élan

élan is a French word that describes the sense of a movement coming; the grace with which time moves towards the next chapter

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(Y/N) fought to keep her eyes focused in the dark of her father's office. The longer she sat there, listening to the shout of his voice, the easier it was to block it out as she waited for it to be over. She stopped listening when he went off on his tangent about how terrible she was (he loved to use the word selfish and anything he could think of to diminish her intelligence). He wasn't very creative anymore, these berating sessions feeling like a necessary task as opposed to a hurtful punishment these days.

At least the interior designer he brought in last month had moved everything around, leaving his bookshelf behind his desk. This way, she could look over his shoulder and read the titles of his books. She was almost certain he hadn't read a single volume though he most likely told everyone that followed him in, that he had paged through each book more than once.

"Are you even listening, (Y/N)?"

Perking up at the sound of her name, she nodded on instinct. "Mhm," she hummed absently.

"What did I just say?" He was unimpressed—disbelieving.

(Y/N) stayed silent.

A heavy sigh fell from her father's lips. His eyes dimmed fro the angry fire she'd spotted before, leveling to disappointed embers the longer he looked at her.

"This is what I mean, (Y/N)," he continued, harshly spitting out her name, "You don't care. Never have you thought about the consequences to your actions. You're too selfish to think of anyone but yourself!" The blaze sparked up once more as he flicked his gaze to the glossy tabloid splayed across his desk. "Can you even comprehend what this"—he gritted out the word, tapping his finger against the photo—"means for me? My investors are going to have my ass only Monday because you don't know how to control yourself for five minutes."

She squirmed in her spot. Her gaze stayed locked on the tabloid cover. She was pictured with bitter features, her brows twisted in anger and eyes were ablaze. Her hand was outstretched as she dumped a full glass of rosé on Damien Moore's perfect, blonde head. Several angles were posted, documenting her gaped lips as she spat out venomous words while Damien looked on with seemingly innocent, wide blue eyes. The last in the series showed her walking out with the wine dripping down his features as he looked on in shock. A bold headline said: "Whore-mones or Another Drunken Rage?"

(Y/N) swallowed as she took the scene in.

Perfectly manicured nails clashed in her lap, the edges of her acrylics being worn dull from the restless ministrations.

"Do you want me to fail?" her father prodded, unsatisfied with her silence.

"It's not what it looks like—," she floundered, unable to keep her feelings out of it after looking at those photos, "He—Damien—"

"It does not matter what happened, (Y/N)! This is what it looks like and that is what people are going to believe and what they are going to care about!" He seethed as he looked at her, (Y/N) unsurprised. "You're going to make us lose everything if you keep this up, do you understand that? Your apartment, everything you have in Paris, your stupid shopping sprees—you'll actually have to work if you want any of that. Did you think of any of that?"

His harsh words slipped around her, filling every breath of air she pulled into her lungs. Any fight she had, any want to defend herself or give any kind of explanation, left her in an instant. "No," she answered, resigned.

"I didn't fucking think so. You never think, anyway."

(Y/N) just looked over his shoulder. Her gaze didn't shift even as his voice continued on, droning with insults and degrading remarks.