Chapter 17 #2
Isabella’s phone rang at 9:15 in the morning, with the screen displaying an unfamiliar number that had a Paris country code.
Thankfully, she was alone in the inn’s library, supposedly reviewing finalization of staff training schedules but actually just staring at the same page for twenty minutes as her mind churned with worry about permit complaints, timeline delays, and whether she’d made a catastrophic mistake putting all of her money and time into this one project.
She almost didn’t answer the phone. Her policy was always to let unknown international numbers go to voicemail, but when she saw it was Paris, she tapped her thumb to accept the call.
“Ms. Montgomery, this is Claire Rousseau. I hope I’m not calling at an inconvenient time.”
The cultured French accent, warm and professional, sent a jolt through Isabella.
She quickly stood up and stepped out onto the front porch, ensuring she could talk without the workers overhearing her.
The morning was beautiful, calm, clear, and the kind of low country autumn day that made you understand why people had been living here on these islands for centuries.
“Not at all, Ms. Rousseau. Your email this week was very unexpected.”
“Please call me Claire. I know it was unexpected, and we typically don’t pursue executives who’ve left the industry, but Isabella, your work speaks for itself.
I mean, twenty-five years of building programs that balanced profitability with preservation - you understand that luxury hospitality isn’t just about all the amenities, but about creating meaningful connections between properties and guests.
And that perspective is rare. It’s exactly what Rousseau International needs. ”
They talked for twenty minutes, and Isabella found herself drawn in despite her better judgment. Claire wasn’t like the corporate executives she’d worked with. She had a genuine passion beneath her polished professionalism, a fundamental understanding of what made historic property special.
Claire described Rousseau’s portfolio with a level of knowledge that only comes from genuine care - the 18th-century palazzo in Venice they’d just acquired with its marble floors and frescoed ceilings, the chateau outside Lyon with its original medieval foundations and Renaissance additions, and the converted monastery in Switzerland where they preserved the cloisters and chapel while creating guest rooms that felt monastic but luxurious.
“We’re not trying to create hotels that merely reference history,” Claire said. “We’re creating spaces where guests get to experience it. Not like they’re museum visitors, but temporary residents. That’s where your work at Belmont demonstrated you understand.”
“Well, it sounds amazing,” Isabella admitted, and she meant it. “But I’m curious why you’re reaching out now. I’ve been out of corporate hospitality for nearly a year.”
“Because of what you’re doing now,” Claire’s voice sounded genuine and full of admiration.
“We’ve been following your Wexley Inn project.
It’s a historic building in decline, requiring a huge restoration, with plans to operate it independently - it’s exactly the kind of work we value.
Someone who doesn’t just manage historic properties but truly understands them from the ground up, who gets their hands dirty with the restoration itself rather than just reviewing plans and budgets. ”
Isabella felt a sense of pride but also discomfort. Someone at Rousseau had been tracking her project and following her progress.
“The inn is almost complete,” Isabella said. “We’re opening in December.”
“And that’s perfect timing. We wouldn’t expect you to abandon a project midway.
But Isabella, I need to be completely honest with you.
We’re making this offer now because we require exceptional leadership for our expansion, and we can’t wait forever.
Our board has approved substantial capital for these European acquisitions over the next five years, and the person who leads this expansion will influence how the entire generation of historic European hotels develops. ”
The vision was intoxicating. Not one inn, but at least a dozen.
Not just Lowcountry, but Europe - Venice, Lyon, Zurich, and other cities.
They’d acquired properties and would acquire more.
Not proving she could restore one single building, but establishing standards that would influence the whole industry.
“Listen, I’m flying to Charleston next Thursday for meetings with potential investors,” Claire continued.
“Would you be available for lunch? Mossy Oaks Grill at one o’clock.
Nothing formal. I’d love to meet you in person to share more about our vision and give you a chance to ask questions.
No pressure, no commitment, just a conversation between two professionals who share a passion for historic properties. ”
Isabella’s heart raced. If she agreed, it meant she was truly considering this offer.
It meant leaving The Wexley Inn, the community she had been building, and Thomas, along with whatever was developing between them.
But Grayson’s threats had unsettled everything she believed in.
She had invested all her savings, her professional reputation, and her emotional energy into that one property.
A wealthy man with the right connections and no scruples could potentially destroy it through harassment.
The European position was security. Not just financial - although that mattered - but professional, and it gave her the validation that she belonged in the industry at the highest level.
Although it felt disloyal, Thomas was maybe right to have protective instincts for her.
Perhaps she had been so na?ve, thinking she could succeed as an outsider on a small island.
“Thursday at one o’clock works,” Isabella heard herself say. “See you there.”
“Wonderful. I’ll have my assistant send confirmation details and make the reservations. Isabella, I’m very much looking forward to meeting you. I have a feeling this conversation is going to be the start of something huge.”
After they hung up, Isabella stood on the porch for a long time, gazing at the inn she had poured her heart into restoring.
The building was nearly finished. In just a few weeks, they would open the doors.
Guests would sleep in these rooms, eat in the kitchen, and stroll through the gardens.
It was everything she’d imagined when she first saw the property.
The dream she had built with her own hands.
But dreams could be fragile, and she had a responsibility to be smart.
She couldn’t let emotion override practicality.
She wouldn’t mention the meeting to anyone, not yet.
There was no point in creating unnecessary concern.
She was just gathering information, having a conversation, keeping her options open.
It wasn’t dishonesty. It was due diligence. She forced herself to believe it.
She pulled out her phone and saw two texts from Thomas: one about the permit situation - “Making progress, will update you this evening” - and then one suggesting dinner tomorrow night at a restaurant on the mainland he thought she would love.
She texted back, agreeing to dinner, adding a heart emoji that felt both genuine and fraudulent.
She loved Thomas - was falling in love with him, at least - had maybe never stopped loving him through all the intervening years.
But love didn’t pay for renovation loans if Grayson succeeded in delaying her opening, and love didn’t protect her from losing everything if one wealthy developer decided to destroy her dream.
Love didn’t diversify risk, provide support, or validate that she’d made the right choices.
She looked at the Paris meeting confirmation on her calendar - one o’clock Thursday, Mossy Oaks Grill, Charleston - and felt guilt twist through her chest. She was just having a conversation, just listening to an offer, and being smart about her future.
She almost believed it.