Page 12 of A New Home

"Ah, The Crown," Thomas announced, his voice dripping with feigned delight as he stepped into the foyer, eyes quickly appraising. "Still standing, I see. How quaint."

Windnell wore a tailored navy blue suit that fit him impeccably, accentuating his stature. The suit was likely from a high-end designer, its fabric rich and smooth, suggesting a blend of fine wool and silk. He wore a crisp white shirt underneath, its collar perfectly starched, peeking just so above the lapel of his jacket. The shirt was fastened with what appeared to be custom-made cufflinks, subtle yet undeniably expensive, glinting in the sunlight streaming through the window.

Around his neck was a silk tie, patterned in a tasteful, understated design, knotted impeccably. It was complemented by a pocket square neatly folded in his suit's breast pocket, adding a splash of coordinated color that spoke of a man who paid attention to the finer details. Charlotte wondered if he was paying attention to the small detail of her spike of annoyance at his intrusion.

On his feet were polished leather shoes, shining so brightly they almost reflected the room. The shoes were of a classic style, well-maintained and suggesting both comfort and luxury. To complete his ensemble, Thomas wore a sleek, high-end watch on his wrist, its face simple yet elegant, the band made of fine leather or perhaps even a discreet metal, indicative of his preference for quality and understatement. Not that anyone would have seen him and not known that the man screamed money.

His overall appearance was one of cultivated sophistication, a man who understood the power of a well-tailored suit and the statement it made in both business and social circles. As he stood in the foyer of The Old Crown Inn, Charlotte was painfully aware of the disparity between his world and the one she had embraced.

Charlotte tightened her grip on the guestbook, her knuckles whitening. Forced a polite smile. "Thomas. What an unexpected...pleasure."

One corner of Thomas's mouth quirked upward. "Well, I must say, Charlotte, you've done wonders with the place." His gaze swept over her, the compliment laced with something less flattering. "Considering what you had to work with."

She watched as he strolled leisurely through the lobby, his shoes clicking against the stone floor. Each step seemed to echo not just in the space but within her, each tap a reminder of the battles she faced in preserving the house.

"Such a...rustic charm," Thomas continued, running a finger along the reception desk and inspecting the dust it gathered. "Very...you."

"Rustic is one word for it," Charlotte replied, maintaining her composure despite the rising irritation.

"Indeed," Thomas said, leaning closer to examine a crack in the wood paneling. "But I suppose it's all about potential, isn't it? Though I doubt many would see it beneath all this...character."

"Character is what we're known for here at The Crown," Charlotte countered, her tone measured. She followed him as he moved into the main parlor, where mismatched furniture sat awaiting reupholstery.

"Of course," he mused, picking up a cushion and grimacing at the outdated pattern before setting it down again. "It's just that, with the right investment, this could all be so much more modern. Profitable, even."

"Modern isn't always synonymous with better, Thomas. Some people appreciate the authenticity of a place like this." Her words were steeped in defiance, though inwardly, she felt the weight of his criticisms. “What is it that you came for?”

Thomas chuckled softly, almost affectionately, as if he found her naiveté endearing. And he ignored her question. "Authenticity is such a subjective term, don't you think?"

"Perhaps," she allowed, watching him as he peered out of the window at the view—the very coastline he planned to commercialize. "But there are some things money can't replace. Like integrity. Or respect for the land."

"Ah, but money does make the world go round, dear Charlotte. And progress is inevitable." He turned from the window, his sharp gaze locking onto hers. "Best to be on the right side of it."

With those parting words, Thomas Windnell sauntered back toward the entrance, pausing at the door. She wrapped her arms around herself, feeling the chill that had nothing to do with the drafty old room. The warmth of the sun outside now seemed worlds away.

"Charlotte, I must commend you," Thomas said, his voice smooth like polished silver, yet with an edge that could cut. "It takes a certain... bravery to cling to the past this way."

"Thank you, Thomas," Charlotte replied, her words measured and cool despite the tempest brewing in her chest. “For your compliment and your brief, yet bizarre visit.”

"Of course," he continued, leaning against the worn wooden doorframe with deceptive casualness, "one can't help but wonder if such bravery is really just a stubborn refusal to adapt." His smile was a razor, hidden beneath silk.

"Adaptation doesn't require surrender," she countered, meeting his eyes firmly, letting him see the steel beneath her veneer of poise.

He chuckled, shaking his head as he straightened his tailored jacket. "Well, I'll leave you to your... quaint endeavors. Just remember, there's a fine line between a dream and a delusion. When you’re ready for reality, I’ll be around.”

As the door closed behind him, the sound echoed hollowly in the expanse of the inn's entrance hall. Charlotte let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding, her fingers trembling. The tightness in her shoulders eased fractionally, but her heart still pounded an uneven rhythm. What had been his aim in coming here—to intimidate her?

She glanced at the door, half-expecting Thomas to reappear with another jab aimed to undermine her. But the entryway remained empty, the silence oppressive. She turned back to the reception desk, surveying the aging wood that gleamed under years of polish and care—a testament to resilience, much like herself.

"Mom?" Amelia's voice drifted from the staircase, a lifeline thrown in the quiet aftermath of Thomas Windnell's visit.

"In here, darling," Charlotte called, her voice steady despite the fresh doubts Thomas had planted in her mind. It was one thing to combat the decay of time, quite another to fight off the assault of a man like Windnell—handsome, refined, and devastatingly effective at sowing seeds of uncertainty.

She would not let him see her falter, not now, not ever. Yet as she resumed her tasks, the dissonance of his words lingered, an unwelcome guest all their own.

Amelia appeared, and her eyes widened when she saw Charlotte. "I heard someone down here. A man’s voice. Did he upset you?" Amelia's question, innocent and perceptive, made Charlotte pause. She looked at her daughter, the future she fought for, and forced a smile.

"No, not at all," she lied gently, pressing a kiss to Amelia's forehead. "It was Thomas Windnell. Just his usual business talk."

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