The sheer weight of the Dubois family’s history, the cold steel of their wealth, pressed down on Isabelle. The Chateau, magnificent and imposing, felt more like a prison than a home. After the unsettling dinner, the veiled threats and Philippe's thinly disguised contempt, she felt a desperate need for something real, something familiar. She yearned for the scent of lavender, the warmth of the Provencal sun on her skin, the honest soil between her fingers. The manicured perfection of the Chateau’s formal gardens, while undeniably beautiful, offered none of that solace.

Unable to sleep, Isabelle rose before dawn. Henri was a restless sleeper himself, plagued by the same anxieties that now gnawed at her. She gently eased out of bed, careful not to disturb him, and wrapped herself in a thick woolen shawl against the morning chill. The vast corridors of the Chateau were silent and still, the only sound her own soft footsteps on the polished stone floors.

She remembered Henri mentioning a rose garden, a private sanctuary his father had created, tucked away behind the main house. It was supposedly his father’s favorite place, a place of quiet contemplation amidst the whirlwind of Moreau Industries. Driven by a desperate hope that she might find some connection to the man Henri had so admired, the man whose death now felt shrouded in suspicion, Isabelle set out to find it.

The rose garden was more secluded than she’d imagined. She followed a narrow, winding path through a grove of ancient oak trees, their gnarled branches reaching skyward like supplicating arms. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and decaying leaves. Finally, she emerged into a clearing bathed in the soft, pearly light of dawn.

It was breathtaking.

Unlike the meticulously sculpted gardens near the Chateau, this rose garden was a riot of color and fragrance, a wild and untamed beauty. Roses of every imaginable hue bloomed in profusion, their petals heavy with dew. Crimson, blush pink, creamy white, vibrant yellow – a symphony of roses, a testament to a life lived passionately. Overgrown trellises supported climbing roses that dripped with blossoms, creating a fragrant canopy overhead.

It felt… different. It felt real.

Isabelle breathed deeply, letting the fragrance fill her lungs. This place resonated with her, with the simplicity and honesty she craved. She could almost feel the presence of Henri’s father, a man who, despite his immense wealth and power, had found solace in the simple beauty of roses.

She began to wander through the garden, her fingers gently brushing against the velvety petals. As she explored, she noticed that some of the roses were older varieties, ones she hadn't seen since her grandmother's garden in Avignon. This wasn't just a collection of beautiful flowers; it was a living history, a testament to a love of nature and a connection to the past.

Beneath a particularly magnificent climbing rose, a deep crimson variety with a heady fragrance, Isabelle noticed something out of place. The soil beneath the rose was slightly disturbed, as if someone had recently been digging. Curiosity piqued, she knelt down, carefully pushing aside the loose earth.

Her fingers brushed against something hard. She dug deeper, pulling out a small, tarnished metal box. It was no bigger than her hand, intricately engraved with a floral pattern. Her heart pounded in her chest. This felt significant.

With trembling hands, she opened the box. Inside, nestled on a bed of faded velvet, was a single, folded piece of parchment. The paper was brittle and yellowed with age, the ink faded and smudged. Carefully, she unfolded it, her eyes scanning the elegantly written script.

It was a letter, addressed to Henri. But it wasn't a letter of affection or familial advice. It was a warning.

“My Dearest Henri,

If you are reading this, it means that my worst fears have come to pass. I am afraid, my son, deeply afraid. I have stumbled upon something… something rotten within the heart of Moreau Industries. Something that threatens to destroy everything we have built. I have tried to confide in your mother, but she… she refuses to believe me.

I have left evidence, hidden in plain sight. Look to the documents in the stable regarding the expansion into South America. Follow the money. You will find the truth. Trust no one, Henri, not even those closest to you. They are all pawns in a game far bigger than you can imagine.

Beware, my son. Your life, and the future of Moreau Industries, may depend on it.

With all my love,

Your Father.”

Isabelle felt a chill run down her spine, despite the warmth of the rising sun. The letter was a bombshell, confirming her worst fears. Henri’s father hadn’t just died; he’d been investigating something dangerous, something that had likely led to his demise. And now, that danger threatened Henri, and by extension, her.

The stable. The expansion into South America. Isabelle remembered seeing those files, piled haphazardly in a corner of the dusty stable office. She'd dismissed them as boring corporate documents, irrelevant to her life. Now, she realized they were a key, a clue to unlocking a deadly secret.

She carefully folded the letter and returned it to the metal box, burying it back beneath the rose bush. She needed to tell Henri, to show him what she had found. But she also knew they couldn't trust anyone, not even his own family.

As she walked back towards the Chateau, the rose garden seemed to have transformed. The vibrant colors suddenly felt muted, the sweet fragrance tainted with the bitter scent of betrayal. The sanctuary had become a crime scene, a silent witness to a conspiracy that reached the highest levels of Moreau Industries.

Back in their room, Henri was awake, sitting on the edge of the bed, his face etched with worry. "Isabelle? Where did you go? I woke up and you were gone."

She sat beside him, taking his hands in hers. "I went for a walk," she said, her voice barely a whisper. "I found something in the rose garden. Something you need to see."

She recounted her discovery, her voice trembling as she explained the letter and its implications. Henri listened in stunned silence, his face growing paler with each word. When she finished, he stared blankly ahead, his eyes filled with a mixture of disbelief and horror.

"My father suspected something?" he finally whispered, his voice hoarse. "He thought… he thought he was in danger?"

Isabelle nodded, her heart aching for him. "He was warning you, Henri. He said to trust no one."

Henri stood up abruptly, pacing the room with restless energy. "The South American expansion… I remember him being troubled by that deal. He kept saying something didn't add up, that the numbers were off. But I was young, naive. I didn't understand."

"We need to look at those files," Isabelle said, her voice firm. "We need to find out what your father discovered."

"But who can we trust?" Henri asked, his eyes filled with doubt. "My mother? Philippe? They're both deeply involved in Moreau Industries."

"We trust each other," Isabelle said, squeezing his hands. "That's all that matters. We'll do this together. We'll uncover the truth, no matter what it takes."

A flicker of determination ignited in Henri's eyes. He looked at Isabelle, seeing the strength and resolve in her face. He knew she was right. They were alone in this, but they had each other. And that was enough.

"Okay," he said, his voice regaining its composure. "Let's go to the stables. Let's see what my father was trying to tell me."

They left the room, hand in hand, their steps filled with a newfound purpose. The luxurious surroundings of the Chateau seemed less intimidating now, less oppressive. They were no longer just guests in this opulent prison; they were investigators, seeking justice for a man who had been silenced for knowing too much. The rose garden, once a place of beauty and tranquility, had become a starting point, a symbol of their commitment to unravel the secrets hidden within the heart of Moreau Industries. The game had begun.