Fit to Lead

Flashback- sixteen Years Ago – Age 6

 The fighting had been going on for weeks, but that night was different. Louder. Meaner.

Ariella sat cross-legged at the top of the marble staircase, her favorite stuffed bunny pressed tight against her chest. She wasn't supposed to be out of bed, but the shouting had woken her up, and now she couldn't look away from the drama unfolding below.

 Her parents stood facing each other like enemies, which was scary because they were supposed to love each other. That's what parents did, right?

 "I know about him," her father said, and even from two floors up, Ariella could hear how his voice shook with anger. "Don't lie to me anymore, Elena. Just... don't."

 Her mother, the beautiful, graceful Elena with her perfect golden hair and designer dresses, looked small suddenly. Fragile. Like one of Ariella's porcelain dolls that would break if you dropped them.

 "James, please," she whispered. "It's not what you think...."

"It's exactly what I think!" He threw his hands up, and Ariella flinched. "You disappear for 'business meetings' that don't exist. You take calls in another room. You can barely look at me anymore. At us."

 Us. Ariella hugged her bunny tighter.

 "I made one mistake," her mother said, tears streaming down her cheeks. "One stupid, selfish mistake, and I've regretted it every day since. But I love you. I love our family. I would never..."

"You already did." Her father's voice went quiet, which was somehow scarier than the shouting. "The question is, what are we going to do about it?"

The silence that followed felt like holding your breath underwater.

Finally, her mother spoke. "I can't keep living like this. With you watching my every move, questioning everything I say. I feel like I'm drowning in my own home."

"So what are you saying?"

 "I don't know." Elena wrapped her arms around herself. "I don't know anything anymore."

 The next morning, everything was different.

Ariella bounced into the kitchen for breakfast like always, but her parents weren't smiling at each other over coffee. They weren't talking at all. Her mother sat at the dining with red, puffy eyes, picking at a piece of toast she wasn't eating.

"Mommy?" Ariella climbed onto the chair next to her. "Are you sick?"

 "No, baby." Elena's voice was hoarse. "Mommy's just... tired."

 When Elena reached over to smooth Ariella's bedhead curls, Ariella pulled away.

 "Don't," she said, the word coming out sharper than she'd intended.

 Her mother's hand froze in midair. "Sweetheart, what's wrong?"

 Six-year-old Ariella looked at her mother—really looked at her—and saw a stranger. Someone who made her daddy cry. Someone who talked about drowning when they lived in the most beautiful house in the world.

 "You're not Mommy anymore," Ariella said simply. "You made Daddy sad."

The words hung in the air like poison.

 Elena's face crumpled, but she didn't try to explain or defend herself. She just stood up slowly, kissed the top of Ariella's head with trembling lips, and whispered, "I'm sorry, little star. For everything."

 Three days later, Elena Monroe was gone.

 She left behind a closet full of beautiful clothes, a jewelry box that played Ariella's favorite lullaby, and a letter that Ariella wouldn't read until she was sixteen.

 Present Day – Monroe Estate

 Ariella woke up gasping, her heart hammering against her ribs like it was trying to escape. The dream—no, the memory, clung to her like cobwebs, refusing to let go.

She'd been having the same nightmare for weeks now, ever since the accident. Ever since Leo came back. Ever since everything started falling apart again.

"You're not Mommy anymore," her six-year-old voice echoed in her head. "You made Daddy sad."

God. What kind of child says that to their mother?

The kind who grows up to crash cars and have public meltdowns at charity galas, apparently.

Ariella reached for the water bottle on her nightstand with shaking hands, downing half of it in desperate gulps. Hydration wouldn't wash away sixteen years of guilt, but it was something to focus on that wasn't the way her mother's face had looked when she'd pulled away from her touch.

Broken. That's how Elena had looked. Like a little girl who'd been slapped by someone she loved.

The irony wasn't lost on her that she now knew exactly how that felt.

Sunlight was creeping around the edges of her blackout curtains, which meant it was probably afternoon. She'd been sleeping a lot lately—not because she was tired, but because unconsciousness was the only time her brain wasn't screaming at her about everything she'd done wrong.

Her phone was buzzing insistently from somewhere across the room, where she'd thrown it after seeing the fifteenth notification about "Monroe Meltdown" trending on Twitter. She ignored it.

Instead, she padded over to her window and peeked through the curtains. The estate's usually pristine grounds were crawling with activity—security guards walking the perimeter, staff members hustling between buildings with tight, worried expressions, and at least a dozen reporters camped outside the front gates with their cameras and microphones, waiting for her to make another spectacle of herself.

"Wolves," she muttered.

Her phone buzzed one more time, and she finally gave in and retrieved it from behind her dresser. Seventeen missed calls from her father, forty-three text messages from numbers she didn't recognize, and one notification that made her stomach drop:

"Emergency Board Meeting – 10AM Today – Your Attendance Requested"

She checked the time. 12:47 PM.

"Well," she said to her empty room, "I guess that's that."

A soft knock interrupted her thoughts.

"Ariella?" Maria's voice came through the door, gentle but persistent. "You awake in there?"

She almost smiled despite everything. She'd been checking on her every few hours since last night, like she's the only one who cared.

"Yeah," she called back.

"Can I come in? I brought coffee. 

Her stomach growled, reminding her that she hadn't eaten since... when was the last time she'd eaten? Yesterday morning, maybe?

"Fine," she said, quickly running her fingers through her tangled hair and pulling on a clean sweatshirt. 

Maria pushed open the door, balancing a coffee cup and what looked like a bag of pastries. She took in her appearance, messy hair, yesterday's makeup smeared under her eyes, oversized Princeton sweatshirt that had probably belonged to some long-forgotten boyfriend—and didn't even blink.

"Ari dear, you look like shit," she said matter-of-factly, setting the coffee on her nightstand. "Leo is waiting, seems the board is also waiting."

"Wow. I'm really important today, thought they'll go on without me." She accepted the coffee gratefully, inhaling the rich, familiar smell as Maria left her room, shutting the door behind her.

Ariella put down the warm cup and quickly took a hot shower, mind filled with thoughts. A few minutes later, she was sitting on the backseat, ready for the worst.

Leo was quiet for a moment. Then he asked "How are you feeling?"

"Good." The word came out better than she'd intended. "Might feel worse later ."

"Is that what you really want?"

The question caught her off guard. She'd expected him to ignore her, as usual.

"I..." She stared down at her legs. "I don't know what I want anymore. I used to think I wanted to make my parents proud. Then I thought maybe I wanted to rebel, show everyone that I wasn't going to be their perfect little princess. But all I've managed to do is prove that I'm exactly as broken as everyone thinks I am."

"You know what I think?" Leo leaned forward, his voice gentle but firm. "I think you're so busy trying to be what everyone else wants—or rebelling against what they want—that you've forgotten to figure out who you actually are."

Ariella looked up at him. "When did you become interested?"

He smiled, but there was something sad in his eyes. "Trauma has a way of clarifying things. Makes you realize that most of the stuff we worry about doesn't actually matter."

"And what does matter?"

"Being honest. With yourself, with the people you care about. Taking responsibility for your mistakes without letting them define you." He paused. "And maybe... maybe forgiving yourself for being human."

The words hit her like a physical blow, and suddenly she was six years old again, standing in that kitchen, pulling away from her mother's loving touch.

"What if some mistakes can't be forgiven?" she whispered.

Leo was quiet for a long moment, and she could see him weighing his words carefully.

"Can I tell you something?" he said finally. "When I was overseas, I made a call that got three of my guys hurt. Bad. One of them—Martinez—he was just a kid, barely twenty-two, and he ended up losing his leg because I sent them down the wrong street at the wrong time."

Ariella looked up, surprised that he's actually opening up to her.

"For two years, I couldn't sleep without seeing his face. Couldn't forgive myself for that split-second decision. I was drowning in guilt, drinking too much, pushing everyone away." He paused, running his hand through the steer wheels. "You know what finally changed things?"

"What?"

"Martinez tracked me down. Flew across the country to find me, prosthetic leg and all. And you know what he said? He said, 'Sarge, I need you to stop carrying my shit for me. I'm doing fine, but you're not, and that's not helping anybody.'"

Tears pricked at Ariella's eyes. "What did you do?"

"I started therapy. Real therapy, not the mandatory military counseling. And I learned that forgiveness isn't always about the other person absolving you. Sometimes it's about forgiving yourself enough to stop letting the past destroy your future."

She was quiet, processing his words.

"You are just a scared little girl who still has a lot to work on." Leo's voice was infinitely gentle. "Don't let the past destroy the bright future ahead of you."

And with that, he turned on the engine, and drove off the Monroe driveway.

30 mins later - Monroe Estate Empire – Boardroom

The Monroe Empire boardroom was designed to intimidate—floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, a massive mahogany table that could seat twenty, portraits of past CEOs staring down from the walls like stern ancestors. Ariella had been in this room dozens of times over the years, but never as the person everyone was talking about.

She paused outside the heavy oak doors, smoothing down the navy blazer Dave, her manager, had insisted she wear. It was one of her more conservative pieces, paired with dark slacks and low heels, an outfit that said "responsible adult" instead of "walking disaster."

"You ready?" Dave asked.

"Not really" she said honestly. "But I'm going to do it anyway."

He tapped her shoulder gently. "You got this"

The conversation stopped the moment she entered. Several pairs of eyes turned to assess her, some curious, some skeptical, a few openly hostile. Her father sat at the head of the table, his expression carefully neutral, but she could see the tension in his shoulders.

"Good afternoon," she said, taking the empty seat that had clearly been left for her. "Apologies for being late."

Mrs. Hemsworth, the steel-haired director who'd never liked Ariella even before the recent scandals, raised an eyebrow. "We were just discussing your... recent scandals."

"I'm sure you were." Ariella kept her voice steady, professional. "And I'm sure you have concerns. Legitimate ones."

That seemed to surprise a few of them.

"I want to start by taking full responsibility for my actions," she continued. "The car accident, the gala scene, the negative publicity, that's all on me. I've been dealing with some personal issues in very public, very inappropriate ways, and I understand that reflects poorly on this company and everyone who works here."

One of the younger directors, Peterson, she thought his name was—leaned forward. "What makes you think we should believe this isn't just another performance? You've promised to do better before."

Fair question. Ariella had been making and breaking promises to clean up her act for years.

"Because I'm tired," she said simply. "I'm tired of being like this. Tired of hurting people who care about me. Tired of wasting opportunities that most people would kill for." She paused, glancing at her father. "And because I want to be able to lead the Monroe's legacy."

James Monroe's expression softened almost imperceptibly.

"We're not removing you from the succession plan," Mrs. Hemsworth said after a long moment. "Yet. But there will be conditions."

"Okay?."

"Therapy. Real therapy, not just the crisis management sessions you've been doing. Weekly appointments with Dr. Chen—she specializes in trauma and addiction recovery."

Ariella nodded. "Okay."

"You'll also be working directly with different department heads over the next six months. Learning the business from the ground up, not just sitting in on board meetings."

"I'd actually like that," she said, surprising herself with how true it was. "I've been thinking I should understand what we actually do here, beyond just signing checks."

Another director—Williams—spoke up. "And absolutely no public incidents. No drinking and driving, no scenes at events, no social media meltdowns. One more scandal and we'll have no choice but to recommend your father name an alternative successor."

The weight of that threat settled over the room like a heavy blanket. Ariella knew they weren't bluffing.

"I understand," she said. "And I agree to all of your conditions."

Her father finally spoke, his voice careful but not unkind. "Ariella, I want you to succeed. We all do. But you have to want it too."

She looked around the table at all these powerful people who held her future in their hands, then back at her father.

"I do want it," she said. "Maybe for the first time, I actually do."