Morgan
O ne would think that , considering the current chaos that appears to be my new life, I would be stressed
out right now. And yet, I feel the opposite, which is very new for me. After our poolside kisses, Scarlett
and I part ways. She heads back to the room to change into her swimsuit and sandals so she can peruse
the resort for content, i. e., brunch, stunning views, the beach, and shops. I have work to do, and the first
order of business is the ring. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t have Sebastian take me to Tiffany & Co. I
have the money, and they have the diamonds; why wouldn’t I go there? Yes, I am aware that the
engagement is not real. I also don’t expect her to ke ep the ring, obviously. I can’t put any old
d epartment store ring on her finger. How would that look to the public? Cheap. How would it look to
my snaky brother and his team of lawyers? Fake. And yet, after looking at literally every engagement
ring in the store, including ones they can expedite from other locations, I am at a loss. “Were they not up
to your standards?” Sebastian asks as I sit in the car with him after the fact. “I mean, they’re all exactly
what they’re supposed to be,” I sigh. “Expensive, flashy, over the top,” I rattle off as I rub the nape of
my neck. “Do you think... and tell me if I am out of line here,” Sebastian says carefully. “Maybe that’s
the problem?”
“What do you mean?” I ask. “Well, I’ve only met Miss Scarlett once. But between that drive and her
Instagram account, I don’t really feel like she’s a diamond girl.” I narrow my eyes. Not because I am
upset with Sebastian for offering his two cents, but because he might actually be right. As I circled the
store again and again, asking to see and re-see rings that most girls would be over the moon about, I
couldn’t picture any of them on her finger. In fact, I can’t picture a diamond on her body at all because
Scarlett isn’t that type of girl. I can see her with rubies. Sapphires. Or even moonstones or turquoise.
Hell, I can see her with a geometric shaped ring that doesn’t have a rock at all, diamond or otherwise.
And while gemstones don’t exactly scream luxury, they do resemble another part of Bale. A part the
public doesn’t often get to see anymore. My parents. My parents got married before they came into
money. Before my grandfather died and passed down an inheritance nobody even knew about. They
were wanderers. Travelers. They met at a music festival in Rio. And you better believe my father didn’t
propose to my mother with a Tiffany diamond. No, it was an amethyst, actually. The gold was real.
Antique even. My mother loved it and it was very her. “I got it,” I say before having Sebastian head
back to the resort. Meanwhile, I call Donovan. “How’s the ring shopping going?” he asks as soon as he
answers the phone. “Are you thirty thousand dollars poorer? Did you ke ep the receipt?” “I need you to
call the bank. Have them get into the property safe,” I tell him. “What for?” “I need my mother’s
wedding ring overnighted here. We’re going to push the engagement to tomorrow night. Tell the staff
and Scarlett,” I say. “You’re... you’re using your Tamera’s ring for a fake proposal?” he asks.
“Yes,” I answer. “Because you couldn’t find a ring at Tiffany’s you liked?” he asks. “Because none of
the rings at Tiffany’s suit Scarlett Moore,” I tell him before hanging up.
After I get back to the resort, I head to the kitchen of the Crystal Lounge, the restaurant/bar where the
proposal and after-party will take place. Not only do I want to chat with the chefs about tomorrow’s
menu, but I’m also starving. Luckily, it’s mid-afternoon, so they are between rushes when I walk in.
“Our current specials are the Kumamoto oysters with yuzu mignonette and finger lime pearls,” Rafael,
the kitchen manager, tells me. “As part of the raw bar. We also have Santa Barbara uni, heirloom tomato
salad with fresh mozzarella and basil, butter-poached Pacific halibut and local swordfish, grilled with
salsa verde.” I nod, overlooking the kitchen. While it all sounds amazing, something about the
atmosphere feels off. When I don’t say anything right away, the staff looks worried and Rafael speaks
up again. “Of course, if we have until tomorrow night, we can put in an order for anything you want.
Our seafood usually arrives on trucks before the sun even comes up.” “No, the cuisine sounds great,” I
tell him. “We can come up with an event menu, and I’m sure it’ll all be fine. But there is something else
I am concerned about.” My statement seems to have the entire staff shifting in their shoes. “Anything,
sir,” Rafael says respectfully. “Anything that isn’t to your liking can be changed with immediate effect.”
“How are the working conditions?” I ask, and they all look at each other before looking at me. “The
conditions, sir?” Rafael presses.
“Yes. For you and for your staff. How are the hours, the pay, the benefits, breaks, expectations,
incentives...” I rattle off. None of the staff outside of Rafael will look at me now. “No offense, sir,” he
says. “But we don’t get benefits or incentives. If we show up, we get paid.” “And the pay?” I ask. “It’s
enough,” he says, and I rake a hand through my hair, my jaw clenching with frustration. Not at Rafael or
the staff, but because they are actually afraid to say anything. To complain. “Enough for what?” I ask.
“Enough to pay your bills each week? Or enough to live comfortably?” A unanimous grumble circles
the room, and even Rafael lets out an in voluntary snort in response to that. “No offense, Mr. Bale, but I
don’t even know what comfortable is. We’re just the cooks. We don’t expect–” “Just the cooks?” I cut
him off. “Rafael, this is a five-star resort. Higher than that. The food at resorts on this tier of luxury
aren’t just meals. They’re dining experiences. Experiences that should be mind-blowing and
transcending. The hands that pr epare that food are doing God’s work in my opinion.” “Of course, sir.
And it’s never short of perfection,” he stammers. But again. I’m not scolding him. I am trying to get to
the bottom of why my kitchen staff is afraid to talk to me. “I have no doubt.” I nod. “Which is why I
don’t understand your working conditions. What are you getting paid? All of you? What do you take
home every day?” They tell me and my stomach bottoms out. “And how long have you worked here?”
Almost all of them have been here for a minimum of two years. And Rafael has been here since... well,
the beginning. It’s disgusting.
“This is unacc eptable,” I tell them. “Your salaries should be double that.” “Salary?” one of the workers
asks. “Yes, salary,” I answer. “What’s your name?” I ask. “James,” he answers. Then I look from person
to person and they all tell me who they are. Brandon, Philip, Cody, David, Nick, Cassie, and Ash. “All
of you will be making salaries from now on. Forty hours a week and no more. Kitchen work is not light
work, as you all know. And you will be getting full benefits: 401 with 5% matched, PTO, and sick
leave. Oh, and incentives!” I tell them, and their expressions tell me they have no idea what to think.
Which is ridiculous in itself. “Is that alright with you?” I ask. Rafael pulls the bandana and hairnet off
his head and runs his hand through his long, wavy hair. His tired but honest brown eyes are filled with
tears. “You’ll have to excuse me, Mr. Bale. But no one has ever cared about our work conditions
before,” he tells me. “No one has ever seen us before,” Brandon adds, and I swallow with a nod. “Well,
I see you, and things are going to change.” I roll up my sleeves, and we get to work on the menu for
tomorrow’s event. And as I sit with these people, the working class, passionate, talented people, all I can
think about is the string of resorts I have yet to see. If I had to guess, I am going to be rolling up my
sleeves a lot.