FALLING FOR THE ENEMY'S SON

The rain was beating against the window, a harsh reminder, like the hand of a lady, of all that had gone wrong. Ava Monroe was seated behind her desk, and she gazed at the broken corner of her laptop as if it seemed to have the solution to her shattered life. There was the aroma of newly boiled coffee in her little Mini desk-side apparatus, plus the keener tang of old paint and venerable varnish. It was the aroma of survival, that was all, or that everything. Her studio office was located on the 3rd floor of an idle warehouse in Brooklyn. She says it was stuffy in winter and noisy in the summer, and always leaked, and she could ill afford to make repairs. But it belonged to her. Each square foot was purchased at the expense of late nights and freelance work, and the determination that it is not going to end there. This time it was the fourth time she looked at her phone in one morning. Not a bit in the medicine store yet. She had fallen behind with prescriptions again, which her mother had promised, and now, with tuition fees breathing down her neck, Ava was about to sell her soul to stay on top. And bills came in by the dozen to languish as sealed envelopes of failure, and her bank account taunted her with every access. She took a deep breath and picked up the notepad, attempting to work on her current project, a small kitchen renovation for a middle-aged couple in Queens. Warm oak coloring, soft light, perhaps subway tiles on the backwall. She made a few notes, then fell to thinking. This was not what she had imagined when she had graduated from school in Parsons. Instead of reconditioning penthouses in Manhattan so she could start her brand, she was repairing fixer-uppers with low commissions. But that dream had sunk three years ago — along with the Monroe name. The whispers hadn’t stopped. “The Monroe girl.” “Daughter of the man who tanked his empire.” “She used to be something, you know.” She had grown used to the looks, the pity, the unspoken judgment. But it never stopped hurting. Her father’s disgrace — his arrest, the public trial, the way former friends turned their backs — had left scars deeper than anyone could see. Some nights she still dreamed of the courthouse. Of the cameras flashing. Of her mother crying silently beside her. Her phone buzzed, jolting her back to the present. Subject: Urgent Contract Opportunity – Exclusive Hotel Project Sender: Carter Designs She frowned. Carter Designs? She’d heard of them — luxury architecture, sleek renovations, celebrity clients. The kind of firm that didn’t usually give the time of day to small independent designers, let alone someone like her with a tarnished family name. Curiosity pushed her to click. “We’ve reviewed your portfolio. One of our top-tier clients requires an interior design consultant for a luxury heritage renovation project in Manhattan. Your design ethos aligns with their vision. If you’re available, we’d like to begin immediately.” Her heart did a slow, cautious flutter. There were no names. No budget. Just vague professionalism and a figure — the compensation package — that made her eyes widen. Twice her usual rate. No, more. She reread the email, almost afraid it would disappear. Surely there had to be a catch. Opportunities like this didn’t just land in her inbox. Her phone rang. Unknown number. Hesitated; then answered. “Hello, this is Ava Monroe.” “Ms. Monroe. Good morning,” a polished feminine voice responded at the other end. “It is Marianne with Carter Designs. I wished to make a personal follow-up on the offer we have just made. Your client has seen your work, especially how you used muted modern colours in historical buildings, and she is quite interested.” Ava stopped in her chair. “And would permission be granted to me to inquire who the client is?” “I am concerned as the identity is secret until paperwork is signed. Yet, the project is the Astoria Grand Hotel.” Ava froze. She lost the art of breathing for a moment. The Astoria Grand. It was not any hotel. It was New York's iconic. Which had been known as the jewel of the city by one of his fathers, and which had lain in his dream unattainable because the Wellington Group had snatched it away in his very lifetime, and its purchase had been the funeral of his hopes. Her gullet contracted. “Uh… that is quite a serious undertaking.” “It is. And the client is very, very practical. By this week, they will ensure that you are a part of the renovation team. In case you would be at liberty, we would like to proceed today.” “Do you think they are going to want me?” “They recommended you a lot. And, to be sure, Miss Monroe, your efforts are eloquent enough.” She did not know how to feel flattered or to be suspicious. Such flattery was not free in her world. She said, softly, “I am in. Please send me an NDA and the contract.” “Done. Welcome to the ship.” The telephone conversation was over. It was that silence louder than words; she sat for a moment. She put the phone down, and she felt her fingers tremble a little bit. The Astoria Grand. Had her father not died, he would have advised her to struggle to get it. To get out of the ashes and mean something again through her name. And his memory still clung to her, smoke-like, of him standing on the front steps of the townhouse in his New York City Avenue townhouse, handcuffed, with flashing tabloid headlines reading, Disgraced Hotel Tycoon. Her eyes are drawn toward the dusty Monroe family logo in the corner of the studio, which she had not wanted to discard. It has been at least months since looking at it. It looked like it was painfully staring at her now. Was she sure she wanted to do this, Ava? she demanded in a small voice. And she had no answer. She pictured the face of Elena. Her mother was drinking tea out of chipped porcelain with her brittle smile. The billing per month. The calls to the doctor. Her dreams. Each of them wanted her to answer yes. And she had. She turned in her seat, gaze fixed out toward the gray city. The past, which she had endeavored to bury, is rising somewhere. And she never thought of it, that at the bottom of it was the man she had loved once--and ought never to see again. JACE WELLINGTON