Chapter 11: Fortune Inn - Minded
1258 Words
To Clara Hayes, Shawn Rayne wasn’t just another guest at Fortune Inn.
In her heart, he was more than that—he was the unofficial owner of the place, the spirit of its annual revival.
Four years ago, Shawn had checked into the inn for the first time.
He had come to Willowbrook to visit the film set of When the Wind Blows Through Willowbrook, a romance drama with a healing tone aimed at promoting rural revival.
The production had chosen Willowbrook as its primary filming location.
Vance Capital, a sprawling conglomerate with its reach in multiple industries, owned a subsidiary focused on media and film investments.
As the head of that media company, Shawn had been invited to the opening ceremony of the show.
Back then, Willowbrook was barely a dot on the tourist map.
Compared to the fairytale cities of Vermont’s Frostvale, the serene Greenwood Valley, or the lakeside bliss of Silverveil Peaks, Willowbrook was nothing but a sleepy, forgotten town.
There were only four or five inns in the entire area—and Fortune Inn was by far the largest.
It had been founded by a couple—both creatives. The husband, a semi-famous painter who had studied abroad decades ago, and the wife, a designer with a gentle soul.
Together, they had turned Fortune Inn into a warm and quietly luxurious haven.
Though the exterior preserved the old town’s vintage charm, inside it was outfitted like a five-star retreat—floor heating included, thanks to a major renovation ten years back.
Shawn was instantly captivated.
Not just by the inn’s ivy-covered walls and the powder-blue flowers blooming in tangled cascades across the façade, but also by the air of care that seemed to wrap around the place.
And then he met Fortune Hayes—Fortune herself.
She had told him, almost offhandedly, that the inn was about to change hands.
Her stepmother had been diagnosed with ALS, and the cost of treatment in Switzerland was astronomical.
To afford it, the couple had decided to sell Fortune Inn.
And Clara had said something else.
Something that stuck in his mind all night.
“If the inn changes owners,” she had said, “I’ll probably leave too.”
That same night, Shawn called Elliot Vance, who was on a business trip in Singapore, and laid out his plan to buy the inn.
“If you don’t want to invest,” he told Elliot, “just lend me the money. Twenty million. Take it from my annual salary if you want.”
Elliot, ever the pragmatic businessman, didn’t make losing investments.
He agreed to the acquisition—not because of sentiment, but because he saw something.
He saw potential.
When the Wind Blows Through Willowbrook was a high-profile production with two of the hottest stars of the year.
The production team had a proven track record with major domestic hits.
Once the show aired, government endorsements and social media buzz would inevitably follow.
And right across from the ancient opera stage—the spiritual center of Willowbrook—stood Fortune Inn.
From Elliot’s perspective, twenty million was not a gamble.
It was a bargain.
Clara never learned that Elliot Vance was the man behind the acquisition.
She always believed that Shawn had paid for it himself—personally.
That the company listed on the contract was merely a front, a formality.
A way to spare her the awkwardness of calling him “boss.”
And the rest of the inn’s longtime staff thought the same.
To them, Shawn was the owner.
He came once a year, stayed for only a week, but treated them like family.
He was generous, kind, approachable. The kind of boss people whispered about admiringly, even after he left.
So when Clara discovered the truth the next morning—when she chased down a hangover-nursed Shawn and finally wrung out the admission that Elliot was the real owner—
her entire body went cold.
She remembered how Elliot had walked out the night before, carrying his laptop, without a word or glance in her direction.
That cool, impassive face.
And now she realized—her first attempt at flirtation, her first clumsy, drunken venture into seduction... had landed squarely on the man who actually owned everything.
Her job.
Her room.
Her illusion of safety.
“I really wouldn’t overthink it,” Shawn said, seeing the panic forming behind her eyes.
“Elliot just looks cold. He’s not. He’s got a good heart.”
He leaned forward, elbows on knees.
“He’s invested in so many damn things, he doesn’t even remember half of them. If I hadn’t reminded him, he wouldn’t even have known he owned a place here.”
“He’s only staying a couple of months. Just to unplug. No need to tell Mrs. Wilkins and the rest. You know how they get when they think the boss is around—suddenly everything’s stiff and weird.”
Clara nodded stiffly.
Then she spotted Elliot walking toward the front lounge and leapt to her feet.
“I’ll go help the ladies with the vegetables,” she muttered, vanishing before their eyes.
Elliot walked in, gaze scanning the room until it landed on Shawn.
“Something I should know?” he asked dryly, reading the tension like an open book.
Shawn raised his hands in surrender.
“Hey, don’t look at me. She cornered me this morning and asked outright what the deal between us was. I just... went with honesty.”
“Selling out your best friend for a girl,” Elliot said, taking a sip of water and sliding into a chair. “That’s low, even for you.”
“So she knows now,” he added. “What did she say?”
“Not much. I think she’s still processing.”
Shawn hesitated, then continued, “Actually... I’ve been thinking. Maybe now’s the time to make it official.”
Elliot looked up.
“Sell me the inn,” Shawn said.
“You saw how the staff treat me. They already think I’m the owner. And honestly, I’d love to make it real. You’ve barely touched the place these last few years anyway.”
Elliot didn’t even blink.
“No.”
“Come on. I’m not asking for a handout—I’ll buy it fair and square.”
Shawn leaned in. “I’ll add another two million on top. That’s twenty-two in total. The inn’s already paid for itself. Just last year, you cleared a million in revenue.”
“It’s not about the money.”
“Then what is it?”
Shawn’s tone dropped. He watched Elliot closely.
“You’re not... interested in Clara, are you?”
He didn’t wait for an answer.
Because he’d seen it.
The look in Elliot’s eyes last night. The way they had followed her, cool but burning beneath.
“Let me say this now, man to man,” Shawn said quietly.
“My feelings for her—they’re not a whim. I’ve had over three years to figure this out. I want her. In every way a man can want a woman. I want to marry her.”
“And just so we’re clear,” he added, voice edged with steel,
“She’s not the type to fall for some rich boy with a pedigree.”
“She hates that world. Hates what it represents. If you come from a privileged family—political or otherwise—don’t even think about dating her.”
“Hell, don’t even try being her friend.”
- Writer
