THE COST OF COURTESY
996 Words
The morning stretches across her desk in video calls and email threads. A new client is nervous about the launch. Another is asking about timeline adjustments. The work is the same as it was in Portland—helping companies understand their customers, helping them not be terrible to people. But doing it from her mother's study makes it feel like she's working in someone else's life.
By noon, she'd tired of it.
She takes a break, looks at the weather, and decides she doesn't need Michael today. He protests mildly when she texts him. She insists. He agrees in a way that suggests he's noted her independence and will report it mentally but won't push.
The restaurant is ten minutes away by Uber. It's not Ember & Ash—it doesn't have Serena's careful attention to detail. But the menu has options that remind her of Portland. Things she knows. Things that feel safe.
She sits facing the entrance because she's always been the kind of person who wants to see what's coming. The waiter approaches, and she asks about the timing of various dishes before ordering. She settles on something that takes twenty minutes. Then she orders a s*x on the Beach cocktail, which feels like a small rebellion—day drinking alone in a restaurant, being careful about meal timing, being entirely present with the decision to not be entirely careful in one afternoon.
She takes a picture of the drink for Noah. Types: Day drinking in Boston like I have nowhere to be.
His response arrives while she's scrolling through her phone: That's my girl. What's the occasion?
No occasion. Just lunch.
She's still looking at the screen when Damian slides into the chair across from her.
She looks up, annoyed instinctively, about to say something about the seat being taken, and then recognizes him.
"Oh. It's you, Mr. Lawyer."
He laughs.
"Good day to you too, Miss New Money."
She doesn't smile, but she's not angry either. She's actually been enjoying the specific thought of having lunch alone.
But he sits down anyway, and she doesn't tell him to leave.
The conversation moves easily. He asks how she's been. She tells him fine. He asks about the trip to the bank to get access to her mother's accounts. She tells him it went smoothly. He explains that the investment returns Victoria had set up are now flowing directly into her accounts, and there's a trust fund with a clause allowing her access whenever she chooses.
"How much are we talking?" she asks.
He tells her she should think close to a billion. It's more than she expected, which means she's still not processing the scale of what Victoria left her.
More drinks arrive.Damian asks how she's adjusting, whether Portland feels far away now, if she's thinking about staying in Boston permanently now. She answers without really thinking about the answers, which is the effect alcohol has on her. It makes her honest.
He recommends restaurants she should try. Private clubs he has access to and would like to take her to. Offers himself as a friend during this transition, someone she can lean on.
The warmth is real. She can feel it. And underneath the warmth is something else—a current of intention that she can sense but is too far into the cocktails to fully examine.
"What about the textile company?" she asks, because she remembers something from earlier in the conversation. "You mentioned something about that."
"Cassian Vale wants to expand," Damian says. "He's interested in buying more shares. The company has potential for growth, and he sees the opportunity. I'm sending you his proposal."
She sets down her drink. "The Vale's?"
"Cassian runs the family business. Vale Empire. Your mother did some business with them over the years."
"I didn't know that."
"I can help you understand their background," Damian offers. "It's useful to know who you're doing business with."
"By hiring someone to investigate them?"
"If you'd like."
She thinks about Serena. About the fact that Serena has never given her a reason to dig into her background like an adversary.
"No," Elara says. "Serena hasn't done anything that would require investigation."
Damian nods and doesn't push.
They eat. The food is fine. Damian talks about an upcoming gala—annual event, all of her mother's friends and associates. Everyone important in Boston will be there. It happens every year, always in the fall, and always draws the same crowd. The kind of event that you're expected to attend if you are connected to the inner circle.
"Your invitation should be in your mailbox," he says. "Your mother always attended. It would be expected that you do as well."
She nods and drinks more. The afternoon has turned fuzzy in the way afternoons do when you're drinking without eating enough.
When the check comes, he insists on paying. She doesn't argue. He leaves cash, stands, and walks her to the door.
"Thank you for lunch," he says.
"You’re welcome."
"Let me know about the gala if you need anything," he says. "And let me know if you want help understanding the Vales."
She nods.
Outside, she stands on the pavement. For the first time since arriving in Boston, she feels the shape of something she cannot see from inside. There are patterns. Cassian Vale. The textile company. The board members. The gala. The twelve names in her mother's code.
It's all connected in ways she doesn't yet understand.
She pulls out her phone and texts Serena: Can you tell me about Cassian Vale?
The message feels smaller than it is. But something in her knows it's more than that.
Serena responds within a minute: Why? What happened?
Elara doesn't answer immediately. She stands on the pavement of a Boston street, thinking about a man she's never met but whose name has appeared three times now.
The pattern is there. She just doesn't know what it means yet.
- Writer
