Page 113 of Wrong Room, Right Billionaire

“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 except paint a picture.”

“At least I kept 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.

Chapter 43

Scarlett

I should be in New York City right now.

Not floating in a bathtub that looked much roomier in the photo on the Airbnb app than it does in person. Angle shots, am I right? After Morgan and I went our separate ways at the airport in Myrtle Beach, I caught the first flight back to Miami. Well. The first flight, I was certain he wouldn’t be on. I also bought a seat in the back row near the bathrooms just in case he had to fly coach. Though I’m pretty sure he would’ve paid some lucky Uber driver a million dollars before flying coach. From there, I stood by the baggage claim and watched my suitcase going around the circle three times because I was too busy crying over the fact that I am officially homeless.

I could have gone to a hotel, but hotels only remind me of Morgan.

I could have gone to my sister’s. But my sister reminds me of my failure.

So needless to say, an Airbnb off the beaten path was my next and only option. Actually, it’s off Grand Avenue, walking distance from Spice 24-hour Thai Cuisine and a Wine Depot. I can’t partake in. Because I’m pregnant. And alone.

I don’t know how long I’ve been in here. Long enough to have to refill the water three times. But between the nausea, which is pretty much an all the time thing right now, and my heart feeling like it was ripped out of my chest and stepped on with a steel-toed boot, I have no desire to do anything else. Even ordered Mei Fun noodles, which is surprising for me.

I don’t know where things went wrong. We were so close. So close to NYC. So close to moving on past the charade and into reality. And I was dumb enough to think that reality included us confessing our love to each other, him finding out I am pregnant with his babies and falling in love with those two and making a bucket list together of all the places we are going to travel.

Obviously, that’s a ridiculous assumption. Especially considering he doesn’t think kids should grow up in airports, walked away from me in response to finding out I am pregnant with his twins and made it clear he never wants to speak to me again.