Chapter Two: Not the Man She’s Looking For
1966 Words
Ethan had attended hundreds of events like this. He knew the rhythm by heart.
Smile. Introduce himself. Watch faces light up. Answer questions. Listen to praise that sounded sincere but always came with a quiet expectation behind it.
Tonight felt different.
Clara Monroe didn’t look impressed. She didn’t look nervous either. She simply looked…present.
They stood in front of the last photo panel, a wide image of a narrow street from decades ago, children sitting on stone steps, storefront signs in faded paint.
“This one was taken in 1923,” Clara said. “The building on the right used to be a neighborhood school. It was turned into storage in the seventies. Most people walk past it without knowing what it was.”
Ethan folded his arms loosely. “And you want to bring it back?”
“I want to give it purpose again,” she replied. “Not everything has to be new to be useful.”
He nodded. “You talk about buildings like people.”
She gave him a brief look. “They hold people’s stories. That’s close enough.”
He liked that answer more than he expected.
“So,” he said, “how did you end up doing this?”
“Doing what?”
“Fighting for forgotten places.”
She considered him for a moment. “My father believed that cities forget too easily. He thought memory mattered. I grew up watching him try to save things no one else cared about.”
“And now you’re doing the same.”
“Yes.”
He waited for more. She didn’t offer it.
“Was he an architect?” Ethan asked.
“No. He worked in policy. The foundation started as a side project.”
“Started?”
She hesitated. “He passed away a few years ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Thank you.”
Her tone was polite, measured. Not cold. Just…contained.
Ethan realized something then. She wasn’t guarded because of him. She was guarded because that was how she moved through the world.
Most people leaned in when they met him. She didn’t.
“I’m glad you’re here,” he said. “Most people come for the donors, not the displays.”
“I come for both,” she replied. “They’re connected.”
“Everything is, I guess.”
She nodded once, then glanced toward the entrance, as if checking the room.
“Do you often attend these events?” she asked.
“More than I want to,” he admitted.
“Why?”
“Because my name opens doors. People expect me to walk through them.”
“That sounds tiring.”
“It is.”
She studied him again, this time without pretense.
“You could leave early,” she said.
“I could,” he agreed.
“You don’t have to stay just because you were invited.”
He smiled. “You’re telling me to leave my own gala?”
“I’m saying obligation isn’t the same as purpose.”
He laughed softly. “You don’t mince words.”
“I don’t waste them.”
There it was again. That steady, unbothered tone.
Most people tried to be charming around him. Clara didn’t try at all.
“And you?” he asked. “Do you enjoy these?”
“They’re necessary,” she said. “Enjoyment isn’t part of the plan.”
“That sounds lonely."
“It’s honest.”
A woman in a silver gown interrupted them. “Clara, the donors from Westbridge are asking for you.”
Clara nodded. “I’ll be there.”
She turned back to Ethan. “Thank you for listening.”
“That’s it?” he said lightly. “No pitch? No donation request?”
Her eyebrow rose. “Should there be?”
He hesitated. “Most people would have taken the chance.”
“I’m not most people.”
“No,” he agreed. “You’re not.”
She offered a polite smile. “Have a good evening, Mr. Cole.”
“Ethan,” he said.
She paused. “Clara,” she replied, even though he already knew.
Then she walked away.
Just like that.
No lingering glance. No attempt to leave an impression.
Ethan stood where she left him, hands in his pockets, feeling oddly…dismissed.
Mara appeared beside him a moment later. “You look like someone just told you no for the first time.”
He blinked. “Is it that obvious?”
“You’ve been staring at that woman’s back for thirty seconds.”
“She didn’t ask me for anything.”
Mara smiled. “That’s new.”
“She didn’t even seem curious.”
“About you?” Mara asked.
“Yes.”
Mara followed his gaze. “That’s Clara Monroe. She’s known for that. She doesn’t play games.”
“She didn’t play at all.”
“Maybe she doesn’t need to.”
Ethan watched as Clara moved through the crowd, greeting donors, answering questions with the same calm clarity. She didn’t change for anyone.
The rest of the evening blurred together for Ethan. He joined in for more conversations, empty praises, and more hands reaching out to him...
When Ethan finally left, the city air felt sharper than usual. He stood outside the building, waiting for his car.
“Thinking about leaving early next time?” Mara asked.
“Thinking about coming back,” he replied.
“For the gala?”
“For the buildings."
Mara smiled knowingly.
Ethan leaned against the car door and looked back at the glowing hall.
For the first time in a long while, someone had spoken to him like he was just a normal and regular man...
==================================================
Ethan Cole woke up with the same name in his head that had followed him to sleep.
Clara Monroe.
It irritated him more than he wanted to admit.
He lay still in his penthouse bedroom, staring at the ceiling while the city hummed outside. Normally, mornings were easy. He checked the market, skimmed headlines, made a few decisions that moved millions of dollars, and went on with his day.
He suddenly rolled onto his side and reached for his phone. For a moment, he hesitated. He told himself he was just curious. It was normal to look someone up after meeting them. Everyone did it.
Still, he didn’t open a browser, and he abruptly set the phone back down.
“This is ridiculous,” he muttered.
She hadn’t flirted. She hadn’t tried to impress him. She hadn’t even asked what he did. She’d spoken to him the way she might speak to anyone else in that room. And worse, she actually walked away from him.
By the time Ethan finished showering, the thought had hardened into something else: a quiet itch that refused to leave him alone...
========================================
At breakfast, his assistant Maya stood at the kitchen island with her tablet.
“Your morning is lighter than usual,” she said. “Two calls, one board meeting, and lunch with the Phoenix Group.”
He nodded, sipping his coffee.
Maya glanced up. “You look distracted.”
“Do I?”
“You usually correct my phrasing on the schedule. Today you didn’t.”
Ethan hesitated, then said, “What do you know about the Monroe Cultural Foundation?”
Maya blinked. “That’s… specific.”
“Is it?”
“It’s not exactly trending on Wall Street.” She tapped her screen. “Why?”
He shrugged. “I met someone at the gala. She mentioned it.”
Maya’s eyebrows lifted. “Someone you’re thinking about the next morning?”
“Don’t make it dramatic.”
“I live in drama. It’s my job.” She smiled and began typing. “Clara Monroe is the director. The foundation focuses on historic preservation and community education. Mostly old theaters, libraries, small museums. They work with city governments and donors.”
“Donors,” Ethan repeated.
“Yes. People who care about things that don’t generate profit.” She glanced at him.
“Already sounds like your opposite.”
“That’s not what I said.”
“You didn’t have to.”
His phone buzzed on the counter. A message from his friend Marcus appeared.
Still alive after last night’s gala?
Ethan typed back.
I'm barely alive. But I met someone interesting.
It took just a few seconds before he got another reply from Marcus.
Oh, that's something new.
Ethan set the phone aside, as one idea flashed into his mind.
“Maya,” he said, “send me whatever you can find on the foundation. Public stuff, interviews and reports. All of them, please... "
“Already doing it,” she replied. “Do you want a summary or the full archive?”
Ethan nodded in return, as he let's out a lopsided smile.
"Alright, then. I'll send it to your tablet." Maya smiled, in an amusing manner as she knows what her Boss is thinking...
========================================
An hour later, he sat in his office, scrolling.
Ethan is looking at some photos, specifically at a certain picture where is Clara standing in front of a restored brick building, sleeves rolled up. There are some other photos wherein Clara is speaking to a group of students, and Clara was holding blueprints with an architect.
She was in her full work-mode.
Afterwards, Ethan decided to watch a past interview of Clara Monroe.
“We’re not trying to preserve the past for nostalgia,” Clara said in the video. “We’re trying to give communities a sense of continuity. A reminder that they existed before trends and will exist after them.”
Ethan leaned back in his chair.
She sounded exactly the way she had the night before. She was very calm, direct to the point, but not selling anything.
His intercom buzzed. “Marcus is here,” Maya informed him.
“Send him up. Thank you, Maya.”
Minutes later, Marcus strolled in, casual as always. “You look like you’re stalking someone.”
“I’m researching.”
"Oh, I know her." Marcus said in return.
Ethan turned his attebtion toward him. “Do you know her?”
Marcus scanned the screen. “Clara Monroe? I’ve seen her at events. She’s not in our circle.”
“That’s obvious.”
Marcus studied Ethan. “You’re bothered.”
“She didn’t care who I was.”
Marcus laughed. “That’s new for you.”
“It’s not that. It’s just—” Ethan stopped. He didn’t have language for it. “She wasn’t trying.”
“Most people are always trying,” Marcus said. “With you.”
“I know.”
“So you finally met someone who wasn’t.”
Ethan didn’t answer.
Later that afternoon, he found himself opening the foundation’s website again. He read mission statements. Annual reports. Testimonials from small-town mayors and teachers.
At five, Maya appeared in his doorway.
“You’re still reading.”
“It’s well-run,” he said.
“That’s not what’s keeping you here.”
He sighed. “Is it strange that someone like her exists in this world and I’ve never crossed paths with her before?”
Maya considered. “Your world is narrow. Very expensive. But narrow.”
“That’s depressing.”
He closed the tablet.
“Get me an invitation,” he said.
“To what?”
“Anything she’s attending.”
Maya smiled slightly. “That’s definitely stalking.”
Ethan stood. “No. It’s… curiosity.”
“Of course.”
==========================
That night, in bed, Ethan stared at the ceiling again.
He didn’t imagine her face.
He imagined her walking away.
And for the first time in a long time, he wondered what it would feel like to follow someone who wasn’t asking to be followed...
- Writer
