Forty Months of you

Chapter Three: A Devil’s Kindness

The early dawn light filtered through Alexa’s apartment blinds, painting the floor in broad stripes of gold. But inside her, the world still felt dark. She had slept for only a few hours after her clandestine dinner with Damien. Each dream had ended with wind-blown ashes and the memory of his voice whispering, “Let me in.”

Sitting at her writing desk, cold coffee at her elbow, she stared at the screen. The document was titled “Forty Months of You: Anatomy of a Fall.” But the page was blank, the cursor blinking accusingly. She had the facts. She had the strategy. She even had the leaks Damien had provided. But no words in her mind seemed enough for the storm she was walking into.

Why did he give me everything? The question haunted her as much as it enraged her.

Her phone buzzed. It was Étienne.

Étienne: Lunch? If not for writing, then for revenge.

She scrolled through her contacts. Among them: Maya, her older sister, in New York, unaware that Alexa was working not just to rebuild the Laurent name but to bury it less painfully. Emily, her twin, still reeling from losing her startup. And Étienne, the only one she trusted with half the truth.

Alexa thumbed the screen. I’ll bring gasoline.

Coffee with Étienne

By mid-morning, Alexa sat across from Étienne at a café in Le Marais. The urban hum around them felt cursory ordinary life going on while hers was fracturing.

“Is press access worth the risk?” Étienne asked.

Alexa stirred her espresso thoughtfully. “He handed me the prison bars in one hand and the key in the other.” She took a slow sip. Coffee burned her tongue too hot, like her thoughts were scalding.

“You're already inside,” he said. “He wants you there. Maybe he even needs you.”

She raised an eyebrow. “What, like a career suicide pact?”

Étienne gave a tight smile. “Better that than playing chess with someone who's already burned the board.”

She absorbed that.

The Dinner Invitation Again

That evening, her phone rang, an unknown number. She answered, expecting more games. It was Damien.

“I see you still breathe under the weight of your principles.” His voice crackled with amusement, but the tone was softer. Less venom, more curiosity.

“What do you want?” Her voice was flat.

He replied: “Your perspective. That meeting tonight. 8 p.m. At La Maison Blanche.”

She inhaled sharply. The same private villa she'd glimpsed from the city skyline. Damned, magnetic. “Someone's going to notice.”

“That would be... ideal.” Then he hung up.

Her heart collapsed inside her. Why does he still matter?

La Maison Blanche

La Maison Blanche perched above the Seine like a white fortress. An ancient vineyard estate with modern security atmosphere high on history, low on paternal empathy.

Damien greeted her on the terrace, the night air thick with jasmine and the faint sound of crickets. He wore a fitted black blazer, no tie. Showing contrition or challenge. She still couldn’t tell.

“Win or be burned,” Damien said quietly as he gestured toward the city.

“Which is which?” Alexa asked, peering into the darkness.

He lifted a glass of scotch. “Come closer. I’ll show you both.”

The Confession

They walked inside. The interior was candlelit, dark wood, old paintings of stern-faced ancestors. The weight of the house pressed around her.

Damien’s voice cut through the silence. “You asked what I want.”

She didn't immediately answer.

He continued: “I want you unafraid of me. I want you curious. I actually want you to want to know everything I am.”

Alexa chuckled, a brittle laugh. “So? Monster confession time?”

He stopped. “Elise’s death wasn’t an accident.”

Her breath hitched.

“She was collateral damage. She helped me walk into that campaign. She tried to fix everything I was about to lose. When she found out I was blind to it…”

Damien’s hands clenched. “When I finally saw what I’d built in my name, it was too late.”

Alexa stepped closer. Her voice softened. “You blame yourself.”

He nodded. “Because guilt is easier than grief.”

She hesitated. “I’m sorry.”

He looked up. “Why do you care?”

She shrugged. “Because we both lost something we had no idea was given.”

He stared. “Begin writing that article.”

An Unlikely Canvas

A soft knock preceded the arrival of a canvas draped under a cloth. Damien unveiled it. The painting depicted the skyline of Paris at night but over the city’s glow, the silhouette of a tree grew roots visible in the glass, branches touching rooftops.

He asked: “What do you see?”

Alexa blinked. “Anchored growth… hidden roots.”

“Good,” he said. “I painted it the night I knew Elise had died.”

Her voice trembled. “Why paint it?”

“Because I needed proof she was real. She was the only thing that ever looked unbreakable in me.”

She touched the wet canvas gently. “You’re broken.”

“I’m trying to be repaired.”

The Garden Walk

They moved outside into the terrace garden, the night air cold). The city below looked soft in the haze.

Alexa said: “You’ll never heal the business. You can only rebuild the person.”

Damien's silhouette stiffened. “That’s the hardest part.”

They didn’t walk side by side. He kept pace half a step behind. It was a distance filled with unsaid words.

Then she asked: “Do you ever regret the power?”

He stopped, turning his face to the moonlight. “Every day.”

Final Toast

They returned inside to glasses of aged cognac in diamond-cut tumblers.

“Raise a glass, Alexa,” Damien said.

She did with cold courtesy.

“To monsters.”

“To people who choose not to be monsters anymore,” he replied.

Their glasses clinked, echoing softly.

Back at Her Apartment

The night air was still as she walked inside. The apartment seemed too small. Too safe. Too real. Her phone pinged with a message:

From: Damien Moreau

“Your article will be skilled. But it will lack fury without your heart.”

She swallowed hard. Rage and something else kindled beneath her ribs.

“To write the truth, I must own the fire.”

She looked out her window. Across the lights of Paris, a man stood watching. She couldn’t see his face.

But she could hear his heart.