Chapter 7 Seven

Chapter 7 Seven
The storeroom was a disaster.

Boxes were stacked haphazardly, inventory lists had not been updated in months, cleaning supplies were mixed with dry goods, and a layer of dust covered everything, suggesting that no one had properly organized this space in years. It was degrading work, exactly the kind of thing Pearson had assigned me to make a point.

I rolled up my sleeves and got started.

For three days, I arrived at The Seven at nine am sharp, nodded coldly at Pearson when our paths crossed, and disappeared into the storeroom. I created new inventory systems, labeled everything, and separated items by category and expiration date. It was mind-numbing work, but at least in the storeroom, I didn't have to see the contempt in Pearson's eyes or hear his snide comments.

The staff, for their part, seemed confused by my presence. Marco, the head chef, ignored me completely. Lena, the sous chef, offered tentative smiles but never engaged in conversation. Robert, the general manager, was professionally polite but clearly taking his cues from Pearson on how to treat me.

On the morning of the fourth day, I transferred the money to Brodie. He called me immediately after, sobbing with gratitude, promising this was the last time, swearing he'd get his life together. I'd heard it all before, but I let him talk. What else could I do?

"Bella, I mean it this time. I'm going to make you proud."

"Just hire a good lawyer, Brodie. That's all I ask."

After we hung up, I stood in the storeroom, surrounded by neatly organized shelves, and felt absolutely nothing. No relief, no satisfaction, just a hollow emptiness that seemed to be expanding inside my chest.

"Admiring your handiwork?"

I spun around to find Pearson leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. He was wearing a navy blue button-down today, sleeves rolled to his elbows, and I hated that my traitorous eyes traced the lines of his forearms before I caught myself.

"I've finished organizing," I said flatly. "What's my next assignment? Scrubbing toilets?"

"Don't tempt me." He walked into the storeroom, looking around with an expression I couldn't read. "I'll admit, this is better than I expected. Almost professional."

"Almost?" I raised an eyebrow.

"Well, you did run a business into the ground, so my expectations weren't exactly high."

And there it was. Every conversation with this man inevitably circled back to my failures, my inadequacies, my supposed moral deficiencies.

"Is there something you needed, Mr. Pearson? Or did you just come down here to insult me? Because I have plenty of work to do if that's all."

"Actually, yes. There's something I need." He pulled out his phone and showed me a calendar. "We have a meeting with potential investors tomorrow. Two pm. You need to be there."

"Why?"

"Because the will stipulates joint management, and these investors will want to meet both owners." His jaw tightened. "Unfortunately."

"I see. And what exactly is my role in this meeting? Silent decoration?"

"If you could manage silence, that would be ideal. But since you seem incapable of keeping your mouth shut, try to at least not embarrass me." He put his phone away. "Wear something appropriate. These are serious people with serious money."

"I know how to dress for a business meeting."

"Do you? Because the last time I saw your boutique, you were wearing an outfit that looked like you'd robbed a thrift store."

The comment stung because it was partially true. My clothes had all been carefully curated second-hand finds, styled to look expensive. But Pearson's implication was clear—I was cheap, trying too hard, a fraud.

"I'll manage," I said coldly.

"Make sure you do. These investors knew my father. They respected him. I won't have you tarnishing his memory with your presence."

He left before I could respond, and I stood there, my hands clenched into fists. How was I supposed to survive an entire year of this? Every day brought new humiliations, new reminders of everything Pearson thought I was.

That evening, I went through my closet three times, trying to find something suitable for the investor meeting. Everything suddenly looked shabby and worn, exactly as Pearson had implied. I ended up online, using money I didn't have to order a simple black dress that promised overnight delivery.

The dress arrived the next morning, and I spent an extra hour on my makeup and hair, determined not to give Pearson any ammunition. When I arrived at the restaurant at 1:30 pm, I saw his car already in the lot.

Inside, Pearson was in the main dining room, reviewing documents with Robert. He looked up when I entered, and something flickered across his face—surprise, maybe, or appreciation—before the mask of disdain slipped back into place.

"You're early. Miracles do happen."

I didn't rise to the bait. "Where should I sit during this meeting?"

"Next to me, unfortunately. Try to look interested, but don't speak unless directly addressed. And for God's sake, don't mention anything about your personal life or your brother, or your failed business. These people don't need to know about your drama."

"Anything else, or have you covered all the ways I might embarrass you?"

"Just stick to the script." He handed me a folder. "Read this. It's background on the potential investors and what they're looking for. We need their capital to upgrade the kitchen and expand the wine program."

I took the folder and sat at a nearby table, reading through the information. The investors were a married couple, Richard and Margaret Chen, who owned several successful restaurants in California. They were looking to expand into the Pacific Northwest and were considering The Seven as their entry point.

"They want authenticity and legacy," I said, looking up from the documents.

Pearson frowned. "What?"

"The Chens. They're not just looking for a good investment. They want a story, a legacy they can be part of. That's why they're interested in The Seven." I tapped the document. "It says here they specifically seek out family-owned restaurants with history."

"I'm aware of what they're looking for. I'm the one who approached them."

"Right. Of course." I went back to reading, but I could feel his eyes on me.

"How did you know that?" he asked finally. "About what they want?"

"It's in the document you gave me."

"No, I mean how did you know that's their primary motivation? You read for thirty seconds and picked up on something that took me three meetings to figure out."

I looked up, surprised by the genuine curiosity in his voice. "I'm good at reading people. It was essential in retail. You have to understand what customers really want, not just what they say they want."

Pearson's expression shifted, something that might have been respect crossing his features before he caught himself. "Well, don't mention any of that in the meeting. Just follow my lead."

Before I could respond, the front door opened, and a well-dressed couple in their fifties walked in. Richard Chen was tall and distinguished with silver hair, while Margaret was petite and elegant, her dark hair swept into a chic updo.

"Alexander!" Richard's voice boomed across the restaurant. "Good to see you."

Pearson's entire demeanor changed. The coldness melted away, replaced by a warm, professional charm that I'd never seen before. "Richard, Margaret, thank you so much for coming."

He shook hands with both of them, then turned to me. "This is Isabella Long, my co-owner."

The way he said "co-owner" made it sound like a disease, but the Chens didn't seem to notice. Margaret stepped forward and took both my hands in hers.

"Isabella, it's wonderful to meet you. Alexander has told us so much about you."

I forced a smile, wondering what exactly Pearson had said. "All good things, I hope."

"Of course," Richard said, though something in his tone suggested he knew there was tension. "Patrick spoke highly of you in our last conversation. He seemed quite convinced you were the future of this place."

The statement hung in the air. Pearson's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, while I tried to process what Richard had just said. Patrick Pearson had talked about me? To investors?

"That's... I'm honored," I managed to say.

"Please, let's sit." Pearson gestured to a table he'd prepared, complete with wine and appetizers. "We have much to discuss."

The meeting began smoothly enough. Pearson laid out his vision for the restaurant, which included upgraded equipment, an expanded wine program, and a renewed marketing push. He was articulate and passionate, and I found myself genuinely impressed despite everything.

The Chens listened attentively, asking questions about revenue, foot traffic, and competition. Pearson answered everything with practiced ease, barely glancing at the documents in front of him.

"And what about you, Isabella?" Margaret asked suddenly. "What's your vision for The Seven?"

Every eye turned to me. Pearson's expression was carefully neutral, but I could see the warning in his eyes. Don't embarrass me.

"I think The Seven has incredible bones," I said carefully. "The location, the history, the quality of the food—it's all there. But I agree with Alexander that we need to modernize our approach without losing what makes this place special."

"Interesting," Richard said. "Can you elaborate?"

I glanced at Pearson, who gave me the slightest nod. Permission to continue, apparently.

"The story is what sets The Seven apart. Patrick Pearson's first restaurant, his vision, his legacy. However, we're not telling that story effectively right now. Our online presence is minimal, we're not engaging with the community, and we're not giving people a reason to choose us over newer restaurants." I took a breath, warming to the subject despite my nerves. "With the right marketing strategy and some targeted improvements, I think we could not only survive but thrive."

Margaret was smiling. "I like her, Alexander. She has vision."

Pearson's smile looked painful. "Yes, she's full of surprises."

The rest of the meeting went well. The Chens seemed genuinely interested, and by the end, they'd committed to a second meeting to discuss specifics. As they were leaving, Richard pulled Pearson aside for a private word, while Margaret lingered with me.

"Patrick was a dear friend," she said softly. "We were heartbroken when he passed. But I'm glad to see he chose someone who cares about this place."

"I'm trying my best," I said honestly.

"I can see that. And I can see Alexander is being difficult about it." She patted my hand. "Men and their pride. Give him time. He'll come around."

I seriously doubted that, but I smiled and thanked her anyway.

After the Chens left, Pearson turned to me with an unreadable expression. "That went better than expected."

"Is that your way of saying I didn't embarrass you?"

"Don't let it go to your head. One decent meeting doesn't erase the fact that you're only here because you slept your way into my father's will."

The words were like ice water. For a moment there, during the meeting, I'd almost forgotten how much he despised me. Almost thought we might be able to work together civilly.

"Right," I said quietly. "I'll remember that."

I turned to leave, but his voice stopped me.

"Be here tomorrow at eight. We're receiving a shipment, and I want you to check it against the inventory system you created."

"Fine."

"And Isabella?" I turned back. "The Chens liked you. Don't let it go to your head. They're sentimental about my father, that's all. They don't actually know you."

"Message received, Mr. Pearson. You hate me. I get it."

His eyes flashed with something I couldn't name. "Good. As long as we're clear."

I left before I said something I'd regret, before the tears burning behind my eyes could fall. One year. I just had to survive one year of this.

How hard could it be?