Chapter 18 – Parents' Ulterior Motives

My mom stood in the doorway, arms crossed, giving me that familiar "What did you do now?" look. Her voice dripped with exasperation. "What happened this time?"

I grimaced, sinking deeper into the couch cushions. "Let's just say my 'rest' turned into an impromptu nature hike, and I may have ignored the whole 'doctor's orders' thing."

She sighed, rubbing her temples like I was the world's most persistent headache. "At this rate, you'll be in that boot for three months."

"Three months?!" I shot upright, ignoring the twinge in my ankle. "No way. I refuse to be stuck in this thing that long."

Dad didn't even glance up from his newspaper. "Do you want a permanent limp?"

I scowled. "Obviously not."

"Then stop acting like a baby and follow the doctor's orders," he said dryly, flipping a page.

Classic Dad—blunt and infuriatingly right.

"Wow, Dad, a newspaper? What is this, 1995? Didn't think you still knew how to read anything that wasn't on a screen."

He smirked without looking up. "That's rich coming from someone who can't sit still for two seconds without whining."

"I can relax just fine," I huffed. "You just don't understand my commitment to freedom."

He finally looked up, amusement flickering in his eyes. "Is that what you call it? Because from where I'm sitting, it looks a lot like stubbornness."

I rolled my eyes. "Whatever."

Ethan's chuckle echoed from the doorway. He leaned casually against the frame, clearly enjoying the show. Picking up my bags, he asked Mom, "Where do you want these, Mrs. Wayne?"

"Just down the hall. First room on the right after the kitchen," she said.

I frowned. "Wait, why is my room downstairs? Don't tell me it's because of my ankle."

Ethan wisely kept his mouth shut as he disappeared down the hall, leaving Mom to handle my brewing tantrum.

"It's not just because of your ankle," she explained, rolling her eyes. "We're living downstairs for convenience. The guests will be upstairs. It makes sense from a business perspective."

I crossed my arms, pouting like a child. "So unfair."

"You'll survive," Mom said, clearly unimpressed by my dramatics. "Besides, we've set up everything to be more professional here. Guests will have their own living room, and we'll have ours. They won't be allowed in our areas, just like you're not allowed in theirs."

I snorted. "So I can't even check out the upstairs when no one's here?"

"Only if there are no guests," she said firmly. "And once we get busy, you'll have to stay out. The same way they can't come into the kitchen or our living spaces."

Dad chimed in from behind his newspaper. "It's all part of the experience. We want this place to feel like a retreat, not just an inn."

"That sounds expensive," I muttered.

Dad folded the paper and looked at me, his expression calm but serious. "Quinn, we sold our place in New York for a great price. Between that and some smart investments, we've got plenty to keep this place running for years before we even touch our savings. And besides, we didn't just move here for the inn."

His voice dropped, hinting at something bigger.

I leaned forward, intrigued. "What do you mean?"

"This town has a... reputation," Dad said, his eyes gleaming with something I couldn't quite place. "People are drawn here because of the legends and supernatural stories."

I blinked. "Wait... what?"

Dad grinned. "It's called supernatural tourism. People pay good money to visit places like this, hoping for an otherworldly experience. And this town has the energy to back it up. We've already partnered with locals who know the history and mythology. We'll offer exclusive tours and experiences."

I sat back, trying to wrap my head around it. "So you're turning this place into a spooky tourist trap?"

"Not a trap," Dad corrected. "An opportunity. We even bought other properties around the town square. Shops, cafes—places where tourists can spend money while chasing shadows."

I nodded slowly, starting to see the big picture. "Okay, that... actually sounds kind of smart."

Dad grinned. "See? I told you."

Just as I was warming up to the idea, Ethan appeared in the doorway. His face was pale, his expression taut with shock—and something resembling fury.

My stomach twisted. Something was wrong.

"Ethan?" I called softly. "What's wrong?"

He didn't answer. His eyes locked on Dad, blazing with a rage that made my skin crawl. The air felt heavy, thick with tension.

Then, without a word, Ethan spun on his heel and stormed out, slamming the door so hard the walls rattled. Moments later, the roar of his engine shattered the silence, followed by the screech of tires as he sped away.

I sat frozen on the couch, numb with shock.

"What the hell just happened?" Mom asked, her voice laced with confusion.

Dad folded his arms, looking more irritated than concerned. "That was... dramatic. Did you say something to him, Quinn?"

"No! We were fine," I said, shaking my head. But my gut churned. What had he overheard? Something Dad said must have triggered him.

Mom furrowed her brow. "Maybe he had an emergency. Or... maybe he's just having a bad day."

She didn't sound convinced, and neither was I. Ethan was usually calm, steady. He didn't just bolt like that. And the look on his face—it wasn't panic or frustration. It was pure, unfiltered rage.

But why?

Dad's expression darkened. "If he can't handle a business discussion, that's his problem."

I bit my lip, heart racing. This wasn't just about business. Something deeper was brewing, and I had a sinking feeling we were at the center of it.

I stood abruptly, ignoring the throbbing pain in my ankle. "I need to find him."

Mom grabbed my arm. "Quinn, wait—"

But I was already halfway to the door, adrenaline overriding any sense of caution.

Ethan's truck was gone, the faint echo of screeching tires fading into the distance. The town's winding roads stretched out like a labyrinth, and I had no idea where he'd gone.