Cracked

10:40 am- Monroe Estate

The Monroe Estate looked exactly the same as when he'd left it —imposing white stone gleaming in the afternoon sun, manicured gardens that probably cost more to maintain than most people made in a year. Leo shook his head, and wondered what the hell he was doing here.

Pride's expensive, he thought.

The security guard who buzzed him through the gates gave him a knowing look—half sympathy, half amusement. "Morning, Mr Cruz"

"Morning, sir." Leo managed a wry smile. 

"Princess has been locked up in her room since the incident," the guard said, lowering his voice. "Won't come out for meals, won't see anyone. Mr. Monroe asked you to see him once you come in."

Leo's chest tightened unexpectedly. "Where is he?"

"His study, just down the hallway ." The guard waved as he shut the gates. 

Walking through those marble hallways again felt like stepping back into a life that had never quite fit him. His worn work boots were too loud on the polished floors, his faded jeans and flannel shirt completely out of place among the oil paintings and crystal chandeliers. But maybe that had always been the point—he was the piece that didn't belong, which somehow made him exactly what this place needed.

James Monroe was waiting for him in the study, looking like he'd aged five years in three days. His usually pristine appearance was rumpled—shirt sleeves pushed up, tie hanging loose, a tumbler of what looked like expensive whiskey sitting untouched on his desk.

"Wasn't sure you'll come back," Monroe said, and there was something almost vulnerable in his voice.

"Yeah, well." Leo shifted uncomfortably. "Turns out my pride doesn't pay rent."

Monroe's mouth quirked in what might have been the ghost of a smile. "I'm doubling your salary."

"I didn't ask you to—"

"Consider it hazard pay." Monroe's expression turned serious again. "She needs to be at the gala tonight, make a stable appearance."

Leo accepted the key fob Monroe held out to him, the metal still warm from the older man's grip. "What do you need me to do?"

"Same as before. Keep her safe. Watch her..." Monroe paused, running a hand through his graying hair. "More like a bodyguard. Keep her off drinks and substances.... ..." He trailed off.

"I'll do what I can."

The older man nodded, relief evident in his shoulders' subtle release of tension. "Thank you."

Ariella's Bedroom

Ariella had been avoiding her father for three days, which was honestly a new record for her. Usually their fights burned hot and fast, all shouting and slamming doors, then back to awkward family dinners by the weekend. But this time felt different. Heavier.

When he finally knocked on her door—actually knocked, instead of just barging in like he owned the place (which, technically, he did)—she almost didn't answer.

"Come in," she said, pulling her oversized sweater tighter around herself. She'd been living in the same clothes for days, and she probably looked like hell, but she was past caring.

James Monroe stepped inside, and for once, he didn't look like the polished businessman from the magazine covers. His usually perfect hair was mussed, his tie was crooked, and there were actual worry lines around his eyes that she'd never noticed before.

"Hi, sweetheart," he said softly, and the gentleness in his voice almost undid her.

"Don't." She held up a hand. "Don't be nice to me. I can't handle nice right now."

He sat down on the edge of her bed uninvited, which was so unlike him that she actually looked up in surprise. Her father was a man of boundaries—physical and emotional. They didn't do casual affection or heart-to-hearts.

"I've been worried sick about you," he said simply.

"Since when?" The words came out more bitter than she'd intended. "I thought you were too busy doing damage control to worry about me."

"Ariella..." He rubbed his face with both hands, suddenly looking every one of his fifty-three years. "I know I haven't been the father you needed after Mom left. I know I threw myself into work instead of helping you heal. But that doesn't mean I don't care."

She felt her chest tighten. "You have a funny way of showing it."

"I'm trying to protect you. From the press, from the board, from—"

"From myself?" She laughed, but there was no humor in it. "How's that working out for you?"

They sat in silence for a moment, the weight of unspoken things hanging between them like fog.

Finally, James cleared his throat. "I need you to come to the gala tonight."

"You're joking, right?" Ariella stared at him. "I can't go anywhere right now. I'm pretty sure public appearances aren't on my doctor's recommended treatment plan."

"The board is asking questions. Serious ones. About your ability to eventually take over the company." His voice was careful, controlled—his business voice. "We need to show them that you're stable. I called your driver back, be nice to him this time."

"The board is asking questions." She repeated the words like they tasted bad. "What about you ,dad....are you not gonna ask questions too?"

"Ariella—"

"No, it's fine. I get it." She stood up, pacing to the window. "The Monroe name is more important than your daughter. Wouldn't want to upset the shareholders."

"That's not what this is about."

"Isn't it?" She turned to face him, and he was surprised to see tears in her eyes. "When was the last time you asked how I was doing? Not how I was handling the press, or the company, or the family reputation. Just... how I was doing?"

James opened his mouth, then closed it. The silence stretched between them.

"That's what I thought," she whispered.

Leo had been standing in the hallway for about ten minutes, pretending to check his phone while actually eavesdropping on the Monroe family drama unfolding behind the bedroom door. He felt a little guilty about it, but someone needed to know what was really going on if he was supposed to help.

The conversation had started quiet, almost tentative, but he could hear the tension building. These two were like opposing magnets, the closer they got to actually connecting, the more they seemed to push each other away.

When James emerged from the room, his face was carefully blank, the same expression Leo had seen him wear during board meetings and press conferences. All business, no emotion.

"She'll be ready for the gala at seven," James said without preamble.

"You sure that's a good idea?" 

"She'll be fine." James's tone brooked no argument. "Just... keep an eye on her. Closer than usual."

Before Leo could respond, James was already walking away, phone pressed to his ear. "Margaret, I need you to call the usual photographers. Make sure they get her good side..."

Leo shook his head. Sometimes he wondered if James Monroe even realized he was talking about his daughter and not a PR asset.*

Six hours later, Ariella stood in front of her full-length mirror, barely recognizing herself. Her stylist had worked miracles—the navy silk gown hid the fading bruises on her ribs, the professional makeup covered the dark circles under her eyes, and her hair was twisted into an elegant updo that made her look older, more sophisticated. More like the heir to a business empire and less like a twenty-three-year-old who'd been crying into a pint of ice cream for three days straight.

"You look beautiful, miss," her stylist said, making final adjustments to the gown's draping.

"I look like a fraud," Ariella muttered, then caught herself. "Sorry. Thank you. You did an amazing job."

Leo appeared in the doorway, and she had to admit, he cleaned up nice. The black suit fit him perfectly, **and he'd tamed his usually messy hair into something resembling professional. 

"Ready?" he asked.

"As I'll ever be." She took a deep breath.

The Gala – Grand Bellevue Hall

The Grand Bellevue Hall was exactly as overwhelming as she'd expected—crystal chandeliers, live orchestra, women in designer gowns worth more than most people's cars. The kind of event where everyone smiled with their teeth but not their eyes, where conversations were carefully choreographed performances.

Ariella had grown up at events like this, but tonight, everything felt too bright, too loud, too much. She m*oved through the crowd with practiced ease, making small talk with board members and family friends.

That's when she saw her.

A woman by the bar, laughing at something her companion had said, and for just a moment—the tilt of her head, the way the light caught her hair, the delicate gold necklace at her throat—she looked exactly like Elena Monroe.

Ariella's breath caught. Her champagne glass slipped from her fingers, shattering on the marble floor.

"Mom?" she whispered.

Leo was at her side instantly. "Ariella, what..."

But she was already moving, pushing through the crowd with single-minded focus, her careful composure cracking with each step.

"Mom!" she called out, louder now, and conversations around her began to fade as people turned to stare.

The woman turned, confusion clear on her face. She was maybe forty, with kind eyes and laugh lines, wearing Elena Monroe's favorite necklace.

"Excuse me?" the woman said gently. "I think there's been some mistake—"

"Where have you been?" Ariella's voice broke. "I've been waiting for you. I kept waiting for you to come home."

The woman's face went soft with understanding and pity. "Oh, honey, I'm not—"

"Please." Ariella reached out, her carefully styled hair coming loose, tears cutting tracks through her makeup. "Please don't leave me again. I'll be better, I promise. I'll be the daughter you wanted."

The ballroom had gone completely quiet now, phones appearing like magic as people realized they were witnessing something extraordinary. Leo pushed through the crowd, trying to reach her before...

"I'm so sorry," the woman said, gently taking Ariella's hands. "But I'm not your mother, sweetheart. I think you might be confused."

The words hit Ariella like a physical blow. She stumbled backward, the full weight of reality crashing over her. This was just a stranger wearing her necklace, and Ariella had just had a complete breakdown in front of three hundred of the most influential people in the city.

"I—" she started, then stopped, looking around at all the faces staring at her with a mixture of pity and fascination. "I need to go."

Leo was there before she could take another step, his arm gentle but firm around her shoulders. "Come on," he said quietly. "Let's get you out of here."

He guided her toward the exit, creating a barrier between her and the cameras with his body, ignoring the shouted questions from reporters who'd somehow materialized out of nowhere.

"Is she intoxicated?"

"Was this a publicity stunt?"

"How does this affect her position in the company?"

By the time they reached the car, the first photos were already hitting social media.

Monroe Estate – Late That Night

James Monroe sat alone in his study at two in the morning, laptop open, scrolling through an endless feed of headlines and social media posts. The photos were everywhere—his daughter, makeup streaked, reaching desperately for a stranger, looking lost and broken and so very young.

He'd fielded seventeen calls from board members, forty-three from reporters, and exactly zero from Ariella herself.

His phone buzzed. A text from his assistant: "Emergency board meeting called for 10 AM."

James stared at the message for a long time, then slowly closed his laptop.

He thought about going up there, about knocking on her door again and actually asking how she was doing. Really doing. But he didn't know how to have that conversation. Didn't know how to be the father she needed instead of the businessman he'd always been.

So he sat in his study, surrounded by awards and accolades and photos of himself shaking hands with important people, and wondered when exactly he'd lost his daughter.

And whether it was already too late to get her back.