Two Years Before the Accident…
The luxury cruise ship sailed along the Seine River, Paris glowing with golden lights reflecting off the water. Inside the ballroom, the night was all glamour—rich people in designer clothes, champagne glasses clinking, and fake laughter bouncing off the walls.
Elara Moreau, twenty-three, stood out like a wildfire amid the crowd. Her long brown hair fell loose, her eyes flashed with anger, and her tight black dress clung to her curves. She was there with her stepmother, Isabelle Moreau, who kept pushing her towards stuffy suitors like Adrian Beaumont. Elara despised it. She needed to breathe.
She escaped to the deck, the cool night air hitting her face as she leaned against the railing. That's when she collided with him—literally. Spinning too fast, she bumped into a tall man in a black suit, his dark brown eyes narrowing as he grabbed her arm to steady her.
"Watch where you're going," he snapped, his voice deep, filled with irritation.
Elara's temper took over instantly. "You watch it," she fired back, jerking her arm free. "You're the one standing there like a damn wall."
He smirked, his eyes scraping over her like he was sizing her up. "You've got a mouth on you."
"And you've got a stare that's begging for trouble," she said, crossing her arms, her eyes daring him to push her further.
They stood there, the party fading behind them, locked in a silent standoff.
Lucian smirked. "A quite fascinating lady, I see" he thought.
Neither flinched, and that's when it began—the spark that would ignite everything.
One Month Later…
A high-stakes business conference in Paris threw them together again. Elara, representing her family's fashion empire, ended up seated next to Lucian, now a rising name in his own business circle. They recognized each other immediately—the cruise guy, the deck girl—and the tension snapped back to life.
Their debate during a panel on market trends was electric. Elara argued fiercely for innovation in fashion; Lucian hit back with sharp points on diversification. The room watched, captivated, and afterward, Lucian approached her.
"You held your own up there," he said, a glimmer of respect in his eyes.
"You weren't bad yourself," she replied, arms folded, smirking. "For a suit."
He let out a rare chuckle and said, "Coffee? I'd like to hear more of your ideas." It was casual but deliberate.
She paused, then nodded. Over coffee at a quiet café in Montmartre, they talked business, then personal protests—her stepmother, his family's pressure.
It wasn't a date yet, but it was the start. These meetups turned regular, then secret, turning into dates as they bonded over ambition and rebellion. Their romance grew naturally, fueled by mutual respect and an undeniable pull.
****
Over the next year, their love was a wild ride; intense, messy, and sometimes brutal. They met whenever they could; late nights at Lucian's apartment, stolen kisses in his office, quiet hours at the café.
As time goes on, Lucian's possessiveness was clearly visible which led to frequent argument. At a business gala, Elara laughed with a charming investor, and Lucian, across the room, noticed. He didn't storm over; instead, he wove through the crowd, calm but purposeful, and joined them.
"Miss Moreau, we're needed at the bar—strategy talk," he said smoothly, his hand brushing her lower back, guiding her away. His touch lingered, a quiet claim, and his eyes glared to the investor, a warning wrapped in professionalism.
Later, alone, she teased, "You didn't like him talking to me, did you?"
Lucian smirked, pulling her close. "I don't like anyone thinking they've got a shot."
It was possessive, yes, his control showed in how he kept her near, not in shouting matches unless he had lost his temper, which happens often.
Their fights were explosive—doors slammed, voices echoed, objects flew.
They were a mess with their tempers clashing like storms but their love was unbreakable. Every fight ended with them tangled together, proving they couldn't walk away.
A few months into their secret romance, at their usual café hideout, Elara from across the table grabbed Lucian hands, smiling like he had just won a lottery. "What if I worked for you?" she said, tapping her coffee cup. "As your secretary. We'd see each other every day, no sneaking around as much, and no one would suspect a thing."
Lucian raised an eyebrow, skeptical. "You? My secretary? You'd hate taking orders."
She grinned, leaning closer. "I'd only take them from you. Besides, I could help with your deals, keep an eye on things. It's smart."
He rubbed his jaw, torn between the risk and her logic. "If anyone suspects—"
"They won't," she cut in, fierce. "I'm good at playing a part. Let me be near you, Lucian."
Her determination and the promise of her presence won him over. A week later, she was at his office, her desk outside his door, their secret safe behind professional smiles and stolen glances.
With a trusted friend, Mathieu Rousseau, handling some of Lucian's business dealings, they had an extra layer of protection. Mathieu knew enough to keep their meetings discreet, even if he didn't yet know the full depth of their bond.
Their love reflected their personalities. Lucian's was grand and intense, he'd surprise her with a rooftop dinner overlooking Paris, just the two of them, or pull her into fierce embraces after fights, whispering, "I'd do anything for you."
Elara's was subtler, thoughtful, she'd slip notes into his briefcase— "Don't be an a$s today"—or brew his favorite coffee at the office. Their love was a balance of fire and quiet care, binding them through every storm.