Page 1 of Trailer Park Billionaire (Distinguished Billionaires #3)

HELENA

S ome people say life is like a blank canvas.

Those people are either rich or delusional… or sometimes both.

For most of us, life is more like a centuries-old fresco that some drunk guy accidentally peed on, and now you're handed a toothbrush, a deadline, some generational trauma, and the assignment to restore the whole thing. No guide, no colors, and definitely no consideration for your lower back.

My personal fresco is in a museum. At least for eight to twelve hours a day.

Because that’s where I work as a conservator of art.

Which is kind of ironic, considering how I’m drawn to bad decisions when it comes to my own life.

Or maybe it's fitting. After all, here I get to spend my days trying to preserve and restore beauty in things that were often born from chaos, despair, and a serious lack of health insurance—much like myself (though I assume my creation must have involved a bottle of wine or two on top).

And, luckily, my job does come with health insurance. Another benefit is that it’s in a museum, which means it’s peaceful, quiet. The kind of quiet that feels like being submerged underwater—deep, thick, weighing heavy on your chest. It’s comforting in a way, the stillness of it.

I let my eyes trace the lines of the painting before me—the sweeping strokes of red and blue twisting into each other, a muddy tangle of emotion. It looks like the artist began with a vision, but somewhere along the way lost control.

Bad decisions.

Or maybe it was just bad lighting because he had to paint by candlelight after his draining day job out in the fields. Or maybe he just couldn’t afford spectacles. Or maybe his mind was occupied with whether he’d buy dinner that day or a new tube of toxic paint instead.

Whatever the reason, I recognize the chaos in it. Because it’s not always the artist’s vision that survives. Sometimes, it’s whatever the drunk guy doesn’t manage to ruin.

“Pssst, Helena,” a hushed voice hisses from behind me. “Pssst.”

I straighten my back, take a deep breath and brace for, well, at least it’s not impact today. Reluctantly, I take off my (apparently not all that) noise-cancelling headphones and turn around.

“Helena, how did I do?” my boss asks, still whispering loudly, with a smile so cheeky it rivals that of Mona Lisa herself.

I release a sigh. “No poking my sides, no coffee in your hands, no cakes, no candles, no knives that could penetrate the canvases. I’d say you’re getting pretty good at this.”

“Thank you, I’m trying really hard. It’s just difficult, you know.”

“It’s difficult to be careful around all these priceless works of art?”

“It’s difficult not to get excited when I see you, my little sunshine.” Elaine adds finger guns to her smile, before those tiny guns pry the little brush I use to remove dust from the painting from my hands.

My expression remains as stoic as the one on the Greek statue behind me, the only difference between us being that she’s missing both arms and the ability to get annoyed. She’s lucky that way, I think to myself.

“Little sunshine…” I answer with the appropriate amount of emotion in my voice (which is none). “People have called me many names, but hardly ever one so inaccurate and unbecoming.”

My boss could be called a lot of things herself: cheerful, dedicated, compassionate, bad at making birthday cakes or keeping them out of my conservatory lab, and also a rather bold choice for the director position at one of the most prestigious art museums in the country.

But I can’t complain. Well, I can, and I do, but I try really hard not to.

She’s excellent at her job, despite her tendency to take ‘hands-on’ to a whole new level, which isn’t usually encouraged in a museum.

“Well, I truly mean it: you are my little sunshine. Anyway, here’s what’s going to happen now,” she says (or more accurately threatens).

“We are going to have lunch together near that pretty painting you’re so fond of, then you will tell me all about the shenanigans you were up to on the weekend, I will tell you about this new tantra class that I’m attending, and afterwards I’m going to trick you into doing a job for me. How does that sound?”

“Lunchtime already?” I check the clock. “Didn’t I just get here?”

“You did. Like twelve episodes of Bob Ross ago. And I know you haven’t eaten anything yet today, so don’t even try weaseling your way out of this again.”

I stretch my neck all the way through to my back and feel about as old as the Renaissance painting I am currently working on.

“First of all, how would you know that I haven’t eaten yet?

Secondly, I am absolutely not coming if we’re going to talk about tantra classes.

Thirdly, what kind of job? Because as far as I’m aware, I’m doing my job right now, and this painting needs to get finished before the upcoming exhibition.

And if this is another one of your attempts to?—”

Before I can finish, she shoves a cookie in my mouth, grabs me by the arm and starts leading me out of the lab and toward the atrium where the painting of Ophelia, possibly my favorite painting in here, hangs in a dark room at the very end.

“First of all, I know this because I know you…

and also because I have Patrick report back to me when and what you eat so I can intervene on your health's behalf,” she explains, like that is a perfectly normal thing, as she guides me down the dim hallway toward the main building.

“Secondly, I really think you could benefit from some openness when it comes to the female orgasm.” She watches me slowly bring motion back to my shoulder.

“You do seem a bit tense from time to time. But fine. I will forego the tantra class talk. And thirdly… I forgot what thirdly was, but I have more cookies for dessert.”

Elaine opens the door to the atrium, ushers me through and grabs a brown paper bag from Patrick, one of our security guards and, apparently, her informant/snitch.

As we keep walking, she tosses him a little container that I assume must be filled with more of her homemade cookies, which taste slightly less like dusty library books dipped in too much sugar than they usually do.

“The job,” I remind her. “Thirdly was the job you are going to trick me into doing for you.”

“Oh, yes. Well, that can wait. First, you need to tell me what you did over the weekend! And spare me absolutely no details!” she threatens again.

We enter the grand atrium with its soaring columns and vaulted ceilings.

One of Elaine’s first acts as the director was to add a bunch of chairs, tables, couches, bean bags, and even beds in here to make the museum feel less sterile and more inviting, to turn it into a place people want to spend time in.

I take my usual seat at the table that allows for the best view of the art.

She sits beside me so we can both admire the paintings from across the space.

“I prepared an escape room,” I answer briefly, not really in the mood to share more about my weekend, knowing full well that I don’t actually have a choice.

Elaine puts the brown paper bag in front of me, opens it up and makes sure I catch a whiff of the sandwich inside.

They’re from a little deli shop across the street, aptly named ‘The Art of the Sandwich’.

They’re my favorite and she knows it. This is what people mean when they say knowledge is power.

“Oh, is it time again?” she asks nonchalantly, pulling the bag toward herself, waiting for me to answer.

“Yep.”

I look at her. She looks at me. Then her eyebrows lift as her head tilts to the side and bobs encouragingly as if to ask, ‘ What did I just say about the no details part?’

When I don’t elaborate, she continues. “Well, go on. Tell me everything and then some. I can see you want to. You’re just hiding how excited you are. And you’re not getting any of this,” she rustles the paper bag, “until you start singing.”

Like I said, I know I don’t have a choice and, to be fair, she isn’t wrong.

I am excited about the escape room, or at least as excited as it is physically possible for me.

But if she received confirmation of that excitement, I fear she herself would get so excited that she’d turn this entire museum into an escape room.

One that I might not be allowed to leave.

“I am the appropriate amount of excited at the prospect of creating an escape room for my grandfather’s birthday,” I explain matter-of-fact.

“So… extremely excited. Got it. What’s the theme this year?”

“Prison.”

“Oh, that sounds… like a bold choice considering his history. And your history… but what could go wrong? Who doesn’t love a bit of PTSD on their birthday?” My blackmailer and lunch supplier finally reaches into the bag, retrieves two subs, and slides one over to me.

Without wasting time, I open it up and take a big bite. “I think he’ll love it, actually,” I answer after swallowing. “His old cellmate just got released, and I thought it to be fitting for him to play the part of the murderer. Which should be fun. The old gang back together.”

“Wait, wait, is he actually a murderer?” Elaine’s voice rises with worry, then drops back down when she wonders out loud whether escape rooms actually have murderers, before her pitch shoots back up again. “Is he actually a murderer, Helena?”

I swallow my second bite. “Well, it’s half escape room, half murder mystery dinner. The dinner consists of just the finest Chi Chi.”

My boss narrows her eyes in annoyance, still waiting for an answer to whether I associate with actual murderers.