Session 𝓢ixty-Eight

Session 68:
"The Welcome"

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"Monroe," I whispered, glancing down at her belt that she was undoing, "What are you doing?"

"I'm going to strangle him until he stops the car," she calmly determined, making my eyes grow wide.

"Hey-hey," I rushed out, quickly unbuckling my seatbelt when she lunged forward.

I immediately grabbed one of her arms, trying to pull her away from the poor driver.

He looked unbothered by Monroe's words or actions, so I assume this is common for him.

"Let's just..." I trailed off, gently grabbing the belt in her hands, "We should put the belt away."

Monroe didn't say a word.

She wasn't even looking at me.

She was still looking at the driver with a terrifying blank stare.

I think whatever he said in French involved her parents.

We're going to their house.

"Monroe," I hesitantly tried again, "We can go to your parents. I'll be—"

"No," she cut me short, lifting her arms past me and attempting to strangle the man again.

I immediately slid down to the floorboard, reaching up to gently cup her soft face and guide her stare down to me.

"Ro," I whispered, staring so deeply into her blue eyes for the sanity that I can tell she's losing right now, "It's okay."

"No," she repeated the same word again, and I could tell she was so far away from me.

Mentally, she's not here.

"I can... pretend to be your friend or something. I'll even hide away in the room," I offered, wanting her to know it didn't matter to me, "Let's just let him drive us there and we leave."

I furrowed my brows when Monroe's blank expression crumbled away.

Her face visibly fell at my words.

"It's not about that, Liberty," she said, tilting her head as she eyed my face, "I never want to hide you?" she whispered in confusion.

I blinked a few times. "I just thought... that could be why you didn't want me to go," I admitted softly, glancing over when Monroe dropped the belt and reached for her sleeves.

She completely disregarded our current conversation, suddenly focusing on rolling her sleeves.

It was a bad sign.

She's so close to losing it.

Or maybe she already has, and I don't know what to do.

What do I do?

"Ro Ro," I whispered, leaning my face in front of the sleeve she was focused on rolling, "Hi baby," I said when her eyes finally locked with mine.

Monroe blinked a few times in a row, drawing in a deep breath.

And then another deep breath.

Until she shook her head, stressfully running her hands over her face.

"Stop the car," I suddenly said, my voice firmer than ever before, "You're not authorized to force me anywhere. Stop the car or I'll strangle you with the belt myself."

I leaned up to hug Monroe to me, feeling the car slowly veer to the right.

She didn't hug me back, but she rested her head on my shoulder—her breaths heavy and deep.

I quickly reached for the door, roughly pushing it open, so Monroe could get out first.

She didn't hesitate to slide out of the seat past me as I followed directly behind her.

"Stay in here," I told the driver, not wanting anyone to watch her unravel like this.

I slammed the door shut once he nodded in response.

I knew he was technically doing his job, but Monroe is about to have a full-on breakdown because he wouldn't stop the car.

I'm very pissed off right now.

"Ro," I said, walking on the gravel to approach her, even if she had her back to me.

Monroe shook her head in response, but she didn't say anything.

I wasn't sure what she wanted or what I was supposed to do.

Does she want space?

I'll give her space if that's what she needs.

"I can wait in the car, baby," I offered hesitantly, "You tell me what you want from me. You control this."

She didn't say anything,

Or turn around.

She just... opened her hand.

I reached out to softly grab her hand before I could think it through, hoping that's what her actions meant.

"You control this," I repeated my last words again, hoping to break through to her.

She didn't respond.

She only stared forward.

The only response I got was the firm squeeze she gave my hand.

"You are in control, baby," I softly whispered, leaning closer to her as I eyed her perfect side profile, "Whatever we need to do, we'll figure it out."

"We can't go."

Her words were lowered and full of restraint.

"Okay, we'll figure something else out then," I assured her as I eyed her face, "I'm really sorry for assuming you wanted to hide me."

Monroe shook her head.

And that's when I noticed a smile growing on her lips.

It was so genuine that it scared me at a moment like this.

"You have no idea how little I care for their opinions, Liberty," she murmured, finally glancing over to meet her stare. "They don't deserve to meet you. It's not vice versa."

I felt my face soften at her words, "That's very sweet, Ro Ro," I whispered, leaning up to softly kiss her cheek, "No matter what, we can do whatever you want."

Monroe remained silent for a moment as she stared down at me, clearly calculating her next move.

Or maybe our next move.

"If they want us on the property. I highly doubt our reservations are still booked," Monroe suddenly determined, glancing away from me in thought.

Of course, they probably messed with the reservations she made.

"We'll stay somewhere else then," I offered, gently squeezing her hand in mine.

"Either we won't be able to get a room, or we'll be escorted out tonight at the latest," she said, making my brows furrow slightly.

I guess I see where Monroe gets her techniques from.

Her parents like to blacklist people too, even their own daughter.

"Okay, then we'll just go there and stay holed up in the room," I suggested, but Monroe only shook her head.

"We can't," she said, her grip around my hand tightening as she drew in a deep breath.

I could tell she was about to lose it all over again.

"Why baby? What's going on? Maybe we can fix it together," I whispered, hoping to calm her down.

"No," Monroe firmly said, drawing in another deep breath, "I don't want you around them, Liberty."

I let go of her hand, unconsciously stepping in front of her to pull her into me for a hug.

"It's okay then," I assured her as I tightened my arms protectively around her waist, pressing my cheek to her chest, "We can stay right here until we figure it out."

Monroe didn't move.

She was rigid against me, focusing on her breathing.

I didn't rush her.

I just continued hugging her, rubbing my hands up and down her back.

"I don't want you around them," Monroe emphasized a second time, making me nod immediately.

"Then I won't be around them," I assured her, pressing a brief kiss to her covered chest, "You tell me what you want to do."

"I want to go back to Seattle," she whispered so softly, making me hug her even tighter.

I hate this so much for her. 

"Let's go back then," I didn't hesitate to say, not even minding the idea of that.

Monroe has already lost her composure, and we've barely landed ten minutes ago.

"We can't," Monroe sighed, "They'll pull strings to ensure that doesn't happen."

I remained silent, unsure of what ideas to offer her right now.

It seems like they have Monroe boxed in—they single-handedly stole the control from her, and I hate that.

"We can sleep on the side of this road if we need to, Monroe," I suddenly said, running my hands down her back, "Anything that makes you feel better."

Monroe let out a weighted breath, finally resting her head on my shoulder.

She didn't say anything.

For minutes on end, it was silent between us, the weight of anticipation pressing on us.

The next move was uncertain, and it bothered her so badly.

I felt so useless—like there was genuinely nothing I could do, or a suggestion to offer that would fix everything for her.

All I could do was hug her and hope that it was enough.

"We'll go," Monroe suddenly said, her voice unusually calm again.

"Are you sure?" I asked, hating that she was making this decision purely from being forced into it.

"There isn't another choice right now," she said, pulling away from me.

Her darkened blue eyes weren't filled with chaos anymore.

She looked calm.

Unnervingly calm.

I think it was her only way of retreating from this conflict.

Anyone else wouldn't be as calm as she is in a situation like this.

"We'll go, and perhaps I can get us out of there before tonight," Monroe clarified, as if she were talking to herself rather than me.

"Should I wait in the car until you figure everything out? I don't want to just show up," I said, which was partially true.

I'm also terrified of meeting her parents, and not for the typical reasons.

This isn't about impressing them.

I'm genuinely scared of even being in the same room as them.

"I'm sure they already know you're here," Monroe determined, making my brows furrow, "They make an effort to know everything."

I tilted my head, but I felt speechless.

I couldn't find the right words to respond with.

I guess it makes sense that they probably know about me, but it makes me feel really unsettled.

"Perhaps that's why they want us on the property," she murmured in thought, glancing away from me, "They want to meet you."

My heart quite literally sank to my fucking stomach, feeling a nausea claw its way up my throat.

"I... I'm not prepared," I whispered, unconsciously glancing down at my outfit.

I'm wearing fucking athleisure and—

"The hickey's," I suddenly said, reaching up to my exposed neck, "No, I-I can't meet them like this."

They would rip me to literal shreds like this.

I've met countless CEO's or politicians at my mother's events, and even when I was dressed appropriately, I felt out of place.

There's no way I can meet her parents looking like this.

"This is you, Liberty," Monroe said, her stare holding mine, "You don't have to wear a particular outfit or act a certain way."

I shook my head, "But they're already going to hate me probably, and—"

"We don't care what they think," she gently cut me short before I could finish, "Their opinion doesn't change how I feel about you, Liberty."

I blinked a few times at her honest words, letting out a deep sigh when she grabbed my waist and pulled me into her.

"Sleeping on the side of the road doesn't sound that bad," I whispered, trying to crack a joke even if I felt entirely serious.

Monroe's soft lips twitched up in amusement, making me unconsciously relax.

The smile on her lips was enough to make me feel relieved.

"I'll take care of you, regardless, darling," she murmured, leaning down to softly kiss my lips.

"I'm supposed to be comforting you," I pointed out with a growing smile, especially when she kissed my lips yet again.

"Now it's my turn," Monroe whispered, reaching up to gently cup my cheeks.

I let out a deep sigh, relaxing under her soft touch, "Can we at least grab some makeup from my bag? You packed me some, right?"

"Of course, darling," she didn't hesitate to say, "Will covering those marks on your neck make you feel better?"

I nodded immediately, knowing I would look much more appropriate.

"Then I'll grab your makeup," Monroe determined, leaning down to place a fleeting kiss on my lips, "Anything else?"

I remained silent for a moment, drawing in a deep breath.

"Is there anything I should know?" I suddenly asked, wanting to be as prepared as possible, "How do I act?"

Monroe smiled slightly, "Like yourself, Liberty," she said, making me shake my head.

"You need to give me something to go off of," I whispered, holding her stare, "Please?"

She briefly pursed her lips, but she didn't say anything.

Not a single word.

Monroe just stared at me for a moment.

Until finally, she nodded.

"Ma mére," she murmured, making me nod once, "My mother," she briefly clarified, "Don't be friendly, not even a small smile will suffice. Emotions repulse her."

I furrowed my brows, but I guess that made sense.

Monroe rarely shows her emotions—even now, she has trouble expressing them openly around me.

That must be something her mother instilled in her at such a young age.

"My father is outgoing and charismatic, but very passive-aggressive," Monroe explained further, "He's a narcissist and everything to him is purely transactional."

"Transactional?" I emphasized.

"Everything has to be functional or beneficial to him," she clarified better for me, lowering her hands from my face to softly squeeze my shoulders, "Get in the car for me, and I'll grab your makeup."

I nodded, letting out a soft sigh as she let go of my shoulders.

As we walked over to the car, Monroe made sure to open the backseat door for me before walking over to the trunk.

The driver patiently stared forward, remaining silent unless he was spoken to.

A couple of minutes later, Monroe slid into the backseat holding a glossy black makeup bag.

She handed it over to me, closing her door and buckling her seatbelt.

I immediately got to work on my concealer, applying a bunch of it to my neck as Monroe held up the small mirror for me.

I packed it onto my skin, along with some color corrector to contrast the purplish hickey's.

Monroe even grabbed a brush to help me blend it better, using the loose powder to set it for me.

I glanced away from the mirror the moment we smoothly halted in front of a tall black iron gate.

The driver didn't have to do or say anything.

The gate smoothly rolled open, revealing a long tan driveway.

It spanned over acres of land—tall groomed trees lining what felt like a road instead of a driveway.

I silently stared out of the tinted window, Monroe's focus pinned on me as I took in the first glimpse of her family's property.

My lips parted the moment I laid eyes on the house.

Or mansion?

Maybe estate?

Whatever is the biggest, because this place was unsurprisingly huge.

It looked like something ripped straight out of a Parisian postcard—old money kind of rich.

Not gaudy or flashy, just elegant in an effortless way.

The stone driveway stretched ahead with trimmed hedges framing the path, which looked too perfect to be real.

Even the greenery looked expensive.

And then there was the estate itself.

Three stories of creamy limestone and iron balconies, each window tall and dramatic like it had seen more scandal than I ever would.

The slate-gray roof was steep, and the dormer windows at the top gave the whole place this watchful, haunting energy.

Like the house was alive and very aware of who it was letting in.

There were two grand wooden doors beneath an arched stone frame, the entryway so polished it almost felt rude to walk up to it in sneakers.

The estate curved around the driveway, spanning acres of land to a point where I questioned how anyone needed this amount of space.

"So... this is it," I whispered, trying to ignore the weight in my stomach.

"Welcome to hell," Monroe calmly murmured as I met her stare.

I let out a deep sigh, eyeing her beautiful face for a moment.

Then I hesitantly glanced past her to the window, eyeing more of the estate and wondering if her parents were both inside right now.

The click of a seatbelt dragged me out of my thoughts, looking over at Monroe as she opened her door.

I reached for my own seatbelt and unbuckled it, sliding out of the backseat behind her.

The driver got out of the car as well, the trunk automatically lifting open from whatever button he pressed.

I glanced over to our suitcases in the trunk, but quickly realized that would be handled by him.

Or the house staff?

Four of them filtered out past the double doors—all wearing the exact same thing.

A white button-down tucked into khaki slacks, not a wrinkle in sight.

None of them dared to glance up and make eye contact with either of us.

They silently walked over to the trunk, grabbing our luggage as the driver stood tall by them.

I turned back around when Monroe gently grabbed my hand. 

"Are you ready to go inside, darling?" she asked me, her voice lowered between us. 

I nodded even if it was the last thing I wanted to do.

"Are you ready?" I whispered.

Monroe didn't nod.

She only hummed in acknowledgment to my question that she left unanswered, gently guiding me by hand toward the arched front door.

My breathing felt unsteady, our footsteps echoing in my ears.

I wasn't sure what to expect or what reactions they would possibly have.

I just squeezed Monroe's hand tighter in mine, craving more stability.

I glanced around the moment we passed through the door that Monroe pushed open for us.

The air was colder inside, still and terrifyingly quiet—like the house had been holding its breath for years.

Black-and-white marble tiles stretched across the floor in a pattern too perfect to be random.

And then there was the staircase.

Curved, dramatic, and ridiculously gorgeous.

It was the kind of stairs that looked like they belonged in a film noir—the ones a woman in a silk robe would descend slowly while hiding a knife in her pocket.

The railing was wrought iron, twisted into ornate black swirls.

Natural light spilled in from a tall set of windows behind it, but it didn't warm the space.

If anything, it just highlighted the shadows.

It was this weird kind of elegance that wasn't inviting—it was intimidating.

You could feel the history here.

It felt... heavy and expensive.

My ears perked up the moment I heard the soft clicking of heels echo distantly.

Each step was precise and echoed with purpose.

I unconsciously tried to untangle my hand from Monroe's, but she only tightened her grip in response.

I wanted to tell her that my first impression should be as appropriate as possible, but it was too late to say a single word.

The air was sucked out of the room the moment the blonde woman emerged.

She didn't speak.

Her posture was rigid, her chin held high like she'd never once had to look down at anyone.

Her heels sharply hit the marble, internally making me flinch.

The sound wasn't loud or rushed, yet somehow it was enough to make me hold my breath without realizing it.

She wore an ivory silk blouse tucked into tailored navy dress pants that probably cost more than half my closet.

She wore a simplistic tennis bracelet and a matching necklace, but otherwise, there were no flashy designer labels.

The woman had pale porcelain skin, cheekbones that looked sharp enough to cut glass, and hair that glowed gold under the light spilling from the chandelier above.

She looked like the epitome of wealth.

Old, untouchable wealth.

The kind that never apologized and never lost.

Every inch of her was curated.

"Monroe."

Her voice was soft, smooth even, but holy fuck did she sound intimidating.

"Present," Monroe said, her words flat and cutting the air, "As you coerced into happening."

The woman didn't respond. 

She only stopped in front of us, her blue eyes shifting to me.

I could tell Monroe got her tall height and thin frame from her.

Also, the depth of her dark blue eyes and sharp nose.

"Ms. Fierro," she addressed me, her voice detached and her French accent undoubtedly prominent.

It was the way someone might address a waitress at a restaurant they own.

I wanted to flinch just from how openly she held my stare.

Her eyes just look so void of anything.

The blank expression on her face scared me.

"It's nice to make your acquaintance," I forced out as strongly as I could, even if she already knew of me as Monroe mentioned.

I didn't smile or make any expression that revealed kindness, not wanting to make the wrong impression.

"I would assume so," the woman said, and it took everything inside of me not to react to her audacity. "Clarisse Leclair," she said formally, but she didn't bother to extend her hand.

Her stare flickered down to mine and Monroe's entangled hands instead.

Then she looked back at Monroe.

"I assume you only need one room?" she asked.

The question was harmless—on the surface.

But her voice dripped with passiveness.

Like she was accusing us of being romantically involved, instead of asking like a normal person.

"Correct," Monroe said, letting go of my hand—

Only to wrap her arm around my waist.

It felt protective.

Like she was warning her mother to watch her mouth.

This entire conversation feels tense, and we've barely said anything at all.

"You'll be staying in the west wing. The suite has been prepared," Clarisse spoke again, her voice absent of warmth, but it wasn't cruel... just automated?

Her stare shifted to me again, this time letting her eyes linger for longer than before.

It didn't feel like judgment, weirdly enough.

It was like she was analyzing me, memorizing every detail of me for a report later.

"My husband will be home by dinner. You'll both need to be dressed," Clarisse said, addressing Monroe like an employee expected to clean up before a shift.

She didn't even address him as Monroe's father.

It was so weird.

"Wear something appropriate," Clarisse softly added, but it was in such a targeted manner, especially as she eyed the outfit I wore.

Monroe stepped in front of me before her mother could truly degrade my outfit with her eyes.

"We'll be there," Monroe said, but it was the way she worded it.

How she purposely didn't agree to dress appropriately, as her mother mentioned.

"You'll find your usual wardrobe pressed and hung in the closet, Monroe," I heard Clarisse smoothly say as Monroe reached for my hand, pulling me along past her mother.

That was it.

There was no asking how our flight was or offering us water.

She only remained silent as we passed, her stare not bothering to follow us.

"She looks... younger," I subtly whispered to Monroe as I walked with her.

"It's the botox," Monroe said, her voice purposely loud so her mother could hear, "Her face will sag in the next few years."

I awkwardly pursed my lips, determining I should stay silent until we're out of earshot of her mother.

I focused on walking beside her instead, following along. 

This place genuinely felt like a maze, especially with all the hallways and different staircases.

I completely lost track of the way we had come, which meant I shouldn't walk around without Monroe.

Otherwise, I would get lost and probably never be found.

When Clarisse said west wing—she quite literally meant an entire wing specifically for us.

I guess that was given, but I didn't expect it to be like this.

The corridor was wide and long, lit by antique sconces that glowed like candlelight.

There were expensive paintings and crown molding lining the ceiling.

The marble floors were so polished, you could almost see your reflection in them.

There were different arched doors lining the hallway, the gold doorknobs glistening under the daylight streaming in from the tall windows.

Monroe moved like she had memorized the place, which felt impossible to me.

It's just so big—it felt like no hallway had an ending.

But finally, there we were, stopped at one of the arched wooden doors.

Monroe twisted the gold doorknob, allowing me to walk in before her.

The bedroom was large as expected.

So large that there was a loveseat and armchairs arranged by a fireplace.

The king bed was tucked precisely with white sheets and a comforter, the pillows made of shiny satin with a gold outline.

The wood headboard was tall and upholstered, wooden nightstands on either side of the bed with tall lamps.

Our suitcases were somehow already in the room, placed by one of the doors that I assumed led to a closet.

The chandeliers suddenly lit up with soft lighting when Monroe flicked on one of the light switches.

It added more light to the room besides the daylight streaming in from the windows lining one wall.

"I'll speak with my father once he's finished with work," Monroe spoke through heavy air, "We'll leave after dinner."

I nodded, my stare shifting to her, "That... wasn't what I was expecting," I admitted honestly.

Monroe tilted her head, "What were you expecting?" she asked in a soft murmur.

"Less?" I whispered with furrowed brows, "She's scarier than I thought."

My stare shifted down when Monroe's lips twitched up, "You haven't even seen the half of it, Liberty," she said, which didn't help my current dilemma.

What the fuck would her father be like?

Even imagining her mother with him in the same room made me want to hide under the bed and never come out.

These are the people you see in your nightmares.

I genuinely don't know how I'll survive this weekend.

Especially if we have to stay here.