Chapter 10：Fortune Inn - Confession
1333 Words
Trailing behind Shawn Rayne was Kyle, the familiar barkeep and owner of The Rusty Anchor—his faded leather vest and worn boots a perfect match to the bar’s name.
The two men weren’t strangers. For years now, Shawn had made Willowbrook his winter refuge, staying only at Fortune Inn and drinking only at The Rusty Anchor, as if loyalty to both had long become a silent ritual.
The moment Clara Hayes spotted him standing by the door, something flickered to life in her—an unspoken brightness after weeks of gloom. Her eyes, dulled by the monotony of long days, seemed to bloom with sudden color. She rushed toward him, her voice threaded with disbelief and warmth.
“Shawn, you’re here! Why didn’t you tell me you were coming? I would’ve had Abu drive me to meet you.”
There was a tremble in her voice. Not quite a sob, but the kind of quake that comes from seeing someone you hadn’t realized you’d been waiting for.
“Mrs. Wilkins and the others have been talking about you nonstop. They said you always show up this time of year. They started to think maybe you weren’t coming.”
Shawn’s tone was playful, but his eyes were soft as he took in her expression.
“Did you miss me that much?” he asked, setting his suitcase down.
“You’re tearing up now?”
Clara blinked rapidly, swiping the corner of her eye with her sleeve, half-laughing at herself.
“Of course I missed you. Did you drive all the way here or fly in? And have you eaten anything?”
“Didn’t drive this time. First flight out. Haven’t had a bite yet,” he said, the edges of his voice curved with fondness.
“I was hoping for your noodle soup. You know the one—the clear broth that tastes like quiet mornings.”
Clara’s smile was like sunlight on snow.
“I’ll make it right away.”
And in that moment, all her joy, all her brightness, all her heart—it was impossible not to see it. Elliot Vance certainly did. He watched from the sidelines as she disappeared into the kitchen, light-footed as spring.
Kyle quietly rolled the suitcase behind the counter, stowing it near the front desk. Meanwhile, Elliot’s gaze turned to the man still standing in the doorway.
Shawn, ever too quick with his grin, simply pointed upward—toward the little black dome of the security camera—and raised a brow. A silent reminder: no scenes, no slips.
Later, with the room key handed over and the hallway quiet, Shawn slipped upstairs and let himself into Elliot’s room. He closed the door softly behind him, like a boy sneaking into a chapel.
“So?” he said, falling onto the couch with a grin. “This place treatin’ you right? Ten days in paradise, huh?”
He gestured toward the sheer white curtains billowing near the terrace.
“That view from the balcony, man. You can see the whole damn town. The mountains, the clouds—it’s like living in a painting.”
But Elliot wasn’t looking at the mountains. His expression was colder than the wind outside.
“Why are you here?” he asked. The ashtray beside him was a battlefield of burned-out cigarettes.
“Who’s handling things with the audit team?”
“Gabriel Weston,” Shawn said, shrugging. “I left him in charge. He’s competent.”
“It’s not the same.”
“What, you don’t trust him either?”
“I don’t trust anyone,” Elliot said quietly. His cigarette burned low in his fingers. “Not anymore. Not even you.”
Shawn laughed, but it came out more nervous than amused.
“C’mon, don’t be like that. Uncle Lu’s been looking into me. I had to get out fast. I left in the middle of the night—straight to the airport. If I stayed, they’d be banging on my door by morning.”
“You think that brings them off my scent?”
“I came to move the car,” Shawn explained. “No car, no trail. They’ll never guess you’re still here.”
Elliot leveled his gaze.
“You could’ve called. I would’ve had someone move it for me.”
“…Damn,” Shawn muttered. “Nothing slips by you, huh?”
He leaned back with a sigh. “My mom’s started pushing for blind dates. Yesterday I met some kind of... national embroidery master. She talked about silk threads for three hours. It was torture. So I panicked and told my mom I was in love.”
Elliot raised an eyebrow.
“With a writer,” Shawn added quickly.
“You know how she is. Loves intellectuals. Soon as she heard ‘writer,’ she told me to bring her home.”
Elliot’s silence was knowing. The confession lay bare.
He had come to confess. And if Clara Hayes said yes—if she gave him even a sliver of a chance—he’d take her home, show her to his parents, make it real.
“How much do you really know about her?” Elliot asked.
Shawn frowned.
“I mean... I know she came here to get away from her ex. I know why they broke up.”
“What’s his name?” Elliot asked. “What’s her real name? Where’s she from?”
Shawn hesitated. The truth sat heavy in his silence.
“I’ll ask her tonight,” he murmured. “Can’t very well take her home and tell my mom her name is Fortune Hayes, can I?”
10:15 p.m.
The Rusty Anchor pulsed with low light and quiet intimacy. Dim bulbs swayed from old brass fixtures, casting long golden shadows across couples tucked into corners. The air was thick with smoke, perfume, and the hush of voices too close to separate.
Someone played the piano—soft, tender notes folding into a sultry version of “Wildest Dreams.”
It was Clara’s request.
She sat still, her eyes on the keys, lost in something neither past nor present—just a feeling, suspended and fragile.
Shawn wasn’t holding his liquor well. He had intended to use the alcohol as courage, to confess. But it had worked too well—he was drunk, rambling, saying too much and not enough.
“I mean it,” he whispered over and over, “I really like you.”
Clara smiled each time, gently brushing him off. She thought he was just being drunk and sweet.
When the last note of the song faded into silence, she signaled Kyle. Together, they helped Shawn out and walked him to the Fortune Inn.
Outside the door, she told Kyle to head back—just in case someone decided to bother the pianist again.
Upstairs, she led Shawn into his room, eased off his shoes, tucked him into bed, her movements tender, practiced, almost like a lullaby.
She turned to leave.
But his fingers caught hers.
“Fortune…” he said, soft as a boy in a dream, “I’m serious. I want to marry you.”
She pulled her hand free, gently.
“Shawn, you’re drunk. I’ll get you some water.”
The kitchen bottles were empty. She stepped into the hallway, planning to grab more from the storage closet—and nearly collided with Elliot Vance.
He paused. She was disheveled, cheeks flushed, breath just barely steady.
And then Shawn’s voice floated out of the room behind her, slurred and sweet:
“Fortune, don’t go… please don’t go…”
She flushed deeper.
Elliot didn’t say a word. He brushed past her and entered Shawn’s room. Moments later, he emerged with Shawn’s laptop in hand.
Inside, Shawn’s voice rose again.
“Elliot, man, I got my heart broken! Don’t go—stay and talk with me!”
Only then did Clara realize—
They weren’t just acquaintances.
They had known each other all along.
- Writer
