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By the time Brigitte leaves the commissariat early on Thursday evening, Beaumont-sur-Mer has begun to soften - sun lowering itself into the marina, the air perfumed with salt and jasmine. She walks, as she often does, rather than taking the car. It gives her time to shed the day. To sort.
Josephine is already seated when Brigitte arrives at the restaurant: discreet, candlelit, tucked just far enough from the harbour promenade that no one wanders in by accident. Josephine looks like she always does in the evenings - effortless, immaculate, unreadable. She smiles when Brigitte approaches, the particular smile reserved only for her.
“You look pleased,” Josephine says, once Brigitte has taken her seat.
“Satisfaite,” Brigitte corrects lightly. “Which is not quite the same thing. But yes. A productive week.”
Wine is poured. Menus are ignored - they do this often enough that they can choose without.
Josephine leans back, folding her hands. “So. Who do you have for me?”
Brigitte does not reach for her phone. She never does. She has learned that Josephine prefers this delivered as conversation, not data.
“Three possibilities,” Brigitte says. “All visitors. All temporary. All convinced the world is arranged for their convenience.”
Josephine smiles, wide and wicked, “Ah. Go on.”
+++++++
“First, a Belgian construction investor,” Brigitte begins, distaste already clear in her tone. “Late forties. Staying at the Mirabeau. He asked to speak to someone senior about the unfair treatment he was receiving. Called me and Suzon, my lieutenant, ‘girls’ and asked if we came with the room.”
Josephine winces, delicately. “Charming.”
“He attempted to pay off several parking fines in cash tossed in my general direction. Added a suggestion. I declined.” A pause. “Firmly.”
“Does he believe himself clever?”
“Oh, deeply,” Brigitte says. “The sort of man who thinks the more he speaks, the more fascinating he gets.”
Josephine considers this, then tilts her head. “A strong candidate. Though perhaps too trying on one’s patience.”
Brigitte gives her a long-suffering look as she thinks back on her interactions with him.
“Agreed. Although he deserves for something unpleasant to happen to him. I will see what...bureaucracy I can arrange. Also on Tuesday, I had the pleasure of meeting a British hedge fund manager,” Brigitte continues, wry. “Here for a conference. Made a scene at the casino after losing badly. Accused the croupier of cheating. Used language I will not repeat.”
Josephine’s eyes sharpen slightly. “Did he threaten litigation?”
“He implied it,” Brigitte says. “He also implied that my authority could be…negotiated.”
Josephine exhales through her nose. “Ah. That type.”
“Believes money absolves him. Believes women are ornamental. Believes consequences are for other people.”
Josephine smiles, slow and dangerous. “Tempting.”
“But,” Brigitte adds, “he is already being watched. Casino security flagged him twice. Too much attention.”
Josephine sighs. “Shame.”
Brigitte allows herself a sip of wine before continuing.
“Next, an American tech entrepreneur. Mid-thirties. On a yacht he very clearly cannot afford without questionable accounting.”
Josephine’s interest sharpens. “Go on.”
“Treats staff like furniture. Tried to bribe a marina clerk to ignore safety violations. When refused, he suggested she should be grateful for the attention.”
Josephine’s smile disappears entirely.
“He believes himself untouchable,” Brigitte says. “And he is temporary. He leaves on Tuesday.”
Josephine considers. Visualises. Measures. “Does he think he’s clever?”
“He described himself as a ‘tech disruptor’.”
Josephine laughs - soft, delighted. “Perfect.”
Brigitte grins. “I thought you might say that.”
+++++++
Their food arrives, untouched for a moment as Josephine reaches across the table - not to take Brigitte’s hand, but to brush her knuckles, briefly. A gesture that says I see you.
“Excellent research, Brigitte,” Josephine says quietly. “The mark really is perfect.”
Brigitte lifts one shoulder. “As you always say…”
Josephine finishes it, smiling. “You can’t cheat an honest man.”
“Évidemment.” Brigitte’s eyes gleam with quiet mischief. “And honest men rarely end up on my list.”
They eat then, comfortably, discussing logistics in low tones - where Josephine might be seen, what persona would best appeal, which vulnerabilities to press and which to let volunteer themselves.
It is a practised rhythm.
Later, as dessert is cleared and the bill discreetly handled, Josephine leans back, studying Brigitte with something like fondness.
“You know,” she says, “most people in your position would find this…distasteful.”
Brigitte, tilts her head, smiles, considering, “Most people in my position do not have the means to disrupt privilege so cleanly, though they probably want to. I have you.”
Josephine’s gaze warms. “I am very glad we are useful to each other.”
As they rise to leave, Brigitte offers her arm without thinking. Josephine takes it, equally unselfconscious.
Another dinner concluded.
Another man selected.
And somewhere between duty and dinner, justice - of a particular sort - quietly arranged.
+++++++
Josephine does not rush once the choice is made - she moves with purpose, like a predator.
That, Brigitte knows, is the most dangerous part.
Preparation
The American’s name is Logan Pierce. Thirty-six. Founder of something with a name like Nexis or Strata. Brigitte’s additional research arrives in neat, precise fragments over the course of two days - more than enough to build a map of the man.
He is staying aboard his yacht rather than at a hotel. He prefers to be seen as apart from - and better than - society.
He drinks alone before dinner and loudly after.
He despises regulation.
He believes Riviera bureaucracy is decorative.
He has recently liquidated a substantial amount of crypto into more traditional accounts. He is impatient, impulsive, eager to move money.
Brigitte's final assessment is short and damning:
He wants to feel smarter than everyone else in the room.
He especially wants to feel smarter than a woman.
Josephine reads it once. Then again.
“Useful,” she murmurs, already discarding half a dozen personas in her head.
This one must be intelligent, but not threatening. Successful, but plausibly under-recognised. Someone who needs a partner. Someone who will let him believe he is exploiting her.
She chooses Isabelle Moreau.
A Franco-Swiss venture liaison. Educated in Lausanne. Recently divorced. Underestimated. Polite. Observant. Quietly ambitious. A woman who understands money but does not display it.
Josephine builds Isabelle carefully: a neutral wardrobe in creams and slate, hair worn loose but disciplined, jewellery minimal and deliberately unflashy. The accent is precise - soft, French. English fluent but slightly formal. She practises the cadence once in the mirror.
Smiles, satisfied.
Contact
Josephine engineers the meeting with the kind of ease that looks like coincidence.
The marina bar at sunset on Saturday. Logan Pierce already seated, half a drink in, scanning the room with the bored entitlement of someone who expects to be noticed.
Josephine takes the stool beside him without asking.
“I hope you don’t mind,” she says lightly, shyly. “I always feel uncomfortable sitting alone."
He glances at her. Assesses. Smiles.
“Of course,” he says. “Always room.”
She orders mineral water. Notes his eyebrows flick upward - disappointed. She lets it happen.
They speak of nothing for ten minutes. Weather. Boats. The absurdity of Riviera rules. Josephine listens more than she talks. She lets him fill the space.
When she finally mentions her work, she does so reluctantly, as if dragged into it.
“Investment structuring,” she says. “Mostly mid-sized ventures. Boring, really.”
His interest ignites instantly.
“Oh?” He leans closer. “I’m in tech. Disruption. You know.”
Josephine smiles, faint and self-deprecating. “I'm afraid I don't really know much about that.”
He laughs. She lets him explain his brilliance to her for a quarter of an hour.
Only then does she offer the hook.
“I’m advising a consortium,” she says. “Energy-adjacent. High-yield, but…” She hesitates. “Not quite ready for public eyes.”
He bites immediately.
The Play
Over the next forty-eight hours, Josephine allows him access - carefully rationed. Coffee becomes lunch. Lunch becomes drinks. She never stays late. She never touches him first. She lets him believe she is cautious, perhaps even intimidated by his confidence.
She shows him paperwork.
Not everything. Just enough.
Shell companies layered cleanly. Contracts referencing real legislation. Projections that are ambitious but not absurd. Brigitte has already quietly confirmed which regulatory language will pass casual scrutiny.
Logan Pierce sees only opportunity.
“You should let me in,” he says on the third meeting. “I could accelerate this.”
Josephine hesitates. Bites her lip. Glances away.
“It’s…complicated,” she says. “My partners are conservative.”
“Then they’re stupid,” he replies promptly.
Josephine smiles at him like he’s just said something very clever.
Eventually, she relents.
The investment is positioned as exclusive. Time-sensitive. Private. He must move quickly, or the window closes.
He transfers the funds himself, smug with his own decisiveness.
Josephine watches the confirmation appear on her phone while he brags about yachts.
She thanks him warmly. Promises updates. Allows him to kiss her cheek.
She leaves before dessert.
Exit
The money disappears into another account that night.
Josephine does not celebrate yet. She never does until the door is fully closed.
By morning, Isabelle Moreau has vanished. Emails bounce politely. Numbers disconnect. The shell companies dissolve into silence.
Logan Pierce realises too late.
He calls lawyers. He calls contacts. He makes threats.
And then - inevitably - he hesitates.
Because Brigitte has done her work.
Because Logan Pierce cannot afford scrutiny.
Because the same accounts he used for the transfer would raise questions he does not want answered.
Because powerful men with questionable finances do not go to the police.
He fumes. He swears. He drinks.
And then he does nothing.
After
Josephine leaves Beaumont-sur-Mer quietly that morning. She always prefers a little distance in the immediate aftermath.
No disguises. No rush. Just another elegant woman departing the Riviera.
She texts Brigitte once, brief and precise:
It’s done.
Dinner? I will return this evening.
Brigitte replies a minute later:
Bien sûr.
I told you - perfect mark.
Another man educated.
Another fortune redistributed.
Another illusion dismantled.
Josephine smiles, settling back into her seat as the train pulls away.