I drag myself out of bed, gulping down bitter coffee from the room service carafe that's been sitting there since last night, andstumble into the shower. The hot water helps wake me up, and I stand under the spray longer than necessary, trying to shake off the exhaustion.
I get dressed in dark jeans and a silk blouse, something presentable enough for a meeting with my father but comfortable enough that I don't feel like I'm wearing a costume. I pull my hair back into a sleek ponytail, minimal makeup. The armor of looking put-together even when I feel scattered.
I make my way through the hotel to my father's suite on the top floor. It’s enormous, a living room with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Seattle skyline, a separate office, a bedroom, and a kitchenette that I'm certain he's never used.
I check my phone. Seven fourteen. He told me to be here at seven fifteen sharp, and on time I shall be, because Jean-Pierre Beaumont does not tolerate tardiness, not even from his daughter.
I use the master hotel key card he gave me and let myself into the living room, stretching my neck and rolling my shoulders, trying to shake off the stiffness from sleeping poorly. The suite is silent except for the muffled hum of the city below, morning light streaming through the windows
"Papa?" I call out, looking around. The main living area is empty, but I can hear him talking in the office, his voice muffled.
I walk closer, curiosity pulling me forward, and peek through the crack in the mostly-closed office door.
He's pacing in front of the windows, phone on speaker on the desk, gesturing with one hand even though whoever he's talking to can't see him. He must not have heard me come in, too absorbed in the conversation.
I reach for the door handle to click it closed so I can wait in the living room in peace, when I recognize the other voice coming through the speaker. It's Richard Crane, my father'sbusiness partner in the New York restaurant group, a man I've met exactly twice and disliked both times.
"The branding is coming together nicely," Richard says, his voice tinny through the speaker but clear enough. "Isabelle's face on the marketing materials is testing extremely well with the under-forty demographic. The focus groups loved her, she checks every box."
I freeze at that, my hand still on the door handle.What the hell are they talking about?
"She's not checking boxes," my father says, and there's a defensive edge in his voice that I recognize. "She's a talented chef. That's the foundation. The marketing simply reflects reality."
"Of course, of course," Richard says, and I can practically hear him waving a dismissive hand. "But let's be clear about the structure here. She's going to be the face of the restaurant, yes. But the operational decisions, the business side, that stays with us, correct?"
"I think it's the right call," my father says, and I can just barely see him through the crack in the door, still pacing, one hand in his pocket. "She doesn't have the experience to run a restaurant at this level without support."
"Exactly," Richard says, and I can hear papers shuffling on his end. "So I'm making notes here for the investor meeting next week. We put on Simon as executive sous for support, and Isabelle does the press and social media. In our current media climate, having a young woman at the forefront playsextremelywell. And Isabelle is perfect for that."
"Yes, exactly," my father says. "I still want her to havesomecreative say, but having these guardrails and us being the final decision-makers will be best."
"Great, I'm glad we're aligned on this," Richard continues. "The investors were concerned about putting a twenty-six-year-old woman in full control of the property. But when I explained the structure, they were much more comfortable."
I feel the words land like physical blows, a chill settling in my stomach, a cold horror spreading through my chest as the full scope of what I'm hearing crashes over me.
My father says, "I just have to figure out how to present this to her. The safety net stays in place until I'm confident she can fly without it."
He believes it. He genuinely believes that he's protecting me. And he'll never see it, that his love has teeth. It suddenly hits me and I feel so naive and foolish to have believed all this time that things would be different, that New York would be different, that he would finally trust me.
It’ll never change. He'll never believe in me enough to release the control. All these years I've had these moments where I think if Ijustdo this right, if Ijustprove myself one more time, I'll finally earn his respect, his faith. How fucking stupid of me.
I walk into the office.
My father is by the window, mid-pace, and he turns when he sees me. The phone is on the desk, Richard's voice still coming through the speaker, saying something about investor confidence metrics.
My father's face registers surprise and then a quick calculation. "Isabelle," he says. "You're early. We said eight fifteen."
"We saidsevenfifteen." My voice is surprisingly steady despite the rage building in my chest. "And I heard every word of that fucking bullshit conversation."
I walk to the desk and pick up the phone, looking at the screen. Richard Crane's name and number glowing there, mocking me.
"Richard," I say into the speaker, my voice cold. "Isabelle Beaumont. The pretty face for the marketing materials. I'll let you and my father finish your conversation later about how tobest position me as a decorative element. Oh, and fuck you very much."
I hang up the phone and slam it down on the desk.
"Isabelle," my father says, and he has the nerve to sound shocked. "That isinexcusable. Hanging up on an investor like that. Richard and I were discussing operational logistics, not diminishing your role. You're still the creative leader, in a certain sense."
"The creative leader who doesn't need to know the operational details," I say, my voice rising despite my best efforts to stay calm. "The face that tests well with under-forties. The woman-focused brand that investors feel more comfortable having experienced men manage behind the scenes."