Chapter 12: Fortune Inn - Bite Him
999 Words
At midday, just as the scent of lunch wafted through the air, a new family checked into Fortune Inn.
A couple with two kids—along with enough luggage to suggest they were moving in rather than vacationing.
Clara, sleeves rolled up, was helping Abu carry one of the heavier suitcases when the black wrist brace on her left arm slipped into view.
Shawn Rayne spotted it instantly.
Without a word, he strode over and grabbed the suitcase from her hands.
“I’ll take it. Go eat,” he said firmly.
“It’s really not heavy,” Clara replied, offering him a small smile. “I’ve got it.”
“So long as I’m here, you don’t lift a finger,” Shawn said, voice low but unyielding. “Now go sit down.”
Elliot Vance had just entered the front lobby.
He paused, catching the last of their exchange—and the quick, almost guilty way Clara tugged down her sleeve to hide the brace.
The look on Shawn’s face had been unmistakable: worry, genuine and immediate.
Which meant one thing—he knew what was beneath that brace.
Clara felt the weight of Elliot’s gaze before she even turned.
She busied herself arranging the items on the front desk, pretending not to notice, until her eyes happened to flick down.
There was a suitcase near his feet.
He was... leaving?
Elliot set the suitcase by the door, then walked over and placed his room key on the counter in front of her.
Clara’s heart sank as her fingers brushed the card.
It was her fault—her drunken, out-of-line behavior that night had driven him away.
She summoned her composure and said lightly, “Mr. Vance, there’s really no need for you to leave. You’re the owner of Fortune Inn. If anyone should go, it’s me—the unprofessional housekeeper.”
Clearly catching her misunderstanding, Elliot finally spoke.
“I’m heading into the city for a few days. Business. I’ll be back in three, maybe five.”
He nodded toward the key. “Keep it for now. The weather’s good. Make sure to air out the bedding every day.”
So he wasn’t leaving for good.
Clara felt a strange twist in her chest—relief, perhaps. Or something closer to longing.
“I thought you were—”
Elliot cut her off.
“Shawn Rayne’s the kind of man you could build a life with,” he said coolly. “His parents were both teachers. Kind people. Down to earth. If you’re looking for something real, he’s your safest bet.”
It was a businessman’s way of saying:
Don’t play games with my best friend’s heart.
And don’t test boundaries with me again.
Clara got the message loud and clear.
“Thank you for the advice, Mr. Vance,” she said with a practiced smile. “I’ll take that into consideration.”
She turned and reached for the storage room doorknob—only to find it wouldn’t budge.
She rattled it once, then again, irritation creeping in.
“Key,” Elliot said quietly.
“Oh, right. Silly me.” Clara forced a laugh, snatching the key from the counter.
She jammed it into the lock, opened the door, and slipped inside—shutting it firmly behind her.
In the darkness, her composure crumbled.
Clara’s breath hitched as she opened w******p, went to her blocked contacts, and unblocked a name she’d buried five years ago.
Daniel Shaw.
She clicked into his profile.
There he was, smiling beside a woman with dark, elegant features—his fiancée.
They looked perfect together.
The woman had the poised beauty of someone raised in diplomacy and good breeding.
She matched his world—one of power, of legacy, of high expectations.
Tears welled in Clara’s eyes, spilling freely now.
She wasn’t that woman. Never had been.
And then—
A message slid across the top of her screen like a knife across skin:
[It’s been five years, Clary.]
The avatar beside it: Crestwood’s water town.
The sender: Daniel Shaw.
[Where are you?]
Clara’s fingers fumbled.
The phone slipped from her grasp and hit the floor with a sharp crack.
Panicked, she bent to retrieve it, hands shaking. She had to block him—now. Before she did something stupid.
The sound must have carried.
The door creaked open.
Elliot Vance stepped into the storage room, backlit by the hallway light.
He found Clara crouched on the ground, one hand reaching for the fallen phone.
A sharp ding rang out again—the screen flashing with an incoming video call from Daniel Shaw.
Clara froze.
Her brain was blank. She didn’t know whether to hang up or let it ring out.
Her grip tightened. She didn’t even notice her thumb was bleeding where the cracked glass had sliced her—blood trailing down the fractured screen.
Elliot saw it in a heartbeat.
He strode over, snatched the phone from her hand, silenced the call, and tossed it aside.
Then he reached down, pulled her up from the floor, and gently wrapped a tissue around her bleeding hand.
But Daniel’s name kept lighting up the screen.
Call after call.
Elliot picked it up again and stared at the name glowing across the display:
Daniel Shaw.
Clara jolted, realizing.
She lunged forward, grabbed the phone, and began slamming the side button repeatedly.
Click. Click. Click.
Finally, the screen went black.
She exhaled like someone surfacing from underwater, her back hitting the shelf behind her as she gasped for air.
Her face was streaked with tears.
Her mascara had smudged.
She probably looked like hell.
And Elliot was staring at her.
Not with disgust. Not with pity. Just... stillness.
Clara met his gaze, chest rising and falling.
The calm in his eyes, the way he held himself—untouched, unreadable—it infuriated her.
Without thinking, she surged forward.
Wrapped her arms around his neck.
And kissed him—
Hard.
She bit down on his lip.
- Writer
