Read Chapter 13: The Debt Deepens

Julien’s phone buzzed against the oak table in the B&B’s empty dining room, the sound too loud in the morning quiet. Camille stood at the counter, a cup of espresso cooling between her hands, watching him frown at the screen.

“It’s him again,” she said. Not a question.

Julien’s jaw tightened. “Third time this hour.”

“He can keep calling.” She set the cup down. “I have nothing to say to Antoine.”

The phone buzzed again. Then a third buzz, a text message rattling in rapid succession. Julien slid the phone across the table toward her. “He’s not going to stop.”

Camille picked it up. Three messages from her ex-husband, the name still saved as *Antoine ♥* in her contacts—a detail she’d forgotten to change, a small embarrassment she swallowed whole.

*Camille. I know you’re in France. We need to talk about the restaurant loan.*

*The bank called. They’re moving forward with collection. This is your debt too.*

*Don’t make me do this the hard way.*

She typed a reply, deleted it, typed again, deleted it. Then she set the phone face-down on the table and slid it back.

“He thinks I’ll cave if he shames me enough.”

Julien didn’t pick the phone up. “Did you co-sign the loan?”

“Yes.” She exhaled. “Three years ago. We were expanding the bistro. New location, new oven, new everything. I was so certain it would work.”

“It didn’t?”

“It did. For a while. Then Antoine started drinking again, and the money started going places it shouldn’t have.” She wrapped her arms around herself, the espresso growing cold. “When I left, I took nothing but the clothes I could carry and the recipes I’d memorized. I thought that meant I could walk away clean.”

“But the bank doesn’t care whose fault it was.”

“The bank cares about signatures.” She laughed, bitter and short. “And Antoine knows mine is on the paper.”

The phone buzzed again. This time Julien picked it up, read the message, and set it down without commentary. His face had gone unreadable.

“You should hire a lawyer,” he said.

“I can’t afford a lawyer. I’m sleeping in a guesthouse I don’t own, cooking from a recipe book that belongs to your mother, and I just spent my last real savings on repairing a locket I was supposed to sell.” She spread her hands. “Lawyers eat people like me for breakfast.”

“There’s a woman in Avignon. Margaux Pelletier. She handled my divorce from Claire.” He paused, and something flickered, a wince almost hidden. “She’s affordable, and she’s good.”

Camille studied him. “How affordable?”

“She took a case for a friend of mine who had nothing but a food truck and a parking ticket. She has a thing for underdogs.”

“You want me to call your divorce lawyer to handle my divorce-adjacent debt.”

“I want you to have options that don’t end with Antoine draining your account from across the Atlantic.”

The front door opened before Camille could answer. A guest—an older British woman in a floral scarf who’d checked in the night before—bustled in holding her phone like evidence. Her face was pinched with displeasure.

“Monsieur Morel,” she said crisply. “I’d like a word about the state of my room.”

Julien straightened. “Of course, Mrs. Albright. Is there a problem?”

“The bathroom.” She turned the phone around to display a photograph. “The shower was leaking all night. There’s water damage on the ceiling, and the tiles are chipped in three places.”

“I’ll send our maintenance man over this morning.”

“I’ve already tried calling him. No answer. And when I rang the front desk earlier, no one picked up.” She tucked the phone back into her handbag. “Frankly, Monsieur Morel, this is not the standard I expect from a four-star establishment.”

“I understand. I’ll make it right immediately.” Julien’s voice was calm, practiced, but Camille saw the tension creep up his shoulders. “And I’ll comp your second night.”

Mrs. Albright sniffed. “I’d prefer not to spend a second night in that room at all. If you can’t guarantee repairs before evening, I’ll find another accommodation.”

“Let me handle this,” Camille said, stepping forward before she thought better of it. “I have experience managing guest complaints. I ran front-of-house for six years.”

Mrs. Albright turned to her, brow raised. “And you are?”

“Camille. A new addition to the staff.” She smiled, warm and practiced. “Let me walk you back to your room, and I’ll personally see to those tiles. My grandfather was a mason. I grew up watching him patch worse.”

Mrs. Albright hesitated, then nodded reluctantly. “Very well. But I’ll expect a result, not a promise.”

“You’ll get both.”

Camille followed her out, glancing back once at Julien. He mouthed *thank you* before she turned the corner.

The shower repair wasn’t complicated. A worn washer, a loose fitting, twenty minutes of work with a wrench she found in the hall closet. She apologized for the inconvenience, offered the woman a complimentary bottle of the B&B’s lavender oil, and had her smiling by the time she left the room.

When she returned to the dining room, Claire stood at the counter with Julien, a tablet in her hand and a thundercloud on her face.

“This is magnificent,” Claire said, turning the screen toward Julien, then Camille. “Absolutely magnificent.”

The review was up. Three stars. Mrs. Albright’s name. The text was brief but damning: *Lovely property, run-down amenities, and staff who seem more interested in their personal phone calls than their guests.*

“That’s not what happened,” Camille said. “That review was written before I fixed her shower.”

“It was written twenty minutes ago,” Claire shot back. “Right after you walked her back to her room with a wrench and a bottle of oil. What did you say to her?”

“I fixed her bathroom.”

“You argued with her in the hallway. I heard raised voices.”

“That was the toilet flushing.”

Claire’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t believe you.”

“Claire—” Julien started.

“Don’t, Julien. Don’t defend her.” Claire’s voice cut him off, sharp as glass. “I let you bring her back. I said one condition—business as usual. And within twenty-four hours, we’ve lost a star rating and a repeat customer.”

“I’m not responsible for that review.”

“You’re the last person who spoke to her. You’re the reason she was upset in the first place, with all your talk about—what did she say? *Personal phone calls.* Did you tell her my marriage was collapsing?”

Camille’s stomach dropped. “I didn’t tell her anything.”

“You told Julien. Loudly. In the dining room. With the door open.” Claire’s voice rose. “She was sitting in the garden. She heard everything.”

Camille opened her mouth to argue, then closed it. She remembered the moment—Julien at the table, the phone buzzing, her own raw confession about Antoine’s drinking, the money, the debt. She hadn’t checked the garden. She hadn’t checked for an audience.

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “I didn’t know she was there.”

“Sorry doesn’t fix reviews.”

“Then what does?” Camille met Claire’s glare without flinching. “I’m asking honestly. Tell me what will fix it, and I’ll do it.”

Claire’s mouth pressed into a thin line. For a moment, she looked like she wanted to say something vicious and honest. Instead she turned to Julien.

“She stays, but she stays out of guest-facing interactions. She cooks, she cleans, she stays in the kitchen. That’s the arrangement now.”

“Claire, that’s not—” Julien tried.

“That’s the arrangement,” Claire repeated, and left through the back door before either of them could respond.

The silence that followed was heavy. Camille stood at the counter, her hands flat against the wood, her breath slow and controlled. She could feel the weight of the phone in her pocket, Antoine’s unanswered messages burning a hole in her jeans.

Julien was the first to speak. “She’s not always like this.”

“She’s your ex-wife, and she’s rooting for me to fail. I think she’s exactly like this.” Camille shook her head. “Don’t defend her.”

“I’m not defending her.”

“You’re standing there while she confines me to the kitchen like a punishment. That’s not defending me.”

Julien’s jaw worked. “What do you want me to do?”

“I want you to call the lawyer,” Camille said. “Because if I’m going to stay in this kitchen, I’m going to earn real money. And Anton can’t have me if I’m already carrying something worth having.”

She pulled out her phone and opened the messages she’d been avoiding. The last one from Antoine had an attachment. She clicked it.

A summons. Court date in Marseille. Three weeks from now.

“He’s suing me,” she said. “For half the restaurant.”