Page 118 of Wrong Room, Right Billionaire

It’s silent on the other end, and I am about to put my car in reverse when suddenly the gate opens.

“You got new couches,” I say as I walk through the foyer.

“Obviously. Their couches were outdated even back then,” he says.

“And uncomfortable,” I add, but despite the conversation being light, neither of us smile. For one, we still can’t stand each other. But also, standing here together in their home for the first time in 20 years is eerily nostalgic.

And really fucking hard.

“I updated the kitchen too, if you want to see,” he says, sauntering that way. After taking a deep breath in, I follow. “Finally put in the gas range Mom always talked about.”

“Do you cook?” I ask.

“Not like her,” he says, handing me a beer.

“Nobody cooks like her,” I say, and he nods.

We both stand there for a moment, sipping beer in silence until finally, I break it.

“You’re not going to win tomorrow, Conrad,” I tell him, and immediately the teeth come out.

“I told you if you came here to fight, there’s the door,” he points.

“Neither am I,” I tell him. “If we go in there guns blazing, arguing over petty brother bullshit, the judge will probably send us both packing. It will be a waste of money and time and only hurt the image of Bale even more.”

“So, what is it you’re suggesting we do?” he asks.

“We gotta clean up the mess,” I say.

Conrad thinks about that, rubbing the nape of his neck with one hand. Then he pulls out a barstool at the counter and gestures for me to do the same.

I follow suit.

“Have you looked at the media lately?” I ask.

“Yeah.” He nods. “It’s bad.”

“It is bad.”

“Before they were slandering just me. No thanks to you,” I say, and he shrugs. “But now they’re slandering both of us. And all it’s doing is ruining the image of mom and dad.”

“Now you get it,” he says, and I give him a curious look.

“What are you talking about?” I ask.

“Oh, come on. For years you were the golden child. The responsible one at the meetings with your face everywhere. All suits and ties and demands. Meanwhile, I was the one everyone talked about. And not in a good way.”

“You were traveling around, living your best life,” I tell him.

“Seriously?” he asks. “That’s what you think I was doing?”

“I mean, you got a DUI when you were twenty…” I say.

“I was still fucked up over their death,” Conrad admits with less tact than I’d prefer, and I visibly wince at his choice of words. “I was stupid for a couple years. I’ll admit that. But after that, I tried. I traveled and managed things, and updated things as I went. But as you probably figured out in the last couple of weeks, the good stuff never makes the headlines. Only the shit people make up.”

I have to admit he’s right about that, and I nod.

“Not everyone has a professional travel blogger to make their image shiny,” he adds.