Chapter 12 Twelve

Chapter 12 Twelve
The marketing meeting started exactly at 10 am. Pearson had commandeered the largest meeting room, and when I walked in, I found him standing at the head of the table with Robert, Marco, and Lena already seated.

"You invited the whole team?" I asked, surprised.

"If we're implementing a new strategy, everyone needs to be on board." Pearson gestured to an empty seat. "Sit. Let's see what you've got."

I pulled up my presentation on the large screen and began walking them through it. I'd spent hours perfecting every slide, anticipating questions, backing up every recommendation with data.

The first section covered social media—creating consistent content, engaging with customers, showcasing behind-the-scenes moments that would make people feel connected to The Seven.

"We should post daily on Instagram and Facebook," I explained. "Highlight seasonal menu items, introduce staff members, share the restaurant's history. People want to feel like they're part of a story, not just eating at a restaurant."

Marco snorted. "Social media is for amateurs who can't let their food speak for itself."

"Social media is how people under fifty decide where to eat," I countered. "We can have the best food in Seattle, but if no one knows about it, what's the point?"

"She's right," Lena said quietly. "All my friends check Instagram before trying a new restaurant."

Marco grumbled but didn't argue further.

The next section covered the website redesign. "Our current site looks like it was built in 2005. We need modern design, easy online reservations, and a blog where we can share recipes, cooking tips, and Patrick Pearson's story."

At the mention of his father, Alexander's expression tightened, but he didn't interrupt.

"Finally, targeted advertising. Food blogs, local lifestyle magazines, partnerships with hotels and tourist boards. We need to remind Seattle that The Seven exists and that it's worth their time."

I finished the presentation and waited, my heart pounding. The room was silent.

"How much?" Pearson asked finally.

"Total? About fifteen thousand for the first quarter. After that, it drops to around five thousand monthly for maintenance and ad spend."

"That's a lot of money."

"It's an investment. And based on these projections"—I pulled up the final slide—"we should see a return within six months."

Pearson studied the numbers, his expression unreadable. Finally, he looked at Robert. "What do you think?"

"I think it's solid. Conservative estimates, reasonable budget, clear objectives." Robert nodded at me. "It's good work, Isabella."

"Marco?"

The chef shrugged. "As long as I don't have to smile for pictures, I don't care what you do."

"You might have to smile for pictures," I said. "People love seeing chefs."

"Absolutely not."

"We'll discuss it," Pearson cut in. He turned to Lena. "You're our youngest staff member. Would this appeal to your demographic?"

Lena looked surprised to be asked. "Definitely. My generation wants authenticity and connection. This gives us that while still being professional."

Pearson was quiet for a long moment, his fingers drumming on the table. Then he nodded once, decisively.

"Do it. Start with the social media—that's low cost, high visibility. Once we see results, we'll move forward with the website and advertising."

I blinked. "Really?"

"Don't make me regret it." But there was something almost like approval in his eyes.

"I won't. Thank you."

The meeting dispersed, and I started gathering my materials. Pearson lingered, waiting until we were alone.

"That was impressive," he said.

"You don't have to sound so surprised."

"I know. But I am." He paused. "I've been running this place like my father did—same menu, same approach, same everything. I thought that's what honoring his legacy meant. But maybe I was wrong. Maybe the best way to honor him is to let the restaurant evolve."

It was the most vulnerable thing he'd said to me since we met. I didn't know how to respond.

"Your father must have been an amazing man," I said finally.

Pearson's expression softened. "He was. Tough, demanding, but fair. He built everything from nothing—came to this country with two hundred dollars and a dream. The Seven was his first success, and it always remained his favorite." His voice grew rough. "Even when he was dying, he'd ask me about this place. How were the reservations? Was Marco happy? Were we taking care of the staff?"

"He sounds like he really cared."

"He did. About this restaurant, about the people who worked here, about excellence." Pearson's jaw tightened. "Which is why I don't understand why he left it to a stranger."

And just like that, the moment of connection shattered. I should have known it was too good to last.

"I'm not going to keep defending myself to you," I said quietly. "Believe me or don't. Either way, I'm here, and I'm going to do my job."

I left before he could respond, frustrated tears burning behind my eyes. One step forward, two steps back. That seemed to be the pattern with Alexander Pearson.



The next week passed in a flurry of activity. I threw myself into implementing the marketing strategy, creating content calendars, scheduling posts, and reaching out to local food bloggers. Pearson mostly left me alone, which I told myself was a good thing.

The critic's follow-up visit went well. She'd been impressed enough to schedule a third visit, this time bringing a photographer. If that review was positive, it could change everything for The Seven. But despite these small victories, I couldn't shake the constant anxiety about Brodie's upcoming court date. It loomed over everything, a dark cloud I couldn't escape.

Five days before the court date, Brodie called.

"Bella, I need you to come to one of my prep sessions with the lawyer. He wants to meet you."

"Why?"

"Because you're my character witness. He wants to prep you for testimony."

My stomach dropped. "Testimony? Brodie, I can't miss work right now. Things are finally going well at the restaurant—"

"Please, Bella. I need you. This is my life we're talking about."

The guilt was instant and overwhelming. "Okay. When?"

"Tomorrow, 2 pm. I'll text you the address."

After we hung up, I sat in my car in The Seven's parking lot, trying to figure out how to handle this. I couldn't just disappear for half a day without explanation. But I also couldn't tell Pearson the truth—that I needed time off to help my brother avoid prison on drug trafficking charges.

In the end, I decided on a partial truth. The next morning, I found Pearson in his office.

"I need tomorrow afternoon off. Family emergency."

He looked up from his computer. "What kind of emergency?"

"Personal."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only answer I'm giving you." I kept my voice firm. "I'll be back Friday morning, and I'll make up any missed work."

Pearson studied me, his grey eyes searching. "This is about your brother, isn't it?"

I froze. "What?"

"I told you, I did my research. Brodie Long, human trafficking charges, court date next week." His expression was unreadable. "So what is it? Lawyer meeting? Pre-trial prep?"

"How do you—" I stopped, fury replacing shock. "You're still investigating me?"

"I'm protecting my interests."

"Your interests? What about my privacy? What about basic human decency?"

"Says the woman who's hiding the fact that her brother is probably an organ dealer."

The words hit like a slap. "He's not a dealer. He was set up."

"That's what they all say."

"You don't know anything about my brother or what he's been through."

"I know he's a liability. I know that when his case goes public, people will connect him to you, and you to this restaurant. Do you have any idea what that could do to our reputation?"

I stared at him, my hands shaking. "My brother is facing prison, and all you care about is the restaurant's reputation?"

"It's not all I care about, but it is my priority. This place is my father's legacy—"

"I know! You've made that very clear!" I was shouting now, past caring. "Everything is about the restaurant and your father and his precious legacy. But you know what? I have a family too. A brother who needs me, who's made mistakes but doesn't deserve to rot in prison. And I'm sorry if that's inconvenient for you, but I'm going to that meeting tomorrow whether you like it or not."

I turned to leave, but Pearson's voice stopped me.

"If his case affects this restaurant, I'll make sure the will's lawyers know. There might be grounds to contest your ownership based on moral character."

I turned back slowly, certain I'd misheard. "What did you just say?"

"You heard me." His face was hard, carved from stone. "I'll do whatever it takes to protect this place. Even from you."

For a moment, I couldn't speak. Couldn't breathe. The betrayal was so complete, so devastating, that I actually felt physical pain in my chest.

"You really think I'm that terrible, don't you?" My voice came out as a whisper. "After everything—after I've worked my ass off for weeks, after I've dealt with your constant insults and accusations, after I've proven myself over and over—you still think I'm some kind of criminal."

"I think you're someone with questionable judgment and connections to illegal activities."

"He's my brother. I don't get to choose that."

"No, but you choose to help him. You choose to enable his behavior. Just like you probably chose to help my father with whatever scheme you two were cooking up."

"There was no scheme!" I was shaking now, my voice breaking. "How many times do I have to say it? I never met your father! I don't know why he chose me! Maybe he was just a kind man who wanted to help someone who was struggling. Did you ever think of that? Or is kindness such a foreign concept to you that you can't even imagine it?"

Something flickered in Pearson's eyes—doubt, maybe, or regret. But it was gone too quickly.

"Take your afternoon off," he said coldly. "But if your brother's case affects this restaurant in any way, there will be consequences."

I left without another word, my vision blurred with tears I refused to let fall until I was outside. In my car, I let them come—hot, angry tears that I couldn't stop.

I'd been stupid to think things were getting better. Stupid to believe that Pearson might actually start seeing me as a person instead of a threat. The coffee, the marketing approval, the moments of almost-civility—they meant nothing. At the first sign of complications, he'd reverted to type.

And the worst part? The absolute worst part was that some small, traitorous part of me still wanted him to believe me. Still wanted his approval. Still felt that electric jolt every time we touched.

I was an idiot.

I drove home and spent the rest of the day preparing for the meeting with Brodie's lawyer, trying not to think about Pearson or his threats or the fact that I might lose everything because my brother couldn't stay out of trouble.

By the time I fell asleep that night, I'd made a decision. I would help Brodie through his trial. I would continue working at The Seven until the year was up. And then I would sign away my rights to the restaurant and never look back.

Alexander Pearson could have his father's legacy. I wanted nothing more to do with either of them.