The Last Monroe

A SIGHT TO BEHOLD

By the time Elara arrived at the Seaport, the harbor had already swallowed the last of the daylight. The water beyond the glass walls looked black enough to hide entire histories. Conversations drifted between sculptures and champagne flutes. Waiters moved through the crowd carrying trays that looked more like art installations than food. Somewhere beyond the exhibition space, hidden behind a corridor lined with photographs, came the faint scent of cigar smoke and expensive cedar. Everything about the evening felt curated down to the last detail, as though someone had designed not just the room but the exact version of themselves they wanted guests to become while standing inside it. Elara paused near the entrance, taking it all in. For a moment she had the strange feeling that she had walked into a place where everyone already knew the rules except her.

"You're going to love this artist," she says. "Fair warning: everyone who matters in Boston is probably here tonight. But that's the point. You should be seen."

Elara hasn't been to a social event since arriving. The gallery is familiar—she visits galleries with Noah once a month in Portland, but being here with Serena, being seen, being present rather than observing—that's different.

She's chosen carefully for tonight. A black silk dress that fits. Gold jewelry. Her hair down, waves that took twenty minutes to achieve. Serena is wearing cream linen that somehow manages to look both effortless and intentional, her dark hair pulled back with a vintage clip.

When they enter, the space is already full. The artist is a prominent Boston figure, who explains the flock of rich people.

Across the gallery, Damian notices her immediately.

He's speaking with someone—a man named Felix Crane. Felix is the kind of person who knows things because his job is to know everything about everything. When Felix's gaze follows Damian's and lands on Elara, they exchange a look. Quick. Unreadable.

Felix pulls out his phone. Type a message. Sends it without looking at Damian again.

Somewhere else in the gallery, Cassian Vale receives the text: She's here.

He's currently in conversation with a venture capitalist who's trying to convince him that a particular investment makes sense. When the text arrives, he smirks slightly and continues the conversation.

By the time the evening had progressed through its various rituals—introductions, air kisses, the careful networking of people who know the value of knowing people—Cassian had been approached by at least five people who wanted something from him. He's the CEO of Vale Empire. They want access, they want investment and they want acknowledgment.

Eventually, he excuses himself and moves to a corner of the gallery where he can stand alone with a drink and observe.

The gallery stretches before him. Art on walls that doesn't particularly interest him. People performing versions of themselves. And then

His eyes land on her.

Elara is standing in front of a large canvas, her head tilted slightly as she looks at it. Serena is beside her, talking, gesturing, the way Serena does. But Cassian's attention is entirely on Elara.

He's known everything about her for years.

Her address. Her work. Her schedule in Portland. The fact that she takes her coffee black. That she visits galleries once a month. That she's meticulous and careful and doesn't let people close to her. He's known all of this the way a person knows facts.

But seeing her in person is different.

She's striking in a way that the photographs and surveillance never quite captured. The way she moves. The way light hits her skin. The attention she brings to the painting she's looking at—like she's actually seeing it rather than just standing in front of it. Her hair falls past her shoulders in waves that suggest she is a goddess. Her dress is simple, but it’s expensive to him because it fits her like it was made for her body. When she smiles at something Serena says, the smile changes her entire expression. She smiles with her whole heart. It's glorious to see.

Cassian looks at her with fixed attention, noting everything. The way she tilts her head. The curve of her jaw. Her hands when she gestures. Her skin. The intelligence in her eyes. Her smile. How she listens to Serena with genuine interest even while observing the art.

He's so entirely absorbed that he doesn't notice Felix approaching until Felix is beside him.

Felix stood silently for a moment, watching Cassian watch her.

"We need to go upstairs," Felix says quietly.

Cassian doesn't move immediately. He takes another moment. Then he turns away from Elara, and something in his expression shifts back into place—the CEO, the person with obligations, the one who exists in multiple conversations simultaneously.

"Five minutes," he says.

Felix nods and steps back, giving him space.

Elara turns because she feels that she is being watched. She scans the space where the feeling originates.

Empty.

There's nothing there. No one was looking at her. Just the gallery continuing its evening, people moving through space,

She tells herself she imagined it.

The feeling disappears as quickly as it arrives.

Serena is still talking about the artist. Something about technique and the way contemporary work is trying to reclaim space from minimalism. Elara returns her attention to the painting, running her eyes across it. The artist has done something interesting with shadow. The composition is deliberate and precious.

"My brother should be here somewhere," Serena says, glancing around. "He's usually at things like this. Networking, being important, whatever."

"Cassian. He probably got stuck in conversation with someone boring. He's CEO of Vale Empire, so everyone wants a piece of him." Serena rolls her eyes affectionately. "Should have warned you about my family being everywhere. My uncle's here too, I think. Haven't seen him yet. Hoping to avoid him, honestly."

Elara smiles. She does remember Cassian's name.

"That's fine," she says. "I enjoy looking at the art."

They continue through the gallery. Elara's attention settles on the paintings. Serena's attention settles on the people.

Upstairs, in a private viewing room, Cassian meets with a group of collectors and business associates. He's polite. He's engaged. He's exactly what's expected of him.

But some of his attention remains downstairs, in the gallery, on a woman he's known everything about except what it feels like to actually look at her.

She and Serena eventually decide to leave, but Damian comes to talk to Elara. On their way out, he decides to walk her to the car, the evening continues.

And though Elara doesn't know this yet, though she feels only the faintest ghost of being observed, her stay in Boston has just become significantly more complicated.