Forty Months of you

The chandeliers above glimmered like captured stars, but all Alexa could think about was how tight her dress was and how much she hated billionaires. Especially Damien. The gala was a dazzling affair hosted at the Musée des Arts Décoratifs in Paris, where the city’s elite gathered under the illusion of charity. Under the glittering canopy of crystal and candlelight, whispered conversations drifted about stock bids, real estate empires, and which scandal would headline tomorrow’s tabloids. Alexa Laurent journalist, idealist, and resolute truth-teller belonged in none of that. She stood on the marble floor feeling painfully aware of her social mismatch: legs wrapped in silk stockings, heels clicking loudly, the clutch in her hand heavier than she'd expected. She wasn’t here for the wine. She wasn’t here for networking. She was here because Damien Moreau was here. Forty months ago, he’d orchestrated a hostile takeover that wrecked her sister’s tech startup. A company built with sweat and sacrifice. A legacy erased overnight. Journalists had called it business strategy. Alexa called it war. Tonight, she was armed with a pen and a purpose. She spotted him instantly: Damien Moreau. Towering. Sharp-suited. Jaw like granite. Eyes pale gray, unreadable. He stood at the bar as though surveying his kingdom, not sipping champagne but weighing opportunity. He didn’t laugh. He assessed. Étienne her editor approached her quietly and nodded toward Damien. “You see him?” Alexa nodded. A tight knot formed in her stomach. “I do.” She could never quite prepare herself. Every time she saw him, brightness dimmed, blood buzzed, and the air around her quivered. Étienne swallowed. “Are you sure?” “With pleasure.” She strode forward. Their eyes locked before she reached him. She didn't blink; neither did he. For one heartbeat, the world contracted everywhere else. “Well, well, Miss Laurent.” His greeting was icy poison. His tone almost polite, yet deadly. “How nice to see you back under my roof.” “Don’t flatter yourself,” she replied, forcing a tight smile that tasted like grit. “I’m not here for you.” His lips curved in a flash of humor. “How noble. Surely you’re here for the wine?” “I’m not here at all.” “Liar.” He leaned in, invading her space like a challenge. “You came for something.” “That’s your assumption.” “Wrong,” she said, batting away the insult. “It’s yours.” A bartender slid her a glass of red. She accepted it, meeting Damien’s gaze as though daring him to finish. “You always carry your war wounds with such elegance,” he said quietly, almost approvingly. “Jealousy doesn’t suit you,” she replied. “Leave it to the jilted to romanticize pain.” He took the glass from her hand and sipped deeply. Another game. “Don’t insult me, Alexa,” he said softly. His voice rippled with low heat. “You shouldn’t waste your most delightful weapon.” She blinked. For a moment, she wondered if those words meant anything beyond provocation. “I didn’t ask for your praise.” “Wouldn’t give it anyway.” “I’m not impressed.” “Good,” he said. “Bluster is still my favorite color on you.” They stood on the edge of that line anger, desire, disgust each crackling in silence heavier than any spoken accusation. Then she turned. He didn’t move away. “Be careful,” she whispered part warning, half regret. “Your anger might consume you.” Instead of letting the words disappear, he leaned in close. His breath was a promise. “You might set yourself on fire too.” She paused. “Maybe I’ll burn brighter.” And with that, she turned and exited. She escaped into the Parisian night that felt silk-soft and loaded with possibility. She leaned against a column on the museum’s terrace, the streetlamps sparkling over the Seine like fireflies. The tension in her chest was sharp, white-hot. Her phone buzzed. Étienne: Please tell me you didn't spill wine on him. She typed back: Not yet. She closed her eyes. She was shaking, though she didn’t let herself acknowledge it. “Why Paris?” Damien’s voice came from behind her. She didn’t startle. Instead, she turned, straightening in a way that kept her dignity intact. “You hit the nail on the head.” “Why come, then?” “I live here,” she said firmly. “Unlike some, I don’t relocate just to destroy lives.” “That’s brave. Arrogant. Or both.” She levelled her chin. “Maybe I’m all the things you’re pretending not to be.” “You wear revenge like perfume,” he replied softly. “Subtle. But it lingers.” “And you wear fear like armor.” He stepped closer. Too close. Air sizzled around their nearness. “You want a story.” She didn’t flinch. He whispered: “I want you within reach.” Her throat tightened. He raised a finger, brushing it across her wrist with strange tenderness. “If you want to watch a wreck, step inside.” Her breath went shallow. She didn’t move. “You’re not afraid,” he murmured. “I’m not afraid of you.” Her voice cracked between the words. He tilted his head. “Because you want more, don’t you?” “I want truth.” He nodded slowly. “Then don’t run.” She swallowed. Every nerve pulsed. “You won't chase,” she whispered. He didn’t reply just turned and walked away, shoes clicking like gunshots across the courtyard. She watched him disappear into the shadows and hated him for leaving. But hated herself more for wanting him to stay. Back inside, fighters in gowns drifted past her as though she were air. She placed her phone in her clutch and made her way to the exit again this time gladly. The city air felt cold. Clean. Étienne was waiting. She swiped the folder of notes from her bag. “This is the article outline.” He was practically vibrating. “We have enough to break him.” She looked at the night. A man, a mask, and her voice. Maybe she would. Outside, someone began packing rose petals into a car for a late wedding. Alexa crossed the street slowly, boots clicking on wet cobblestones. She lit a cigarette. Florian, a street musician struck a note on trial run. She inhaled. Damien watched her from a distance half hidden behind a pillar, the reflection of streetlights dancing off his glass cufflinks. They didn’t speak again. But the war had officially begun.