The Last Monroe

UNEXPECTED

By the time you reached thirty in Boston, people usually knew exactly who you were. They had watched you make mistakes. Watched you fail. Watched you desperately try to become someone important.

Cassian had somehow skipped that part.

At thirty years old, he was Boston's most eligible bachelor, though the title seemed to follow him against his will. Everyone had one. Everyone knew someone who knew him. Everyone had seen him somewhere.

At a gallery opening in Back Bay.

At a charity gala overlooking the harbor.

At a private tennis tournament.

At a polo match.

Yet very few people could honestly say they knew him.

Perhaps because Cassian never seemed interested in being noticed at all.

In an era where everyone was performing for an audience, Cassian remained frustratingly absent. No i********:. No t****k. No X. No interviews. No carefully curated glimpses into his private life.

Yet somehow he trended anyway.

A blurry photograph from a charity fundraiser could dominate social media for days. A fifteen-second video of him laughing court side at a tennis match would gather millions of views before breakfast. Women posted him. Men copied him.

He attended gallery openings because he genuinely loved art. Charity events because he believed wealth came with responsibility. Polo matches because he enjoyed them.

Years ago, his father's company was bleeding money. Bad investments. Money laundering, poor management decisions, and a whole group of shady stakeholders and a secret that had accumulated for over a decade. Cassian took over at twenty-two and within the first year, the Vale Empire was profitable again. Within two years, it was thriving. Now, five years in, the company is worth more than it was at its peak.

The one person he's actually fully himself with is Serena.

She's his sister. Twenty-four. They were raised in a household that had love in it, which is more than many people get. But life took something precious from them when they were young, their father, he bounded them together in a specific way. He was raised to love his sister with every fiber of his being, even his stepbrother, but that’s a relationship with a lot of strain, but Serena is his precious jewel. He'd do nearly anything for her, which is why he tolerates her warmth toward people and her tendency to let strangers into their lives, even though his instinct is always to protect his lives and shut everyone out because he can never tell who is truly a friend or foe.

Cassian had been tracking Elara Monroe for two years.

Where she lives. What she does. The people she sees. The fact that she visits galleries once a month and takes coffee black and has never been arrested and pays her taxes on time. His step-brother goes all the way to Portland to date her for a while, without his knowledge. Now Serena is her friend, she doesn’t even have a clue about what the Monroe's did to their family.

But she doesn’t seem to have any Intel about her mother’s life or business. She was literally also kind of shut out of her mother’s actual life, but he knows she is definitely the key to knowing everything that happened years ago.

The point was understanding what Victoria had built, what she'd protected, what might matter when they find out all there is to know about Victoria that can help him prove that his father was set up, which later led to his death.

Then she walked into the gallery.

And the file became useless.

Not because it was inaccurate. Because it was incomplete in ways that photographs and reports can't capture. She did look like Victoria. That was the first thing that surprised him. He was not expecting so much echo of her mother. When Serena said something funny, she laughed without calculating whether the laugh was appropriate.

Cassian stood in the corner of the gallery and watched her. He watched the way she tilted her head at a particular canvas. The way her hand reached toward her hair and then didn't. The way she listened to Serena with actual interest. He looked at her skin, her eyes, her smile, her legs. She had legs for days. She is like a super hot model, but not the size one type.

By the time Felix came to tell him they needed to go upstairs, Cassian had already made a decision. He wasn't going to leave this to chance.

Cassian's penthouse occupied the top three floors of one of the most exclusive buildings in Boston, a private kingdom suspended above the city.

The elevator opened directly into his home.

No hallway. No reception area. No neighbors wandering past his door.

The first floor was designed for entertaining. A sunken living room, The furniture looked effortless until you learned a single chair cost more than most people's monthly rent. Cream bouclé sofas curved around a black marble fireplace. Custom Italian lighting hung like modern sculpture above polished stone floors. Original artwork lined the walls.

A temperature-controlled wine gallery sat behind smoked glass panels. Not a wine cellar. A gallery. Rows of bottles illuminated like museum exhibits.

The kitchen belonged in an architectural magazine. Matte black cabinetry. Veined Calacatta marble. Hidden appliances. Two islands. A chef's station. Everything sleek enough to feel futuristic and warm.

The second floor belonged entirely to him.

His primary suite occupied nearly half the level. The bedroom itself was absurdly large, yet somehow felt intimate. Soft lighting. Textured walls. Custom walnut paneling. A fireplace positioned directly opposite a bed large enough to look ridiculous anywhere else. The adjoining bathroom resembled a luxury spa more than a place to shower.

There were three guest suites on the same floor. Each is larger than most apartments in the city.

The third floor was where Cassian actually lived.

A private gym filled with equipment selected by trainers who worked with professional athletes. A recovery room connected to it, complete with a cold plunge pool, infrared sauna, massage room, and steam suite.

His office occupied an entire wing. A twelve-foot desk carved from a single slab of black walnut.

Multiple screens disappeared onto the surface when not in use. Shelving displayed first editions, business histories, economic theory, architecture, political strategy, and biographies of people who had changed entire industries.

Beyond the office sat a private library, a screening room, and a cigar lounge finished in dark stone and leather.

At eleven p.m., Cassian sits at his desk with Elara's file open on his screen. Photographs from college. Bank records. Employment history. A video of her walking through a coffee shop in Portland. Reports from people who've watched her.

The file no longer tells him anything useful.

His chef, Marcus, appears in the doorway specifically waiting for his boss to notice him. He had worked for Cassian long enough to know when to interrupt and when not to.

"Dinner?" Marcus asks.

Cassian looks up from the screen.

"Yes," Cassian says. "Make something good."

Marcus nods and disappears. He's worked for Cassian long enough to understand that something has shifted. He doesn't ask questions. He simply cooks better than usual, sensing that tonight matters for reasons he doesn't need to understand.

Cassian returns to the file.

He reads through the reports again. Portland address. Client list. The names of her friends—limited. Very limited. A man named Noah who appears frequently. No romantic relationships listed in the past two years after his step-brother. She spends her money carefully. She doesn't travel beyond the Portland area.

His phone buzzes. Felix.

We had eyes on her the entire time. No indication that Monroe knows anything about the family. Cassian.