Chapter 11 Eleven

Chapter 11 Eleven
I didn't go to The Seven the next day. Or the day after that. Pearson had told me to take a day off, but he never called or texted to tell me to come back. So I stayed away, telling myself I was just following his instructions.

In reality, I was hiding.

I spent those two days in my apartment, alternating between working on marketing plans for the restaurant—because apparently, I was a glutton for punishment—and staring blankly at the wall. Brodie called twice, but I let it go to voicemail. I wasn't ready to pretend everything was fine.

On the third day, my phone rang at 7 am. It was Edna Huang.

"Isabella! I hope I'm not calling too early."

"No, I was awake." That was a lie. I'd been staring at my ceiling, but close enough.

"Wonderful! I wanted to check in and see how things are going at The Seven. I know the arrangement is... unconventional."

"That's one word for it."

Edna laughed, though there was concern in her voice. "Is everything alright? You sound tired."

"I'm fine. Just adjusting."

"And Alexander? How are you two working together?"

I debated lying, but what was the point? "He hates me. He thinks I was his father's mistress and that I manipulated him into changing his will."

There was a long pause. "Oh dear. I was afraid of that."

"You knew he'd think that?"

"I suspected. Alexander was very close to his father, and Patrick's secretiveness in those final months caused a lot of tension between them." Edna sighed. "I wish I could tell you more about why Patrick made the decisions he did, but attorney-client privilege prevents me from sharing details he didn't explicitly authorize."

"So you do know something."

"I know that Patrick had his reasons, and they were good ones. But he chose not to share them with Alexander, and that's caused this whole mess." She paused. "Isabella, I know this is difficult, but please don't give up. Patrick believed in you. He wouldn't have done this if he didn't think you could handle it."

"I'm not sure I can. Alexander won't even let me come to work right now."

"What? Why not?"

I explained what had happened with the critic's visit and the allergic reaction. Edna listened without interrupting.

"You did the right thing," she said firmly when I finished. "And Alexander knows it, even if he's too stubborn to admit it. Give him a few days to cool off, then go back. You have every right to be there, Isabella. Don't let him push you out."

After we hung up, I sat with her words. She was right. I'd been letting Pearson dictate everything—when I came, when I left, what I did. But according to the will, I was an equal owner. I had as much right to be there as he did.

On the fourth day, I woke up early, got dressed, and headed to The Seven. I arrived at 8 am, earlier than usual, and let myself in with the key Robert had given me weeks ago.

The restaurant was quiet, not yet open for the day. I made my way to the office and found it empty. Good. I could get some work done before facing Pearson.

I pulled out my laptop and the marketing plans I'd been working on. The Seven needed a complete social media overhaul, an updated website, and a targeted campaign to rebuild its reputation after last year's bad review. I'd spent the past few days creating a comprehensive strategy, complete with budget projections and timeline.

I was so absorbed in my work that I didn't hear footsteps until Pearson's voice startled me.

"What are you doing here?"

I looked up to find him standing in the doorway, two coffee cups in his hands. He looked surprised to see me, and maybe a little guilty.

"Working. What does it look like?"

"I told you to take time off."

"You told me to take a day off. That was four days ago, and I never heard from you again." I kept my voice level. "I'm a co-owner of this restaurant, Mr. Pearson. I don't need your permission to be here."

Something flickered in his expression. He set both coffee cups on the desk—one in front of me, one in front of the chair across from me.

"That's yours. Black, two sugars."

I stared at the cup. "How did you know how I take my coffee?"

"I've seen you make it in the break room." He sat down, not meeting my eyes. "Look, about the other night—"

"You were out of line."

His jaw tightened. "I was stressed."

"That's not an excuse."

"I know." He finally looked at me. "You did the right thing with that couple. Robert told me they sent us a thank-you note and said they'd be back. That's... that's good work."

It wasn't quite an apology, but it was close. I picked up the coffee cup, using the moment to gather my thoughts.

"Thank you."

"Don't let it go to your head." There was less venom in his voice than usual.

We sat in awkward silence for a moment. Pearson kept looking at me, then away, as if he wanted to say something but couldn't find the words.

"The critic's follow-up is scheduled for next week," he said finally. "If it goes well, we might finally dig ourselves out of the hole her first review created."

"That's good."

"Yeah." He paused. "What are you working on?"

I hesitated, then turned my laptop so he could see. "Marketing strategy. Social media, website redesign, targeted advertising. We need to rebuild our online presence if we want to compete with newer restaurants."

Pearson leaned forward, studying the screen. His proximity made me acutely aware of him—the faint smell of his cologne, the concentration on his face, the way his grey eyes tracked across the information.

"This is... comprehensive," he said.

"I used to handle all the marketing for my boutique. Before it failed," I added, waiting for the inevitable dig.

But it didn't come. Instead, Pearson scrolled through more of the document, his expression thoughtful.

"The budget seems reasonable. And the timeline is aggressive but doable." He looked up at me. "How long did this take you?"

"The past few days. I didn't have anything else to do."

"Because I told you to stay away."

"Yes."

He sat back, running a hand through his dark hair. "I'm not good at this."

"At what?"

"At working with people. At admitting when I'm wrong. At..." He trailed off, then seemed to make a decision. "My father always said I was too harsh. That I expected too much and forgave too little."

I didn't know what to say to that. This vulnerable version of Alexander Pearson was disorienting.

"I've been unfair to you," he continued, the words seeming to cost him. "I've made assumptions about who you are and why you're here, and I haven't given you a chance to prove me wrong."

"So you believe me now? That I never met your father?"

His expression shuttered. "I didn't say that. But I can acknowledge that you've been... useful. And that I've been unnecessarily cruel about it."

It wasn't the full apology I wanted, but it was something. A crack in his armor.

"Okay," I said.

"Okay?"

"I accept your non-apology apology." I closed my laptop. "Can we start over? Not as enemies, but as... reluctant business partners?"

Pearson considered this. "Reluctant business partners. I can work with that."

He extended his hand across the desk. I looked at it for a moment, remembering the last time we'd touched—in the elevator, what felt like a lifetime ago. Then I reached out and shook it.

His hand was warm and strong, and the contact sent the same electric jolt through me that it had before. From his sharp intake of breath, I knew he felt it too.

We both pulled away quickly.

"Right," Pearson said, standing abruptly. "I should get back to work. Feel free to... do whatever you're doing."

He left before I could respond, leaving his coffee cup behind, still full.

I sat there for a long moment, staring at the door he'd disappeared through. What had just happened? Was that progress? Or just a momentary truce before the next battle?

My phone buzzed with a text from Lena: You're back! Thank God. Marco's been even more insufferable without you here to annoy Alexander.

I smiled despite myself and texted back: Happy to be of service.

The rest of the day passed more smoothly than any since I'd started. Pearson didn't seek me out, but he didn't avoid me either. When we passed in the hallway, he nodded. When I asked Robert a question about the budget, Pearson listened to my explanation without interrupting or insulting me.

It was strange. Unsettling. But not entirely unpleasant.

At 5 pm, as I was packing up to leave, Pearson appeared in the office doorway again.

"Tomorrow, 10 am. I want to go over your marketing proposal in detail. If it's as good as it looks, we'll implement it."

"Really?"

"Don't make me regret it." But there was no real bite to the words.

"I won't. Thank you."

He nodded and started to leave, then paused. "Isabella?"

"Yes?"

"I'm glad you came back. Even if I'm terrible at showing it."

Before I could respond, he was gone.

I gathered my things slowly, processing the day. It wasn't much—a coffee, a handshake, a reluctant acknowledgment that I might be useful. But after weeks of constant hostility, it felt like a victory.

On the bus ride home, I let myself feel something I hadn't felt in weeks: hope. Maybe, just maybe, Alexander Pearson and I could find a way to work together. Maybe we could make The Seven successful. Maybe I could survive the next eleven months without losing myself completely.

It was a fragile hope, easily broken. But for now, it was enough.

When I got home, there was a voicemail from Brodie. I almost didn't listen to it, but guilt won out.

"Hey Bella, it's me. The lawyer says my court date got moved up. It's in two weeks now instead of next month. He thinks that's a good sign—means the prosecution might be having trouble with their case. Anyway, I just wanted to let you know. And to say thank you again. For everything. Love you."

I saved the message and sat on my couch, staring at nothing. Two weeks. In two weeks, I'd know if my brother was going to prison or walking free.

Two weeks felt both impossibly far away and far too soon.

I thought about texting Pearson to let him know I might need time off for the court date, then decided against it. We'd just reached a tentative truce. I didn't want to remind him of my messy personal life and give him another reason to question my presence at The Seven.

Instead, I opened my laptop and continued refining the marketing proposal. Work was easier than worry. And right now, I needed easy.