, noting every suspicious gesture, every furtive call. She knew her mother was preparing something. She knew it concerned Frédéric.
Mathilde exits the elevator. She knows immediately. Before Sophie even speaks, she knows.
"You recorded everything," says Mathilde. It's not a question.
Sophie presses play. Mathilde's voice fills the underground garage, clear and sharp, captured by the microphone she had hidden in the collar of her mother's jacket that very morning: "Two million euros. Immediate transfer. In exchange, you disappear permanently."
"Mom, you're making exactly the same mistakes as Dad!" Sophie shouts, tears in her eyes. "You think you're buying peace but you're just buying your own submission!"
"It's pragmatic!" Mathilde defends, voice rising. "I'm saving the company, I'm saving our jobs!"
"You're not saving anything. You're just buying time to lie to yourself," Sophie retorts. Then, her voice becomes harder, even more terrible: "And you know what I found? Emails. Emails between Dad and Frédéric, dated three weeks before the crash. Dad knew, Mom. He knew about the defective parts. He signed Frédéric's documents knowing."
Mathilde feels the ground tilt. The world collapses. David knew. David was complicit.
"No," Mathilde whispers, backing away. "No, that's impossible."
"I found them in the file he kept hidden. The one from the safe. There's also a letter, Mom. A letter dated two days before the crash."
Mathilde raises her hand, gesture of refusal, gesture of pain. She doesn't slap Sophie. She can't. She collapses against the parking garage wall, unable to bear the weight of this betrayal. Her voice becomes almost inaudible: "Why didn't you tell me this before? Why did you let me..."
"Because you wouldn't have listened to me!" Sophie shouts. "You would have defended Dad. You would have found excuses. You would have always believed him innocent!"
Sophie walks away, leaving her mother collapsed in the empty parking garage.
The next morning, Mathilde, trembling and isolated, makes the two million euro transfer from her office. Her hands shake on the keyboard. She validates. It's done. She no longer knows why she's doing it—to protect David's legacy? To buy time? To lie to herself?
Véronique enters without knocking and discovers the transaction on the screen.
"What have you done?"
"I made a decision. A difficult but necessary decision," Mathilde murmurs.
Véronique remains silent for a moment, then her voice becomes icy, definitive: "You just validated his method. He'll come back. Again and again. You didn't ask him for anything in writing, did you?"
Mathilde doesn't respond. Her phone vibrates. Message from Frédéric: "Received. Thank you for this mark of confidence. See you soon."
Véronique reads over her shoulder. Her expression becomes even harder: "You just signed a slavery contract. And he knows it."
Three days later. Mathilde, alone in her apartment, stares at the ceiling. She hasn't slept. She can't sleep. She thinks about David, about his lies, about his complicity. She thinks about Frédéric who waits, patient, to strike again.
Her phone vibrates. Message from Frédéric: "A small problem has come up. Nothing serious. Just a personal debt I'd forgotten. 500,000 euros. I'm sure you'll understand."
Mathilde closes her eyes. Véronique was right. It's endless.
She gets up, trembling. She opens David's personal safe—code: their wedding date. She opened it the previous night, but she returns now, searching for an answer, a justification, something that could explain the inexplicable.
The file marked "INSURANCE" is still there. Inside: emails between David and Frédéric, signed documents, and a handwritten letter dated two days before the crash:
"If you're reading this, it's because I didn't have the courage to confess everything to you. I knew, Mathilde. I knew about the defective parts. Frédéric presented it to me as a restructuring, but I knew. And I signed because I was afraid. Afraid of losing the company. Afraid to confront him. Afraid of losing everything.
I kept these documents as insurance, thinking I could use them against him one day. But I never had the courage to do it. And now, I know what's going to happen. I know the planes aren't safe. I know that someone will pay for my cowardice.
Forgive me. Forgive me for leaving you alone with this lie. Forgive me for not being the man you deserved.
David"
Mathilde drops the letter. Everything she thought she knew about her husband collapses. David knew. David was complicit. And now, she is too.
She looks at her phone. Frédéric's message still awaits her response. 500,000 euros. Just the beginning.
She thinks of Sophie, of her anger, of her brutal truth. Her daughter was right. She had just signed a slavery contract. And there was no emergency exit.
