Arielle Monroe

Name: Arielle Camille Monroe Alias (currently): Ava Morgan Age: 20 Birthplace: Washington, D.C. Major: Political Science (minoring in Literature) Current Status: Hidden under government protection with a falsified identity Family: Only child to Senator Nathan Monroe and the late Camille Moreau-Monroe --- Physical Appearance Arielle isn’t the kind of beautiful that hits you like a freight train. She’s the kind that lingers—a slow unraveling. You notice her in the corner of a room, not the center. Then your eyes keep drifting back. There’s something arresting about how quietly she carries herself. Height: 5'7" Build: Slender but athletic—defined, not delicate. Toned from years of riding lessons, Pilates, and the quiet physical demands of being a politician’s daughter always expected to "look the part." Hair: Thick chestnut brown with natural amber highlights, usually worn in loose waves or tied into a low knot when she needs to feel grounded. Skin: Olive-toned with golden undertones; tans easily, rarely burns. Eyes: Steel blue—intensely observant, difficult to read. They often appear soft at a glance but lock on when something doesn’t make sense. Style: Understated elegance. Think ribbed knits, cream tones, soft wool coats, cigarette pants, minimal gold jewelry, vintage pieces that look inherited. She gravitates toward subtle, deliberate fashion—never overdone, never careless. Hands: Always cold. Fingers slender, nails manicured short. She fidgets with her rings when anxious—a tiny, unconscious tell. --- Personality Arielle is the kind of person who learned early that being underestimated is an advantage. She is a living contradiction—kind but sharp, soft-spoken but fiercely intelligent. She's not "quiet"—she's composed. There’s a difference. Composure is her armor. She thinks before she reacts. Her anger is slow-building but precise. When she speaks, people listen, not because she’s loud—but because she’s surgical. Empathetic, but cautiously so. She’ll remember your favorite café drink, ask about your dog’s surgery, and send you articles she thinks you’ll love—but she rarely talks about herself. Observant to a fault. She notices tone, micro-expressions, conversational shifts. She doesn’t always call it out, but she stores everything. Old-soul tendencies. She reads poetry before bed. Writes in a physical journal. Hates cheap earbuds—uses wired headphones because she says they sound better. She folds her clothes with military precision, though no one taught her to. --- Upbringing & Background The daughter of a polished U.S. Senator and a French-born artist, Arielle grew up in an environment where image and silence were forms of currency. Her father was power embodied—cold, driven, distant. Her mother was warmth in human form—fiery in debate, impossibly tender in private. Camille died of a sudden illness when Arielle was 14. After that, everything changed. Her childhood was marked by: Private all-girls academies Secret service escorts Fundraisers with hidden agendas Practicing the smile that said “I’m fine, thank you” before she ever felt it She was constantly surrounded by people, yet profoundly lonely. She craved freedom but was taught discipline. She always did what was expected of her. She never made waves. Until now. --- Habits & Traits Compulsively tidy. Her desk is always organized. Everything has its place. Chaos unsettles her. Coffee over tea. Black, strong, but with a pinch of cinnamon—it reminds her of her mother. Sleeps on her side, curled inward. Never flat on her back. As if protecting her center. Always carries a physical book. Even with a phone. She hates reading digitally. Favorite scent: Cardamom and cedar. Her late mother used to wear it. Doesn’t like mirrors. She uses them, sure—but rarely lingers. Something about watching herself too long makes her uneasy. Keeps emergency cash in her shoe box. Always has. She doesn’t know why—just in case. --- Social Circle Before her relocation, she had a modest but tight circle of friends—mostly other political offspring, elite school peers, the daughters of diplomats. But most of those friendships were curated, inherited, or built on the quiet understanding that everything was for show. Now, in her new life: She keeps to herself Wears the name Ava Morgan like a glove that doesn’t quite fit Smiles when she’s supposed to, but rarely lets anyone close She’s civil with her professors, polite to classmates—but avoids anything personal No one has her real number. No one knows who she was. And that weighs on her more than she admits. --- Unconscious Behaviors Rubs her thumb over her lower lip when anxious Checks her surroundings in every room—doors, windows, exits Keeps track of what time the sun sets. Every day. Doesn’t know why Replays conversations in her head—things she could’ve said differently Starts organizing her room when she feels out of control Sometimes wakes up from shallow sleep gasping—no dreams she can remember, just that residual panic --- What Drives Her Justice, though she doesn’t fully understand what that looks like yet. Truth, especially after being lied to and buried beneath a false name. Control, because she’s had so little of it. Protecting her autonomy, after a life of being a symbol, a prop, a pawn. --- Flaws Doesn’t ask for help. She thinks suffering in silence is strength. Doesn’t forgive easily. Especially betrayal. Often feels like she’s living someone else’s life. She’s not sure who she is when she isn’t being watched. Pride in disguise. She hides it well, but she hates looking weak. Even when she’s drowning. Title: Ghost Protocol: The Helios Initiative Genre: Romantic Thriller | Action | Conspiracy Drama --- Ethan Mercer was bred, not raised. A ghost made of bone and muscle and brutal programming. He was the youngest soldier in U.S. military history to be transferred into the Helios Initiative—an unacknowledged black-ops division engineered to do the jobs too dirty for official channels. The government denies it exists. The world hopes it doesn’t. But for Ethan, it was home. Call sign: Ghost. He doesn’t wear dog tags. He wears scars. And the only rule in Helios: don’t ask why—just execute. Now twenty-four and sent underground for deep-cover recovery, Ethan is posing as a college student at Blackridge University. He blends in, just another brooding face in a sea of normalcy. No attachments. No footprints. No history. But then she arrives. --- Arielle Monroe isn’t supposed to be here. Smart, beautiful, and fiercely perceptive, she was the shining daughter of a high-profile politician with clean hands—until he made a deal with the wrong people. A handshake behind closed doors with a ruthless cartel left the Monroe family marked. But reaching the senator proved too difficult… so they went after the only leverage they had: Ari. To keep her alive, her identity was wiped. Ari was buried under a new name, a fake backstory, and a sudden enrollment at a university halfway across the country. She doesn’t know who to trust. She doesn’t know what her father did. She just knows she’s being hunted. And her new roommate? There’s something off about him. Still. Cold. Quiet. Too quiet. She doesn’t know that Ethan Mercer is Helios. And Helios doesn’t protect targets. Helios eliminates them. --- When a Helios assassin—hired by the very cartel her father crossed—shows up on campus to finish the job, Ethan is forced to make a choice he was never trained to make. He kills the agent. One of his own. And just like that, the Initiative marks him as compromised. Excommunicated. Disavowed. Now Ethan and Ari are on the run, hunted by the world’s deadliest clandestine unit and a cartel that wants her dead before she can unravel the secrets that could bury them all. But Ethan was built for this—for war, for death, for silence. What he wasn’t built for… Was her. --- Tagline: He was trained to kill for the Initiative. Now he’ll burn it to the ground to keep her.