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"Of course, Isla," Charlotte responded, ensuring her voice didn't waver. She poured the tea with equal parts precision and reluctance, keenly aware of Isla's gaze tracing her every move. Just keep it together, Charlotte. This is your place, not hers.
"Will Simon be joining us for breakfast?" Isla inquired, the question seemingly innocuous, but Charlotte felt the probe behind it, sharp and probing.
Charlotte hesitated, a momentary lapse that she quickly recovered from. "He mentioned he had an early meeting in town," she replied, forcing a neutral expression. Why does she ask about Simon? What is she playing at?
"Ah, I see." Isla's lips curved into a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "He always was dedicated."
Returning to the kitchen, Charlotte leaned against the cool stone of the sink, allowing herself the briefest respite. She closed her eyes, breathing deeply, drawing upon her reserves of patience. Yet even as she fortified her resolve, the image of Isla, calm and unassailable, lingered in her mind like a shadow refusing to fade with the rising sun.
The Crown Inn's morning calm shattered with the unmistakable sound of cascading water. A guest's sharp cry from the upper hallway yanked Charlotte from her reverie. Her heart pounded as she ascended the stairs, two steps at a time, to find a torrent spilling from beneath one of the bathroom doors.
"Out of the way, please!" Charlotte called out, pushing through the gathering crowd. She threw open the bathroom door to witness a geyser from what had once been an ornate antique faucet. Water sprayed across the Edwardian tiles, drenching the floral wallpaper and pooling around her feet.
"Good heavens, Charlotte, it's like the Thames in here!" exclaimed Mr. Barnes, a portly gentleman who held his wife's handbag overhead to protect it from the deluge.
"Mrs. Moore, do you need assistance?" another concerned guest offered, but Charlotte was already knee-deep in crisis mode.
"I'll handle this," she said with forced calm, though her mind raced with the cost of repairs, the damage to the inn's old bones, and the disruption to her guests' tranquility. This is a disaster. An expensive, destructive nightmare.
"Everyone, please return to your rooms or the dining area," she instructed, her voice betraying none of her internal panic. "We'll sort this out momentarily."
With a reluctant murmur, the guests dispersed, some whispering concerns, others shooting sympathetic glances. Charlotte knelt by the burst pipe, feeling the weight of the inn's fragility—and her own—in her hands.
"Charlotte, let me help," Isla's voice cut through the chaos, as calm as the eye of a storm.
"No, I've got it under control," Charlotte snapped, more harshly than intended. She didn't dare look up at Isla, couldn't risk revealing the chink in her armor. Don't show weakness, not to her. But the truth was, Charlotte felt anything but in control.
As she scrambled to turn off the main water valve, her thoughts were a whirlwind of invoices and dwindling savings. The inn was more than just a business; it was a symbol of her independence, her escape from a life that no longer fit. And now, the specter of financial ruin loomed over her New York fairy tale turned English countryside saga.
She ignored the pulsing headache forming behind her eyes and the way her chest tightened with every breath. Just keep swimming, even if the water's rising. Her palms pressed hard against the damp tile, willing strength back into her frame. Charlotte Moore was not one to succumb to pressure; she'd built a life on resilience, on turning canvases of disarray into masterpieces. This inn, with its quirks and creaks, would not be her undoing.
"Charlotte," Isla's voice again, softer now. "Can I at least call the plumber?”
"Fine," Charlotte relented, her tone clipped. As Isla departed, Charlotte felt the sting of defeat. She's everywhere, in everything. How am I supposed to build a new life with her ghost lingering in every corner?
With a deep, steadying breath, she rose to her feet, flicking droplets from her blouse. The inn was her sanctuary—a legacy she'd fought for amidst the rubble of her former life. She wouldn't let it crumble, not due to water nor the waves of doubt crashing within.
Isla returned, waving her phone. “Hang in there, He’s coming.”
“Thanks. I will,” Charlotte snapped.
"Resilient," Isla repeated, the word rolling off her tongue with ease, as if she were tasting its flavor. "An admirable trait. I'm sure it's what drew Simon to you."
The inn suddenly seemed to shrink around Charlotte, the walls pressing in with the weight of Isla's implications. A flush crept up her neck as she took a breath—a futile attempt to regain some semblance of order.
"Is that what this is about, Isla?" Charlotte couldn't help but confront the elephant in the room, her usual discretion eroding under the strain. "Are you here to remind me that you were here first? To mark your territory?"
"Charlotte—" Isla began, but Charlotte pressed on, her words tumbling out.
"Or maybe you're trying to win him back? Sabotage what he and I are building?" The accusations felt foreign on her lips, but once spoken, they hung there—real, tangible.
"Charlotte, I think you're misunderstanding my—"
"Am I?" The innkeeper's eyes blazed with a mix of defiance and vulnerability. "Because from where I'm standing, it seems pretty clear what your intentions are."
Isla's expression faltered for a moment, the smooth facade showing a crack. But Charlotte didn't wait for a response; she spun on her heel and walked away, leaving a trail of whispered doubts behind her.
In the solitude of her office, Charlotte sank into her chair, the confrontation replaying in her mind.
