Page 3 of The Exception

Nor did I have a shower; I had an old cast-iron tub. It was a far cry from the luxury experience I hoped to one day provide my guests. And every day, it felt as if that dream slipped a little further away.

“You only have yourself to blame. You were the one who decided to waste all that money on that stupid ruin,” she sneered. “So don’t complain about it now.”

“I’m not complaining,” I gritted out, trying not to lose my cool completely. But honestly, I’d had enough. This wasn’t the first time my family had tried to guilt me into giving them some of my inheritance. I wasn’t trying to be selfish, but the money simply wasn’t there.

And even if it had been, I was under no obligation to give it to them. Nor did I care to, not when they acted like this. Self-centered. Demanding. Entitled.

“It sure sounds like you are,” she said.

Enough.She had no right to lecture me about my choices. None of my family did. I was over it. Done.

Before I could think better of it or stop myself, I said, “I’m merely pointing out the fact that you don’t seem to give a shit about me—none of you do—unless you need something.”

“If that’s how you feel, then never mind. I don’t want your money anyway.”

“Great!” I chirped.

“What? No, wait.” Iris tried to backtrack. “I’m sorry. I didn’t?—”

Unbelievable.I scoffed. “Too late.” I ended the call.

My hands were shaking, but damn, that felt good.

Fuck her.Actually, my whole family could go fuck themselves.

Just last week, my younger brother had called to ask for money to fix his car. Before that, it was my mom asking for help with a credit card bill. I was sick of everyone calling me for money. Simply expecting me to fork it over without even asking how I was.

Every day, I checked the dwindling savings in my bank account. And every day, I tried to figure out how the hell I was going to generate enough revenue to get me through such a massive restoration.

I was exhausted and overwhelmed. I couldn’t continue to do it all—travel, maintain my blog, create content for my YouStream channel dedicated to the château restoration, actually restore the château. It was too much. Something had to give.

But did I ask them for help?

No. I knew I only had myself to rely on.

No bank wanted to lend me the money. And since I was a self-employed luxury-travel blogger, they’d deemed me and my project too much of a risk.

Fortunately, I’d done some research before signing the papers to accept ownership of the château. I’d received an affirmation from the French government that they’d help support the project. And they’d been true to their word. I’d received forty to sixty percent of the funding for various projects around the château, depending on the element of the property. It had to be heritage listed, and I had to use a qualified heritage architect and artisans. It didn’t cover everything—far from it. But I would’ve had to stop long before now without that assistance.

Even so, I was struggling. We were still so early in the project because of the enormity of the scope of it, and any non-heritage elements like plumbing and electrical would need to be completely funded by me.

I kept applying for grants from cultural and heritage societies, prizes. Anything. I just kept hoping and brainstorming. And trying. I’d add even more advertising spots to my blog if I had to, as long as it wouldn’t sacrifice the amazing community I’d cultivated.

As the French would say,Quand le vin est tiré, il faut le boire.

When the wine is poured, one must drink it. In other words, once the first step is taken, there’s no going back.

And there was definitely no going back at this point. Not with my family or the château.

The quote "The only limit in life is the one you set yourself” has been attributed to Felix Baumgartner, an Austrian skydiver, daredevil, and BASE jumper.

CHAPTERTWO

My assistant, Carson, poked his head inside the door to my office. “The board called an emergency meeting.”

“What?” I asked, glancing up from my laptop. Surely I’d misheard. When I saw his expression, I realized he was serious. “Shit. When?”

“Ten minutes.”

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