Page 12 of Filthy Rich Brother’s Best Friends (Filthy Rich Harems #5)

Lola

M y phone buzzes before my alarm goes off.

At first, I ignore it. I’m still half asleep, clinging to the last thread of whatever dream I was in before the screen lit up. But it buzzes again, and then a third time, and now I’m totally awake.

I reach for it with one hand and blink through the brightness. The first thing I see is the name at the top of the message. The second is the first line: Hey Lola, I wanted to tell you directly before you heard it from someone else.

No. No, no, no.

I read it twice, hoping I misunderstood but the rest of the message confirms it. Maddie is leaving. Effective today. She’s taking a better offer at Serenity Core with Sierra James and apologizes for “the short notice.”

She couldn’t even be bothered to call. Or have an in-person conversation with me. Or do me the courtesy of two-weeks’ fucking notice.

My stomach drops. For a second, I can’t fill my lungs. I stare at the screen, waiting for something to change. Maybe a follow-up message that says just kidding or April Fool’s , except it’s June and I know better.

She’s really gone.

She was my best instructor. Clients requested her all the time. She could sub last-minute or handle the advanced classes without asking me a million questions. And now she’s walking out, and I have no backup.

Part of me doesn’t even blame her. She was my last instructor.

I’ve been hemorrhaging people since Sierra fucking James started making offers.

Every week it’s someone else—first Jenn, then Nicole, then both the front desk girls in the same forty-eight-hour span.

Maddie held out the longest. I really thought she’d stick it out with me.

But this? This one feels personal.

It shouldn’t. I know that. Maddie’s allowed to do what’s best for her. She has bills to pay and dreams of her own. But still—she didn’t even call. After two years of loyalty, flexibility and late-night reschedules, she sent me a five-sentence text like I’m just some boss she had to endure.

And Sierra? What the fuck did I ever do to this woman that made her set her sights on me?

We’ve never even spoken. She’s never stepped foot in my studio or even tried to introduce herself. Instead, she poaches my people with salary bumps and swag bags and wellness retreats in Fiji.

It almost feels targeted. Not because I’m competition—I’m not.

She has celebrity backing and a national expansion plan.

She’s got investors, a glossy PR team, and five thousand square feet of industrial-chic space.

I’ve got eight reformers, a faulty air conditioner, and a toilet that doesn’t always work.

But she’s still coming for me.

What did I do? What about me says “threat” loud enough that she feels the need to dismantle me from the inside out?

Maybe it’s not about me at all. Maybe I’m just collateral damage. But it doesn’t feel that way when I open my calendar. Today is full. And every class Maddie was supposed to take is now mine to teach. I will have absolutely no down time. I’m booked straight through until late afternoon.

I don’t have anyone to call. Everyone has already been lured away.

I drop the phone on my bed and press the heels of my hands to my eyes.

I built this place from scratch. I didn’t buy it or inherit it or marry into it.

I started with some capital from my brother, a handful of used equipment, and more days than I can count spent crying in the storage closet between classes.

I negotiated the lease and repainted the place all by myself.

I taught until my voice gave out and then taught some more.

My blood, sweat, and tears took this place from a tiny hole in the wall to a successful growing business. Only to have it backslide into nothing.

I’m going to lose it all.

This isn’t sustainable. I’ve been saying that for months, but now it is undeniable. Maddie leaving isn’t just a hard hit; it’s a crack in the foundation. A crack I don’t have the money or the time to patch.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed and sit there for a second, trying to steady myself. But I’m already cycling through what needs to happen today—emails to send, schedules to adjust, people to disappoint—but nothing feels doable.

Three group classes, two private sessions, and a duet—all stacked with barely enough time in between to wipe down equipment and reset the machines. Maddie was supposed to take the eleven and the one, which would have given me time to reset, maybe even eat something.

Now it’s just me.

So I cancel a hair appointment I’ve already rescheduled twice and send a quick apology to the stylist. I don’t bother trying to rebook. I’ll be lucky if I make it through the day without pulling all my hair out. There'll be nothing left to style.

I shove a box of protein bars in my bag and leave the house without the usual pep talk I give myself in the mirror. What’s the point? The only thing I can afford to focus on right now is getting through the damn day.

By the time the first group arrives, I’m already sweating.

It’s not the light, glowy kind of sweat that wellness influencers rock like glamorous mermaids, either. No. This is stress sweat. This is deodorant-failing, bra-strap-soaked, swamp-monster sweat.

The energy in the room is off.

And it’s me. I’m the problem.

I just have to keep pushing through and hope what I’m doing is enough to make a difference.

Halfway through my second class, I’m cuing the double leg stretch when the front door opens.

I don’t turn at first. It’s probably just a delivery. Or someone who wandered in from the juice place next door. But then I hear the voice.

“Well, well. Didn’t realize you were mid–Downward Spiral.”

I freeze mid-cue. Every muscle in my body locks up. I turn my head slowly and—yep. Of course.

Reid is standing just inside the doorway, holding a box under one arm and wearing an arrogant smirk I want to smack off his ridiculously handsome face.

“I come bearing tech,” he says, lifting the box. “Miles said this needed to be dropped off today. I graciously volunteered.”

I don’t have time for this. I force a smile, give him a tight nod, and try to refocus. “Lift, hold, lower—two more reps.”

He leans against the front desk like he owns the place. I don’t know what he’s doing here, but it’s definitely not just about the box. He’s watching me. And now I’m messing up my own sequence.

Jesus. Maybe I’m the reason my studio is failing. I can’t even manage to hold it together when he watches me.

I cue the next position and hope he’ll get bored and leave.

He doesn’t.

He crosses one ankle over the other, scrolls on his phone, and looks entirely unbothered while I try not to combust. Every time I glance toward the front of the studio, he’s still there.

And I swear—he’s enjoying every second of it.

Just as I’m about to kick his ass to the curb, one of my clients pipes up from the reformer near the back.

“Wait—is that— oh my god, it’s Reid Morgan!”

He doesn’t even try to look surprised. He just lifts his chin and flashes that signature grin. He wouldn’t be so pretty if I accidentally kicked all his teeth out.

“Guilty.”

Another client perks up. “You played for the Storm, right? You were number twelve—my brother was obsessed with you.”

He chuckles and gives a modest shrug. Fake bastard. He’s thriving off the attention. “That was me.”

She turns to her friend, smacking her arm. “He was supposed to be, like, the next big thing.”

I cringe at that. Reid was projected to have a hall of fame career with the stats he was throwing in his first few years.

He flashes that lazy grin. “Yeah, well. Knees had other plans.”

They laugh. Not polite giggles—real laughs.

And then the question I’ve been dreading.

“Are you staying?”

Reid glances over at me. He raises an eyebrow like he’s asking for permission, but we both know he doesn’t care what I say.

He shrugs. “Sure. Why not?”

I swallow the scream building in my throat and force my jaw to unclench. “Grab a pair of socks below the desk and take the empty reformer in the back.”

He steps out of his shoes, pulls on a pair of sticky socks, and joins the group with zero hesitation. He follows my cues with annoying precision. His form is perfect. His balance is obnoxiously stable. He doesn’t even flinch during the teaser series, and I know for a fact it’s burning.

And worst of all—he talks.

He cracks jokes under his breath and makes little quips during transitions. The jerk somehow remembers everyone’s name within ten minutes and uses them to charm the panties off every one of the women.

I hear someone snort when he says, “You call that a plank, Jenny? I’ve seen toddlers with better form.”

Jenny laughs. “Don’t test me, Morgan. I’ll challenge you to a tuck hold.”

They’re all eating it up. I want to throw him out and lock the door and scream until my throat goes raw.

But I can’t.

Because he’s making them laugh. And if I’m going to try and salvage this business, I need good reviews and repeat customers.

After class, I wipe down the reformers as quickly as possible. My shoulders ache, my tank is soaked, and my patience is hanging on by a single thread. Clients file out in a good mood—which is the only win I have.

One of them thanks him on the way out. Him. Like he works here now.

Reid strolls over with that smug little smile on his stupid hot face.

“You’re welcome, by the way.”

I don’t even look at him. “For what?”

He grins, leaning against the wall beside me. “Uptick in morale. Pretty sure I just saved your Yelp score.”

I stop scrubbing and turn to face him. “You don’t work here.”

“Not yet.”

My jaw tightens. “Reid.”

“What?” He spreads his arms, completely unbothered. “They loved it. And you could use the help.”

I hate that he’s probably right. I really hate that part of my mind is already doing the math, considering the bump in attendance he’d bring if he posted a single Story in this room. But I’m not in the mood to let him win today.

“Don’t act like you did this out of the kindness of your heart,” I snap. “You were bored. You wanted attention. Mission accomplished.”

His expression changes, just a little. “And if I wanted to help?”

I scoff. “You don’t help, Reid. You interfere. There’s a difference.”

The space between us shrinks. He doesn’t move much, just a single step forward, but I feel it everywhere. He’s not touching me, but he’s close enough that I can see the little scar above his eyebrow and the flecks of green in his eyes. His gaze drops to my mouth.

Then my eyes drop to his lips and that arrogant little smirk of his deepens, and I know he knows where I’m looking.

He presses just a little closer. Am I breathing? I don’t think so.

Then my phone rings.

I jump. My feet actually leave the floor, and my heart is pounding like I just ran a marathon.

He steps back. I turn away. The moment slips through the cracks and disappears before either of us can think about what we were about to do.

I thank all the heavens when he decides to leave a few minutes later. I don’t have time to deal with whatever this is.

By the time I’m finally done for the afternoon, my body feels twenty pounds heavier than it did this morning. I’ve wiped down every surface, refilled the towel bins, and organized the front desk—anything to keep busy and my thoughts quiet.

I sit down at the end of the day to check my last few messages and my stomach twists. There’s an email from my landlord.

Updated Lease Terms – Effective July 1st.

I click it.

Just three lines to confirm that any hope I had of saving the studio is circling the drain.

Rent is going up. Again. There’s no explanation and while I’m pretty sure it’s not legal to randomly raise it, there’s not much I can do about it.

I don’t have the money to fight him, and I don’t have the money or the credit score to move somewhere new.

I close my eyes.

For a second, I think I might actually cry, but I don’t. Instead I just sit there, staring at the screen, trying to swallow the panic clawing its way up my throat.

This morning I lost my last instructor. This afternoon, I lost my last bit of financial wiggle room.

I don’t know how much more I can take.