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The last bell of junior year had barely stopped echoing through Constance Billiard when the first wave of glittering invitations went out.
White acrylic with gold embossing. Minimalist. Luxe. Unmistakably De Haan.
A gold-foil header read:
"End of Junior Year Celebration — Hosted by Monet De Haan"
Below, in Monet's sharp cursive: "Bring a towel. Leave the drama."
The student body read it as a ceasefire. A chance to reset. But to anyone who knew Monet—really knew her—it was something else entirely.
A declaration.
That this was no longer about war, control, or reputation.
It was about joy.
And she was choosing it.
Scene: De Haan Manor, That Afternoon
The De Haan estate wasn't new to hosting. Camille's galas had raised millions. But this? This was Monet's first event as someone who had nothing left to prove—and everything to celebrate.
The backyard had been transformed into an oasis.
Sun loungers, citrus cocktails, a live DJ flown in from Berlin, and floats shaped like designer handbags and crowned lions. The pool glistened under fairy lights strung from palm to pergola. It was curated down to the scent of the roses: Monet had requested custom arrangements in the Kingsley family's favorite varietal—white Juliettes with lavender sprigs.
Julien, Luna, Max, Audrey, Obie, Aki, even Zoya—they all came.
And Adelaide? Adelaide was the sun at the center of it all.
Wearing a white cutout one-piece and an oversized sunhat, she perched on a pool chair, her legs dipped in the water as she laughed with Julien about freshman year. She caught Monet's gaze across the pool and didn't look away.
She raised her mimosa.
Monet raised her glass back.
It was like an invisible current passed between them: proud, intimate, unshakable.
----
By sunset, the party was in full swing.
Julien and Luna were floating on a unicorn floatie, debating politics with a sophomore from Yale. Max was orchestrating an impromptu dance contest by the outdoor bar. Aki and Audrey were tucked into a daybed, sharing earbuds and a strawberry popsicle.
And Monet?
Monet was standing poolside in a black silk halter top and wide-leg cream trousers, sipping on a cucumber spritzer, the queen of calm.
She wasn't scheming. She wasn't spiraling.
She was glowing.
Adelaide came up behind her, wrapping her arms around her waist, resting her chin on Monet's shoulder.
