Page 11 of Trailer Park Billionaire (Distinguished Billionaires #3)

HELENA

I turn around and mentally rush through the entire tour. Greek, Roman, Gothic, Renaissance twice, Baroque, Rococo, Dada, Modern, Contemporary; we’ve been to literally every part of this museum. He even managed to walk into three different storage rooms by accident.

“We just came from the good stuff,” I say, gesturing toward the room we had been in a minute ago. “Besides, you saw me cry just now. If that wasn’t one of the finer performance pieces we’ve shown here, then what is?”

Mr. Lyon chuckles. “First of all, if I could buy you as a piece of performance art, I would. Secondly, you don’t know, do you?”

“Know what?”

“Did Ms. Hyde not tell you why I’m here?”

“Because you’re a rich patron of the museum who requested a personal tour?”

“Of the archives,” he clarifies. “I am interested in acquiring some works from your permanent collection.”

“Hold on.” I blink. “Deaccession? We’re removing some of our permanent collection?”

“Selling it, to be more precise. I guess you’re reorganizing the space?”

I think about the implications. Maybe this is what Elaine was talking about the other day. This might be good news, depending on what we’re selling and what we plan to acquire in the future.

“Wait, so you didn’t even want this kind of tour?” I ask, wondering if I’ve just squandered hours of my precious time away from my lab.

“Had I known how lovely the tour and performance piece would be, I certainly would have requested it as a bonus!” That smile is back with a well-calculated compliment, though this time it seems a little less practiced than before. “Anyway, lead the way, Ms. Beck.”

For a moment, I weigh my options. At this rate, I’m not getting back to the lab today. Then again, that might be an acceptable price to pay if it means selling off paintings we don’t really need—even to a private collector.

“Very well,” I say at last. “Did you have a specific painting in mind? Several maybe?”

“I am after a John D. Swift. But I’d like to see more—you never know what might catch the eye.”

“Good choice,” I lie. “He’s a favorite of mine,” I lie even more. I wouldn’t mind one bit if we sold every canvas that man had ever touched.

“That’s a little surprising,” Mr. Lyon says as we head to the archive of the museum. “I wouldn’t have pegged you for a Swifty.”

“Why not?”

“Oh, well, for one, he was an absolute piece of shit and a terrible excuse for a human being.”

True. “Unfortunately, if that was a criterion, I’d be forced to hate about 80% of the pieces in our museum.

For better or worse, his work was influential and as such holds historic value.

” A very diplomatic answer for: I guess I wouldn’t mind so much after all if they disappeared in a private collection, never to be seen again.

“You make a good point. Anyway, I’d like to see them all.”

“Certainly. As far as I know, we’ve got three or four of his paintings in our archive.”

Ben reaches for the door to the annex and holds it open for me. “No, I meant all of them. All the paintings.”

“All the—” I pause for just half a second. At this point, the surprise quickly gives way to the familiar feeling of: Of course you want to see all the paintings . “That would take days… at least.”

“Oh, that’s alright. I have nothing but time.”

Yeah, well, you might. “Plus, not all of them will be available for purchase.”

“That won’t be an issue,” he says, like someone who knows that it really wouldn’t be.

That’s probably the most infuriating thing people like him have in common—problems are just a matter of price.

“Not everything can be bought with money, you know.”

He follows me down the dim corridors, opening each door we pass before I can reach the handles, until we make it to the large hall stacked with rows and rows of shelves.

“Well, I think you have the wrong idea about me, Ms. Beck. I’m not trying to buy everything . Just a few paintings will suffice. And as long as it’s not the Mona Lisa, most things do come with a price tag.”

We both stop at the first intersection, where rows branch off in every direction. A dozen on either side, just in this hall alone.

“I don’t even know where to start,” I admit, more to myself than to him.

“Oh, easy. Why don’t we just start at the beginning.” He motions toward the closest shelf and starts moving in that direction.

“Woah, woah, woah.” I cut him off immediately. “Hold it right there. Before we begin, I need you to promise me that you’ll keep your hands to yourself. Got it? If you don’t… see that statue over there in the corner?” I nod toward it. “That’s what I’ll do to you.”

Mr. Lyon’s head swivels around, inspecting the statue for a moment. “You’ll turn me into stone? Are you secretly a witch?”

“No, that’s not?—”

“You’ll undress me? Like that statue is undressed?” he teases.

“Check again,” I say, squeezing myself between him and the shelf to shield the dozens of invaluable works of art stored there.

His eyes wander from the statue’s head lower, until he notices a somewhat crucial part missing. “Oh!” he exclaims, turning back to me, which forces me against the shelf to avoid touching him. “Noted. Being made rock hard is one thing. Getting eunuched? A totally different one.”

“I’m glad we understand each other,” I say, unsure what else to say, and gently press my hands against his chest to steer him back to the main aisle.

“Then let’s get to business, shall we? How about we go through the inventory list, you pick which works you’d like to see, and I’ll retrieve them while you wait. ”

“Sounds very efficient. Let’s do it.”

I boot up the computer on a large desk in a corner and open the database that contains every single painting, photograph, sculpture or installation the museum owns.

Ben leans casually against the desk, watching as I scroll through endless lines of inventory. “So,” he eventually says after having inspected a few pieces already, “is this your dream job then?”

I glance at him, then back at the screen, unsure if this is one of those questions you answer politely or honestly. “Sort of,” I say, eloquently, and sit through the silence that follows.

When I don’t elaborate, he does it for me.

“You enjoy working with art because the art doesn’t ask dumb questions like ‘Is this your dream job?’.

But you’re less enthusiastic about dealing with people whose only achievement is being born into money.

” He points to one of the listings to indicate interest, then just continues talking.

“I get that. Sorry to add to your list of things to deal with.” It’s like he’s having a conversation with me all on his own now.

“If there’s anything I can do to… I don’t know, make your work easier or lighten your load, just say the word, alright? ”

I click to open a new tab, pretending to be immersed in the search, so I don’t have to think about everything else rushing in, all the things I need to take care of to get my grandpa sorted, the paperwork, picking up his ashes, what to do with his belongings.

And that works like a charm for a while—until we get to the letter F and the name Frame, Edward pops up on the screen.

My cursor lingers there a second longer than on the others, which doesn’t go unnoticed.

“That’s him, isn’t it?” Mr. Lyon asks carefully.

I nod as the air in the climate-controlled room suddenly feels thick and gritty, my mouth dry, and my breathing shallow. My stomach twists into a knot once again.

“Well,” Mr. Lyon continues, still cautious, “we’ve got two options here then: we could either bravely face our fears, trauma, mortality and look at your grandpa’s painting, his legacy.

Or we could be grown-ups and just pretend we didn’t see it.

Bury it deep, deep down in ourselves, and act like it doesn’t exist. You know, until we’re ready to… deal with whatever remains .”

Him quoting me back to myself doesn’t go unnoticed.

I meet his gaze—his eyes are kind, his voice stripped of sarcasm.

I let mine drift to his neck, watching the steady pulse beneath his skin.

It’s calming, in a strange way. The air still tastes like dust, but at least my breath steadies.

“I think you may have missed your calling, Mr. Lyon. Maybe instead of becoming rich, you should have become a therapist.”

“Rich and powerful,” he adds with a wink, understanding right away that I don’t want to look at my grandpa’s work. “Now—tell me. What’s the ugliest painting in your collection?”