Page 25 of Wrong Room, Right Billionaire

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.

Chapter 8

Scarlett

I’m hungover.

Luckily, I have the breakfast of champions to help with that. A cinnamon roll. Nothing like carbs rolled up with layers of cinnamon and sticky goodness to soak up last night’s wine binge. I’m not a heavy drinker; I’m more a “wine when it sounds nice” kind of girl. Problematically, after the email I just got, wine sounded very nice. Too nice. A bottle's worth of nice.

Still, I don’t have time for puking or headaches. So I drink some water, chase it with a triple shot of espresso, pair it with my favorite pastry and get to work scrolling through jobs online. Unfortunately, writing jobs aren’t easy to find. It’s not like typing waitressing into the search bar and getting thirty-seven hits with one click. It’s more of a you gotta know a guy sort of thing. Unfortunately, I haven’t been “within” anywhere in a minute. Not anywhere with consistent paychecks, anyway.

I search freelance job platforms, but other than a listing for a content creator and another for mattress reviewing, there aren’t a lot in the way of bloggers, especially not travel bloggers. I’m not surprised.