I didn’t go to the captain’s dinner.
I ordered room service on my balcony instead, a steak and a crème brûlée. Rafael the butler brought them on a silver cart and lit two candles on the table even though it was just me.
At 9:20 p.m., someone pounded on my door.
I opened it, and it was Brandon, in his rented tuxedo with his bow tie undone and his face red with fury.
“What did you say to her?” he hissed.
“Who?”
“Vanessa! She won’t talk to me! She locked herself in your parents’ cabin and won’t come out! I had the whole thing set up! The captain was going to announce it! There’s a cake!”
“I’m sorry about the cake,” I said.
“You think you’re so smart.” He stepped closer, and I could smell the rum on his breath. “You think a couple of old court cases mean anything? Those were misunderstandings. Kelsey was crazy. She gave me that money. It was a gift.”
“The court didn’t think so.”
“I didn’t even go to court!”
“I know,” I said. “That’s why it was a default judgment.”
He stared at me. Then his face changed and the charm came back on, slick and practiced.
“Look, Millie. I think we got off on the wrong foot. You’re smart. I respect that. Your dad’s business has a lot of potential. Forty homes in Colorado Springs, that’s real money. What if you came in with us? You’ve got capital. I’ve got connections. We release your lien, roll your loan into equity, and you’d own a piece of something big.”
I almost laughed.
“Brandon,” I said, “I have a question for you. If you’re such a successful real estate investor, why haven’t you paid Kelsey Morrow back her twenty-three thousand dollars?”
His jaw tightened.
“And why hasn’t Smith Capital Partners filed a ten-dollar annual report with the state of Colorado in two years?”
He didn’t answer.
“Good night, Brandon,” I said, and I closed the door.
He pounded on it twice more, then stopped. I heard his footsteps fade down the hall.
I called guest services and reported a man who’d been drinking and pounding on my door. They sent security to the penthouse deck, and a polite officer named Lieutenant Okafor took my statement and assured me that only penthouse guests could access deck fourteen after ten p.m.
I went back to my balcony, my steak, and my crème brûlée.
Before I went to bed, my phone buzzed with a text from Vanessa, the first one she’d sent me in three weeks.
“I read it. All of it. I’m in Mom and Dad’s room. Can we talk tomorrow?”
Ethan Blake is a skilled Creative Content Specialist with a talent for crafting engaging and thought-provoking narratives. With a strong background in storytelling and digital content creation, Ethan brings a unique perspective to his role at TheArchivists, where he curates and produces captivating content for a global audience.
Ethan holds a degree in Communications from Zurich University, where he developed his expertise in storytelling, media strategy, and audience engagement. Known for his ability to blend creativity with analytical precision, he excels at creating content that not only entertains but also connects deeply with readers.
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