Morgan “G ood morning , M r . B ale ,” Alecia, the front desk secretary, says to me with a nervous smile on Monday morning. “I have your coffee for you, just the way you like it. Your spreadsheets are on your desk, the ones you asked for and–” “What are the numbers?” I cut her off. “Numbers, Mr. Bale?” she asks, shoving her horned glasses up the bridge of her slender nose only to have them slide down again because she’s so jittery. “How many people have read the article?” I drill out the question as if it should be obvious. And it should be. Because as much as I drown out rumors and social media talk and every other obnoxious sound that comes out of the mouths of people who don’t matter and shouldn’t be allowed to have opinions, I’m also not dense. Especially when it comes to an article that is written about my resorts. “I... I’ll check... I think...” she says, fumbling with her phone. “Don’t act like you don’t know,” I say impatiently, and Alecia swallows hard. “It’s at five hundred thousand.” She swallows. “And counting.” I grit my teeth. Of course it is. With that, I head toward my office. And as I predicted, everyone is whispering. Until I march past them, causing them to get back to work. It’s not the first time that someone has written a blasphemous article about Bale. Usually those articles buzz around for a few days and then fizzle out because our r eputation has always been spotless. Our parents saw to that. I see to that. Emphasis on me because if I had to guess, my brother hasn’t put in much effort to prevent things like this. Sometimes I wonder what Bale Resorts pays him to do. Then I remember that he is unfortunately an heir to the company as well. For better or for worse, our parents were fair about things in their will. They had more faith in him than I do. I think it’s safe to say I have more faith in gas station sushi. “So I don’t think I need to tell you what’s first on the roster for the day...” Donovan falls into st ep with me on the way to my office. We hop into the first elevator that opens, despite a crowd of other people waiting for elevators. Everyone knows better than to join us. “I just don’t understand how the fuck this happened,” I snap as I punch the close button with my index finger. “Well I mean, social media, hatemongers, competitors trying to take us down so their numbers will go up.” Donovan rattles off. “I know how it happened. I mean, what could anyone have possibly found wrong with a Bale Resort?” I ask as we ascend. “Especially the Sapphire. I mean it’s right down the goddamned street. How could it be lagging?” “These articles are usually just fabricated stories aimed at people like us from people below us that think you can take down an empire with a toy slingshot. I wouldn’t worry about it too much,” he says as he looks at his phone. “Well shit.” “Well shit, what?” I ask as we st ep into my office. “Nothing. It’s nothing. Alex just wants me to stop at Whole Foods for guac ingredients on the way home from work today, which means I’m going to get stuck for a solid twenty minutes on South Dixie. Yay for me.” “You can’t say oh shit and then lie about avocados,” I growl. Donovan sighs. “The views are up to eight hundred K, and the comments are a disaster.” I sit down at my desk and press my fingers against my closed eyes. “And the other numbers?” I ask, knowing Donovan knows what I mean. “Well, the good news is no one has canceled reservations. The bad news is no one has booked a room in the last twenty-four hours,” he says. “Across the board!?” I demand. “No, no, just Miami. And New York, San Diego, Maui, and maybe Cabo. Oh! Cabo has one! We are not without a paddle!” I look up at him. “But we are still up shit’s creek.” “A little bit. Yeah,” he admits. This time I am the one letting out a persecuted sigh. I lean back in my chair, arms crossed, lips between my teeth. Donovan pulls out his tablet and is busy trying to figure out disaster relief, no doubt. Meanwhile, the keywords from the article play over in my head. Overrated.
Overpriced. There were even complaints about the glassware? I mean, shit, even dive bars can ke ep their glasses clean. But those details, details that could have been easily fabricated as Donovan pointed out, are not what’s grinding on me. It was the last part. In an age when people want to experience travel at its roots by immersing in the true culture of new places, the infamous Bale brothers would be wise to go back to their roots. To what Bale used to stand for twenty-five years ago. Because if I had to guess, the original founders would be rolling over in their graves if they saw everything being sw ept under those Persian rugs. Donovan, being the intuitive assistant he is, seems to know that. “Little do they know, our rugs aren’t Persian. They’re Turkish Oushak. Obviously.” But it’s not the rugs that are bothering me. It’s a reference to the late founders. To my parents. It’s a low blow that the author of the anonymous article clearly knows nothing about. Running a brand like this may look like a paradise job. But little do the guests and anyone on the outside know, it’s no beach vacation. Quite the opposite, really. So where anyone gets off poking holes in the company I throw seventy hours of my week into upholding, I can’t begin to understand. They’ve got a lot of gall, both the writer and the slime that hired them. And I will figure out who is behind both. “I have some thoughts,” Donovan says gently. Donovan is a problem solver, which is arguably half the reason he works for me. That and he personally knew my parents, so there was no need for catching him up in the beginning when I brought him on the team. I didn’t need to relive the trauma, and he understood that. “Shoot,” I tell him, still staring at the wall behind him as he swipes through his tablet. “We up the advertisement. Show amenities no one else has. Maybe even some vacation specials and–” “We are not an amusement park with three-day passes,” I cut in. “We are a luxury resort line. We don’t do specials. And that would probably look like a band-aid on a bullet hole, given our current situation,” I say, and he nods. “True, true...” I shake my head, scratching at my shaved jawline. I ke ep it short, partially for professionalism and partially because with every passing day, more silver hair pops up. I blame my younger brother for it. That and little surprises like this. “No, we don’t want to look desperate. Whatever we do needs to look more organic. Like random five-star reviews written in contrast.” “So pay some customers to leave them,” he says. But again, I don’t want it to look obvious. “Or... we hire a travel journalist. Someone people know and love. Someone with a good name for themselves that people trust,” I say, and Donovan agrees. “Yes. That’s good. Someone we work jointly with to polish up this little fender bender. Maybe an influencer...” “You mean like social media?” I ask. “Yes,” he says, and I swear to God the man has sequins in his eyes. “I guess that makes sense. People love doomscrolling through reels of other people’s lives while they eat pastries for breakfast,” I say, cringing at the thought. I’ve never been a sweets person. Especially first thing in the morning. “Alright, so we find the person for the job, someone with a million followers, lots of experience, a superior wordsmith, and all that, and then what? We just... pay them to go resort hopping for us?” “I mean, we could...” Donovan shrugs. Just then, my door opens again. This time, Conrad saunters in, a shit-eating grin on his face. “Talk about a shit show, am I right?” he asks. “That’s one way to put it,” Donovan says coolly. Donovan has never liked Conrad. In fact, when I hired Donovan, that was one of the stipulations he made me agree to. That he would never work directly with my brother. It was a done deal at that point. I hired Donovan because of my lack of a civil relationship with my brother. Having someone on my team and my team only was half the point. “What do you want?” I ask. Conrad takes a seat on my desk before sucking his teeth and nodding up to me. “I want to know what the plan is,” he says. “I don’t know if you read the morning paper, but we are kind of a sinking ship right now.”
“I’m aware of our circumstances,” I grit out. “Alright. So what are you going to do about it, boss?” Conrad puts emphasis on the last word not because he respects me as his older brother or even the Bale brother in the driver’s seat of this company, but because he doesn’t. “We’re figuring out collateral damage,” Donovan jumps in. “A way to brighten the face of Bale so this whole debacle doesn’t hurt our image too much.” “Brighten the face...” Conrad nods, finally hopping off my desk and pacing my office with his hands shoved in his slacks. “Listen, that’s a great idea. Don’t get me wrong. But how much makeup does it take to make a pig pretty?” Donovan stands up, knowing that I am about to stand up too. “What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask. “I mean nearly a million views and tens of thousands of comments on Bale Resorts?” he cringes. “It’s bad.” “Luckily, we are working on a plan right now,” Donovan says in an attempt to put out the fire. Meanwhile, Conrad just ke eps adding more gasoline. “Interesting, because I happen to have some thoughts myself,” he says. “Oh, really?” I scoff. “And what kinds of plans are those? Because the last time I checked, you don’t do a lot of the actual work around here.” Conrad’s eyebrows arch. “I don’t do any of the work?” he echoes. “You don’t think visiting the hotels and doing inspections and showing face, something you wouldn’t do with a gun pointed to your head, is work? News flash, brother. You might be on the throne of Bale for now, but the only reason anyone even knows who you are is because the paparazzi catch side profiles of you from time to time at the whiskey bar down the street. In fact,” he chuckles, “the word in those comments is that a lot of people didn’t even know you were still alive. They thought you died when–” “Finish that sentence and you’ll be digging your own grave,” I growl, and it’s not until I feel Donovan’s hand on my shoulder that I realize I’ve closed the space between my brother and me and I am standing chest to chest with him. “Morgan,” Donovan says. I take a st ep back. “I think you need to pr epare for the worst,” Conrad dares to go on. “Shit like that is going to tank us. A lot of things in those comments have the power to tank us. But if I had to guess, you haven’t even read the comments. You just looked at the aftermath, the numbers, and ordered your sidekick to find a solution. Well, I have a solution for you, brother. It in volves me lawyering up and you st epping down.” I meet his eyes with a hard glare. Conrad engages for a moment before leaving, slamming my door behind him. “He’s all talk,” Donovan says after a minute. “He measures his dick against yours every few months and then goes back to his shenanigans. This time won’t be any different.” He’s right. But something about this threat felt different. Like, for once, it might not be empty. I make a mental note to ke ep an even closer eye on my brother. Conrad has always done anything he can to get under my skin. And when Bale Resorts was passed over to us, most of it fell into my lap because he was only fifteen, making me the undeclared CEO. But ever since he came of age, my brother has been challenging that. And while it has been mostly talk, that talk is getting louder and more persistent as of late. “Circling back,” Donovan says. “I have an idea. Current added issues considered...” “Whatcha got?” I ask. “You’re not going to be happy,” he says. “Oh, because I’m just elated about things right now,” I say. “I mean, you’re really going to hate this...” I arch my brows to move him along. “What would your parents have suggested?” he asks and I think about that. I can think of a million things they might have done to make customers happy. Customer satisfaction was literally their top priority. Second to experiencing their resorts on a regular– oh. No. Absolutely not. “If you’re suggesting what I think you are–” I start in. “When’s the last time you visited any of your resorts?” Donovan asks. “Not counting the Sapphire.” Honestly, I have no fucking clue. In fact, there are a good handful of them I’ve never even seen in person. That is mostly Conrad’s job. He loves to travel. I prefer running the business right here in this office with the A/C set to sixty-five and my coffee delivered by Alecia every morning. “That’s
not my MO,” I tell him. “And you know that. You also know why,” I warn him. We aren’t getting into a whole conversation about what Bale used to be. Not right now. “I know. But... this is kind of a disaster. And not just a flash flood,” he states. “I thought you said it was just a toy slingshot to an empire,” I state. “Well, that was before the article was pushing one million views...” he mutters. “And before Conrad threatened to go postal, legally speaking. So, just hear me out. We find a travel blogger. Someone people love. Like Guy Fieri status but for resorts, not hole-in-the-wall barbecue joints. We send them on a little tour of our resorts with you by their side.” “And what would be the point of that?” I ask. “Nobody wants to look at me.” “Maybe not, but if they saw billionaire Morgan Bale was actually staying at his hotels, it might sell them on the idea of this not just being a retort to the bad article. Also, it gives you an edge over your brother. Proves to him and the world that you don’t just hide behind your desk. It’s something–” He trails off before finishing the sentence. Because we both know what he was going to say. It’s something your parents would have done... “It’s something to think about,” he says instead. Then he leaves me alone as well. I sit at my desk, staring at the article on my screen. Then, after a hard moment of hesitation, I click on the comments, speed-reading through them. Conrad is right. They’re bad. Everything from complaints about experiences at Bale Resorts (which I can’t understand) to assumptions about me. About what happened two decades ago. I turn away. None of these people have any right to assume anything about my family. About me. And yet, they’re going to think what they want. Until I do something to prove them wrong. I think about what Donovan said. And he’s right. About both. And as much as I hate it, I know it might be our best option. Shit, if we pass a million, it might be our only option. And even if I HATE the idea of it (of travel, of beaches, of beds that aren’t mine, of flying, of sunburns and cesspool grottos) it really is the best way to change the narrative.