The Last Monroe

A MAN WITH ANSWERS

Elara wakes at 9:26 AM because sunlight reaches her face. For the first thirty seconds she didn't know where she was.

Then she sees the wallpaper, the bookshelf, and the ceiling stain above the wardrobe she used to stare at when she couldn't sleep as a teenager.

“Right, Boston, Her mother, Everything else.”

She rolls onto her back and checks her phone. No new messages.

She decides to look into the mirror has she stood up, but the mirror also decides to remind her that international flights are terrible.

She currently has puffy eyes. Dull skin. Hair attempting mutiny.

She stares for a moment before beginning repairs. Her mother used to believe appearance wasn't vanity.

Appearance was armor.

Forty minutes later, she looks more like herself again, or close enough.

Cream silk blouse, tailored charcoal trousers, Camel blazer, small gold hoops and her Grandmother's watch.

Her hair falls in soft waves that required considerably more effort than anyone would ever know.

Better.

Then she catches herself from another angle and the resemblance hits unexpectedly.

Same eyes.

Same mouth.

Same expression.

"Oh."

The sound leaves quietly.

She sits down for a minute.

Downstairs, the house still feels wrong.

Not abandoned wrong, Maintained wrong.

Fresh fruit, restocked fridge. Flowers replaced.

Michael waits outside.

He smiles immediately.

"Good morning, Miss Monroe."

"Morning."

His eyes pause briefly.

"You look beautiful."

He says it casually, the way people comment on the weather.

Something inside her softens.

"Thank you."

"How long are you staying?" Michael asks.

"I honestly don't know."

He nods slowly, unsurprised.

"You should eat first."

"Please."

"I know somewhere."

Charles Street feels properly awake now.

People carrying coffee.

Dog walkers.

Students.

Professionals pretending not to panic.

Blackwood Café sits between a bookstore and clothing store. Inside it smells like espresso and butter.

The waiter arrives.

Young.

Friendly.

Still carrying the confidence of someone whose life hasn't disappointed them properly yet.

"Morning."

She orders coffee and eggs.

He nods,

Her coffee arrives.

Actually good.

The eggs are soft.

For ten minutes she simply watched Boston move.

Her phone vibrates.

Noah.

How bad is lawyer day?

She types:

Unknown. Might accidentally inherit stress.

His reply appears instantly.

Rich people stress still counts as stress.

She almost laughs.

The waiter returns with water.

By 11:00am, they were outside Damian's building.

Michael glances back.

"Nervous?"

"Very."

"Good."

She frowns.

"Good?"

"It means you understand something important is happening."

That somehow helps.

Reception is quiet with warm lighting and current art.

The receptionist smiles immediately.

"Elara Monroe. We've been expecting you."

"Damian is expecting you."

Before she can respond, Damian appears.

His expression changes when he sees her.

Small.

Real.

"Elara."

He smiles.

"You look exactly like her."

He gestures toward his office.

"Come inside before I accidentally become emotional in reception."

His office overlooks the harbor. Bookshelves line the walls, comfortable chairs face the windows, and nothing feels accidental.

"Coffee?"

"No thank you."

"You sure?"

"I've had two."

"Excellent. Then we're already making responsible decisions."

She smiled before realizing she smiled.

They sit beside each other rather than across from one another.

"I'm very sorry about Victoria."She nods.

"I have known your mother for almost eight years."

"You did?"

"Oh yes."

He smiles.

"She once redesigned my office lighting because she believed fluorescent bulbs created trust issues."

Elara laughs.

Actually laughs.

"That sounds like her."

"I lost that argument."

He gestures around the room.

Warm lighting.

She notices.

Damian studies her briefly.

He continues gently.

"She talked about you constantly."

"Mostly good things?"

"Embarrassing amounts of good things."

That hurts.

In a manageable way.

"How are you finding the house?" he asks.

She hesitates.

"It feels like someone expected me."

Damian nods.

"They did."

She looks confused.

"Michael maintained it. Weekly cleaning. Groceries. Maintenance."

"What?"

"Victoria instructed us never to stop preparing it."

Elara stares.

"Preparing it for what?"

He holds her gaze.

"You."

Silence.

He opens a folder.

"Let's discuss why you may need more than a weekend."

The information arrives slowly.

Properties.

Businesses.

Investments.

Managers.

Trusts.

Responsibilities.

Eventually, Elara interrupts.

"Wait."

Damian stops.

"How much exactly did my mother own?"

He studies her.

"Enough that your life is about to become significantly more complicated."

He slides photographs across the desk.

Properties.

Documents.

Businesses.

"Your mother wasn't just building wealth," he explains.

"She was building a legacy."

"For me?"

"For you."

He continues.

"There are businesses with staff."

She blinks.

"Staff?"

"People expecting salaries."

"Oh."

She sets her pen down.

"I thought I came here to sign papers."

The words escape before she can stop them.

Damian looks at her quietly.

"I know."

"The textile company employs twenty-three."

"Whoa."

Damian smiles slightly.

"You don't need answers today."

"I definitely don't have them."

"Good."

She frowns.

"Good?"

Damian closes the folder.

"It means you're taking this seriously."

Two hours disappear.

At the elevator, Damian walks beside her.

"I want to show you around."

"The properties?"

"The city."

Small smile.

"Both."

"Tomorrow?"

"If you're comfortable."

She nods.

"Okay."

Then:

"And Elara."

She looks up.

"You are not alone in this."

Something painful moves through her chest.

She nods because speaking feels dangerous.

Michael waits downstairs.

She slides into the car.

"How'd it go?"

She replied,

"I found out your boss was a very rich woman."

Michael laughs and says,

"Yes."

Traffic moves.