Page 63 of The Wexley Inn
Perfect, she’d replied and watched the truck disappear down the oak-lined driveway.
Now it was just past two, and she was alone at the inn except for the kitchen appliance installation crew working in the back. She’d been reviewing the staff training schedule she’d developed, which included orientation, safety procedures, guest service standards, and the careful balance of professionalism and warmth she wanted to define the inn’s culture.
Then she heard the front door open.
“Hello, Isabella.”
She recognized Grayson Williams’ voice immediately, the smooth Carolina drawl that reminded her of poison honey. Her jaw tightened as she set her pen down and walked to the entrance hall.
He stood in the center of the restored space, expensive shoes gleaming on the finished floor, looking around with an appraising eye that made her skin crawl. He wore perfectly tailored khakis and a crisp white button-down with his silver hair styled in a casual perfection that had required significant effort to achieve. Every inch of him screamed old money and older entitlement.
“Grayson,” she said, keeping her voice neutral. “I don’t recall us having an appointment scheduled.”
“No appointment necessary among neighbors, surely.” His smile was all practiced charm and no warmth. “I was in the area, had a meeting with the Historical Society board, and I thought I’d stop by to see the progress firsthand. The transformation is quite remarkable. Thomas and his crew have done exceptional work.”
The compliment felt like a trap. Isabella didn’t move from her position in the doorway and didn’t invite him further inside.
“Thanks. As you can see, though, we’re in the final phases, and if there’s something specific you need to discuss…”
“Actually, there is,” Grayson said, interrupting her as he walked deeper into the hall, trailing his fingers along the restored wainscoting.
The building was hers, and his presumption of touching anything felt very violating.
“I wanted to discuss a matter that’s come to my attention. As a member of the Architectural Review Board, I felt it was only fair to give you advance warning before it becomes official.”
The pause before the final word was deliberate, ominous. Isabella’s stomach tightened.
“What are you talking about?”
“Well, the county has received several community concerns about the inn’s permits,” he said casually while examining the crown molding restoration, as if they were just talking about the weather. “Nothing terribly specific, you understand, but questions about the historical accuracy of certain modifications, safety compliance in the kitchen renovation, environmental impact of the updated septic system - the usual sorts of concerns that pop up when outsiders…” He paused, letting the word settle. “…undertake major renovations without a full understanding of local standards and expectations.”
Outsiders. There it was. The reminder that, despite months of work, despite her friendship with Maggie and attending Ladies Club meetings, despite everything, she would always be someone who didn’t truly belong here.
“Our permits were approved months ago,” Isabella said, maintaining a steady voice even though rage was brewing in her chest. “Everything we’ve done has adhered to the approved plans exactly. Thomas has documented every modification, material choice, structural decision, and the Review Board approved all of it.”
“Oh, I’m certain you followed the letter of the law,” Grayson said, turning to face her directly. His eyes were cold despite the pleasant tone. “But when community members raise concerns, especially long-time residents with deep ties to this island, the county is obligated to conduct a formal review hearing. And these processes can be quite time-consuming, usually at least three to four months for resolution, sometimes longer if the concerns prove substantial or appeals are filed.”
Three to four months?
The words hit like a physical blow, pushing them way past Christmas, past the holiday season when low country tourism peaked, past the carefully planned grand opening in December. Her loan had a milestone-based funding tied to the opening timeline. Delays would trigger penalty rates or even allow the bank to call the loan entirely. Her staff hiring was contingent on specific start dates. Vendor contracts had delivery windows and cancellation fees. The marketing campaign Emma had designed was built around the December 15th opening. Everything - the entire careful house of cards that she’d constructed - could collapse if the timeline were disrupted.
“And who filed these concerns?” Isabella managed to keep her voice steady, but her hands clenched at her sides.
“Complaints are always anonymous, as is permitted under the county procedure.” Grayson’s expression was maddeningly neutral, almost fake sympathetic, but she knew he was loving every bit of this. “The regulations are designed to protect community members who might fear retaliation for raising legitimate concerns. I’m sure you understand the principle, even if the application is inconvenient.”
Anonymous, of course. No one to confront, no way to address the concerns directly, just vague allegations that would require months of bureaucratic red tape to resolve. It was brilliant, really—weaponizing the community protection regulations to destroy a person who had no community protection of her own.
“I wouldn’t worry too much,” Grayson said, pulling his wallet from his pocket and taking out his business card, placing it on the refinished hall table. “These things often resolve themselves quite naturally once the right people on the island feel reassured about the property’s future direction. So one’s concerns about, shall we say, compatibility with island values are adequately addressed.”
There it was. The threat was barely veiled, the extortion dressed up in concerned community language.
Isabella felt her pulse pounding in her ears. This man - this entitled, manipulative man who saw historic buildings as nothing more than demolition opportunities and profit margins - was going to destroy months of hard work, hundreds of thousands of dollars, and her entire dream because she refused to sell to him.
“And how,” she said quietly, carefully controlling each word, “would those community concerns be ‘adequately addressed,’ Grayson?”
His smile widened slightly, satisfied that she’d asked the question.
“Well, that really depends on which direction you decide to take the property. My investment group’s offer still stands, of course. In fact, considering how much you’ve already accomplished and the value you’ve added through your restoration efforts, we’re willing to significantly increase our original offer. You could walk away from this project with a substantial profit and avoid the headaches that come with managing a property like this in a small, insular community. As you know, they don’t always welcome outsiders with open arms.”
