The rain poured down on Paris, soaking the wide, elegant streets of the 16th arrondissement—a wealthy city famed for its luxurious residences and wealthy residents. Elara Moreau pulled her trench coat closer, her heels striking the sloppy sidewalk as she stormed away from her family's massive penthouse. Her chest filled with rage after the fight with her parents.
"I love Lucian, and I won't let you cage me anymore!" she'd yelled at them just moments ago, her voice cracking under the weight of their disapproval.
"You're a Moreau, it seems like you keep forgetting. The least you can do is to not disgrace us and drag our reputation through the mud" her step mother, Isabelle Moreau said, her voice still echoing repeatedly even after Elara left.
Elara had just confessed to her parents that she was in love with Lucian Duval, their fiercest rival and competitor. She had taken a job as a secretary, pretending it was a way to gather information to use against Lucian's family. She'd even convinced her stepmother, Isabelle, that it was a strategic move for leverage. But in truth, Elara used the position to stay near her lover.
Her deception didn't last long—Isabelle had sent a spy to watch her, and the spy reported back that Elara and Lucian were growing closer than necessary. The spy also noted that Elara had no intention of marrying Adrian Beaumont, the man her family had arranged for her to wed.
Elara's father sat there, doing nothing as usual. She had stared at him before leaving, frustration boiling inside her, while Isabelle spat harsh words in her face. She despised her father's weakness—he was so useless that he'd handed the company over to Isabelle completely. It was no surprise her real mother had walked out years ago.
"The f*ck*ng nerve of that b*tch, using me like some pawn for her shitty Beaumont investments," she hissed while quickening her pace as the rain poured harder than she'd expected. "Like I care about them or their goddamn money."
She pulled out her phone and typed a quick message to Lucian: "Where the hell are you? I'm so pissed off right now! Meet me at the spot now!" Shoving her phone away, she grumbled under her breath, "Ugh, I hate this so much."
Clutching her sketchbook against her, her one tether to sanity, she set off for Montmartre, where Lucian Duval waited at their secret meeting spot: a tucked-away café that felt like freedom.
Her family's wealth meant drivers were always at her disposal, but tonight Elara had waved them off, craving solitude in the rain-drenched streets to untangle her thoughts.
She didn't even notice the delivery truck barreling around the corner, its tires slipping and sliding on the wet road. The driver, too busy messing with the radio through the storm's crackling noise, didn't spot her stepping into the crosswalk.
The horn screamed way too late, headlights blinding her as she spun around, feet glued to the spot. "F*ck!" she screamed.
Then—wham—the truck smashed into her with a bone-shattering crunch. Her body flew up, slamming onto the hood before sliding off and rolling across the wet pavement. Her sketchbook went flying, landing in the gutter, pages flapping open as the rain pounded them.
A sharp, burning pain exploded in her head, like fire ripping through her, before everything faded to black.