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Monet de Haan was not a violent person. She was cruel, sure. Cold. Uncaring. Petty. Not a small number of people would call her evil incarnate, but she wasn’t violent. There were much better ways to destroy someone, anyways. But standing there watching Luna getting her heart broken by this woman, once again, made Monet want to tear Dolores apart with her bare hands. The audacity of this scam of a mother to barge into Luna’s life and ruin her biggest opportunity to date, without a care in the world for how her daughter craved her affection. Less than that even, Monet thought with a scoff, just an acknowledgement of the relationship they were supposed to have.
It wasn’t fair, Monet thought, that this farce of a woman was what Luna had to call a mother, or tried to, at least, when she was afforded that privilege. It wasn’t fair that Luna had to grow up without a family because of the jealousy and prejudice of her mother. It wasn’t fair that Monet’s favorite person in the world had to keep up hope that eventually, through some miracle, Dolores would come around, when Monet was sure that bitch didn’t spare a second to think about her wonderful daughter.
And just like that, Monet is once again weighing the consequences of an assault charge. A look at Luna’s face, however, and she knows that’s not what her girl needs, so Monet steps closer to Luna until she can brush her knuckles against that of the taller girl’s, despise how nauseating she normally finds public affection. It’s an assurance, that Monet will follow whatever Luna chooses to do next, be it a quick escape or escalating this into a scene. And if Monet kept glowering at Dolores in a way that would’ve made Constance students fall at her feet, could you really blame her?
When Luna ends the conversation and walks away, briefly touching her hand but not taking it, Monet can guess that she wants to be alone, but that doesn’t mean she is about to let Lune out of her sight anytime soon. She sees her picking up her shoulders and carving out her impassive facade as she types with a determination born out of need. As Luna finishes with her message, to what Monet can only assume is gossip girl, she doesn’t waste time in going to her.
Hand to Luna’s elbow to call her attention, lingering. “We’re leaving. My place or yours?”
Luna is biting her lip, a nervous habit she never quite got rid of, “No, i want to stay a bit longer” She adjusts her posture. Natural. Unbothered. Unnoticed. “I want to see her face.” Monet clocked the tension that didn’t leave Luna’s shoulders.
“Okay” Arms linked. Monet takes the first step away. “Come on then, let’s get some drinks.”
For the rest of the evening, Monet pretends she doesn’t notice Luna’s shaky breaths, and the measured ones that follow to counter a display of weakness. Monet doesn’t comment on the shine in Luna’s eyes, that she knows aren’t just from the Swarovski crystals in the makeup look they put together. Most of all, Monet de Haan also doesn’t acknowledge how Luna’s hand doesn’t drift far from her’s for the rest of the night, and the violent, unsettling, lovely feeling that surges in her chest.