Morgan
B ale R esorts H eadquarters , Miami, FL: The next day... The lobby of Bale Resorts is cold. Too cold.
It’s the same temperature it always is. The temperature I ke ep it locked at. But that’s kind of the
problem. Maybe all the resort hopping softened me up too much. Maybe everything about the trip
softened me too much. I make a mental note to put on a suit jacket when I get to my office.
Unfortunately, it’s going to be a moment before I get to my office. Because first I have to cross the
lobby, which means I have to talk to people. People who haven’t seen me in weeks other than on social
media (I literally can’t believe I am saying those words, inwardly or otherwise) and are probably
acc epting that version of me. A version of me I left in the security line at the Myrtle Beach Airport.
Then I have to get coffee, which I should’ve grabbed on the way here but skipped because I was already
running late. Actually, I’m on time, but I prefer to be early. That wasn’t going to happen today because I
may or may not have gone searching for where things went wrong in the bottom of the bottle, and
getting up this morning felt like stumbling around in hell. The point is, I can’t skip the coffee. Though I
can skip talking to people. And luckily, nobody seems to want to talk to me anyways. In fact, most
people seem to be avoiding me. Which leads me to believe that they heard about what happened. You
better believe I’ve turned off notifications and
haven’t checked social media since the blowup. I can’t imagine it's anything less than a shitshow right
now. “You look like hell,” Donovan says, falling into st ep with me. “You’re talking too loud,” I grunt.
“Ah. You feel like hell too, then,” he says in an empathetically quieter voice. “You know, nobody
would have judged you for not coming in today. We weren’t even supposed to be back for three more
days anyway.” “Well, I’m here so I might as well be here,” I tell him. “Now, if you don’t mind, I need
coffee. And I’d like to get it and head to my office before I run into–” “Good morning, brother...”
Conrad’s voice is like sandpaper on an open flesh wound, and I gristle before turning to face him. “Let’s
not do this right now,” I tell him. “Or at all. I’m pretty sure there’s a communication cut-off point
considering we are going up against each other in court.” “So I take it this means you never made it to
New York,” he says. “No, brother. I did not. Because somebody thought it would be funny if my jet was
grounded. The same person who thought it would be funny to spread rumors all over the goddamn
internet about me and my fiancée.” “If I remember correctly, I didn’t spread any rumors. I showed the
truth. How it was perceived and how it made you look doesn’t change anything. Not for my case,
anyways,” Conrad says. I’m not a violent man. I am not a man who bangs his chest in conflict. And I am
definitely not a man who airs out his laundry in front of other people. But there are a lot of things about
me that have changed in the past twentyfour hours, and right now, I don’t care. Because I am done.
I spin around and st ep up to Conrad, standing close enough that if we puffed our chests, they’d be
touching. Close enough that I’m pretty sure he can feel the heat of my breath on his smug face. People
are watching, frozen in fear, probably because the two Bale brothers are about to duke it out. But again.
I. Don’t. Care. “Where the fuck do you get off?” I growl at him. “You’ve muddied our image, destroyed
our name, slandered our dignity and, on top of it all, because of you, someone I care about, someone
who did nothing but support and build us back up from the gutter, is hurt. Because of you. Because of
your pettiness and your jealousy, and immaturity.” “Really?” Conrad asks. “Our castle is falling, and the
thing you are most riled up about is your girlfriend’s feelings?” “First of all,” I cut back in. “Scarlett is
my fiancée. Not my girlfriend–” “Oh give it up already,” he sneers. “She’s not your fiancée. It’s not
real. Any of it. You found her after she wrote the article that ripped us apart, which basically means you
took my sloppy seconds if you think about it, and then you hooked up with her over and over again and
realized that it was the perfect stage to convince people not only that you were the golden child of Bale
but also that you should gain automatic inheritance by faking a relationship that would lead to
matrimony. None of it was real. You’re more of a snake than I am, and you know it.” “See, that’s where
you are wrong,” I say. “Because in order to be more of a snake than you, I’d have to do everything I’ve
done for my own benefit.” “And you don’t think you have?” he snorts. “No. I don’t. You might be the
one traveling to the resorts ever since mom and dad died, but you didn’t do their job. Management went
to shit because you weren’t a leader. You were fucking around, cutting corners, living off the luxury
while you ignored the real work. The work they left to you. Meanwhile, I was behind the scenes putting
things back together. Everything that fell apart when they died and everything you broke along the way.
And maybe you’re right. I didn’t mean to fall in love with Scarlettt. But when it happened, it was real.
Everything I am doing is real. Because I
am like them. And you... are not. You’re an embarrassment to the Bale name and to them.” I don’t even
see Conrad’s fist until it is already crashing into my jaw. It’s almost enough to take me to the floor, but I
recover quickly. And as the taste of copper floods my mouth, I grit my teeth and swing back. Conrad
isn’t expecting it (because we haven’t fought like this since we were kids) and my knuckles bash into
his eye. Conrad does hit the ground, and while I wipe my mouth, he jumps back up with more gusto
than he had before and charges me, knocking me onto my back. And the next thing I know, Conrad and
I are literally rolling around on the floor of our own lobby, yelling and punching and cursing each other
until both of us are bleeding and heaving. “You think you’re so much better than me,” he grits out. “But
you’ve never done anything for them exc ept paint a picture.” “At least I k ept things afloat,” I fight back.
“You call this afloat? We’re a fucking disgrace. Check the media.” “Because of you and your
backstabbing!” I snap. “I wouldn’t have to stab you in the back if you hadn’t betrayed me first.” “And
how the fuck did I betray you?” I ask. “By shutting me out when they died!” he shouts, and we both stop
rolling around, and I push myself off him. “They were on their way to see you when their plane crashed.
It was always all about you. And then when they died, because of you, you shut everything out.
Including your younger brother.” My vision goes dark as I watch him stand up, his glare still hard on
me. “Go to hell,” I tell him. “Pretty sure I’m already there,” he says, wiping the blood off his lip with his
wrist. Then he walks away. A moment later I sit up, and Donovan walks over to help me up.
“I’m fine,” I tell him, shoving his hand away. Then I get up and go into my office and lock the door.