Page 14 of Trailer Park Billionaire (Distinguished Billionaires #3)

I smile stare politely and continue to do so for the rest of Pat’s small talk as he walks me all the way to the exit. We say our goodbyes before I head straight home. I follow the usual path, my usual routine, because that’s what I have to do. It’s what keeps me safe. It’s what keeps me sane.

I remember my grandpa telling me this, sitting across from me in the prison’s visitors room, his hands so big they made mine look like those of a child. I guess, technically, I still was a child at the time. Dada wasn’t asking how I was holding up. He already knew. He had been through it himself.

“You need to wake up at the same time every day. Then you make your bed. You eat, even if the food tastes like feet. You study, you keep your head down, and you don’t wait for it to get easier,” he’d said, “because it won’t. But you just do it anyway.”

And so I did. And I still do.

Every morning, I throw open my window, let the cold slap me awake, and pretend I enjoy suffering. In more recent years, I have adapted to more humane and flexible hours, better food, and fewer people watching me while I go to the bathroom, but the underlying routine is still the same.

And it works. At least it did. Until a couple of days ago.

My grandpa’s tortured face pops up once again when I let myself into my apartment. My hands are cold from the biting wind outside.

In my fridge, I find the last questionable leftovers from the Sorry-For-Your-Loss Lasagna. I probably shouldn’t , I think, but then pop it in the microwave anyway. It’ll be fine, even if it tastes like feet.

The same second the microwave pings to let me know my food is boiling on the outside and still ice cold on the inside, there is a heavy knock on the door that makes me jump.

Plate in hand and slightly annoyed, I walk over to angrily stare at whoever is interrupting dinner.

When the door creaks open, I am greeted with a fist.

A big one. A heavy one. And apparently, a very well-aimed one, because it slams straight into my cheekbone before I can even register what’s happening.

For a second, there’s nothing. Just a hot-black flash behind my eyes, like someone has flipped the switch on reality.

I don’t even stumble—I fly backwards, hitting the ground hard.

As if in slow motion, the plate of lasagna goes flying even farther.

It shatters what feels like minutes later, the noise of it switching reality back on.

Looks like dinner’s ruined, it shoots through my head just before the pain floods in—sharp, radiating from my cheek to the top of my head and all the way around. Time accelerates back to normal.

“I wasn’t going to eat that anyway,” I grunt, rubbing my head.

This isn’t the first time I’ve been in a fight. The first time, I just cried like a little bitch. But you get used to it, living in prison. It’s just that prison fights usually involve a lot more biting, scratching, and uncoordinated swings. This wasn’t that.

Did I really just get punched? In my own apartment?

My vision is still more Impressionist painting than hyper-realistic portrait.

I blink rapidly, trying to make sense of the dark blobs in my doorway.

There are at least three of them—looming like a bad omen, scary and threatening.

The one in the front braces his fist and relaxes it again a few times.

“Sorry, did I hurt your hand?” I croak out before my brain can stop me. Sarcasm isn’t the worst survival strategy I’ve tried. This time, it’s probably concussion-fueled. But anything to distract the attacker from attacking again helps.

The guy in front grins. It’s not a nice grin. “We wanted a word.”

I attempt to sit up, but my body protests in an angry symphony of aches. “And you thought a punch to the face was the best way to extend an invitation?”

The man shrugs. “You weren’t answering your door.”

I swipe at my temple, my fingers coming away sticky.

Blood. Great.

A black eye and some blood. It’s not even Halloween yet. How am I going to explain this to Elaine?

“Well, feel free to come in,” I mutter after the dark figures have entered already and are hovering over me. “Make yourself at home. Dinner’s on the floor if you’re hungry.”

No one answers. Instead, two sets of hands grab me by the arms and yank me to my feet like I weigh nothing. My head reels. They put me on a chair in the middle of the room and keep holding on to make sure I don’t roll right off again.

The one who punched me kneels so we are eye to eye. There’s a scar on the side of his face, not from a knife but from something else, acid or fire maybe. It’s hard to tell in the darkness—and with the flickering and random flashes of white pain still going off in my skull.

“Your grandpa, Eddy, was working for us,” he explains, and wipes some blood off my face before it can run into my eye. “Unfortunately, he recently quit his job. Which means we’re owed reimbursement for our losses. You know, since he failed to fulfill his contract.”

I try to follow, the ringing in my head making it harder than it probably is.

“100k,” he says slowly, enunciating every syllable.

I swallow hard.

He dabs more blood from my cheek. “I’m sorry about your face. It’s a shame. You’ve got a good face.”

The scent of alcohol and gasoline wafts through the air as his hand lingers against my skin. “I do wish it didn’t have to come this far,” he says. “But that’s just life, or karma, or whatever. And I know—you’re a woman. But this is the 21 st century, and we try not to discriminate.”

What a charming guy.

“Quite the feminist,” I reply under my breath, and then a little louder, “I appreciate the efficiency. Saves us both time on the empty threats.”

“Because now they aren’t.” He nods. “You catch on quick. Which makes me think you understand the gravity of this situation, yes?” He waits for me to nod as well.

The pain in my head pulses when I move my head.

“Good. We’ll be back in a month to collect.”

His goons release me and saunter toward the door. Their boss lingers a moment longer. It’s like he’s enjoying the view of me like this. A cold shiver spreads through my body. Then he follows his underlings.

“You guys offer installment plans?” I call after them, my voice hoarse.

“Cash only, or do you accept checks?” With a long grunt, I push myself out of the chair.

On wobbly feet, I stagger over to the door they left open.

“And what does ‘a month’ mean?” I shout into the empty hallway. “Thirty days? Thirty-one?”

There’s no one outside when I reach the entrance. Just darkness. Quickly, I close the door and lock it shut—not like that would actually keep them out. With my back pressed against the door, I slide down to the ground and look around the empty room.

There’s no one here.

No one to help.

There’s no one here to even explain what just happened.

Because that person is gone forever.

All I have are the tears that start streaming down my face.

I let them fall in silence, not because I’m trying to be brave, but because I’m too stunned to sob.

My cheek throbs with each breath, like my heartbeat’s migrated to the side of my face.

There’s lasagna on the wall. Blood on my fingers.

And the echo of that man’s voice still buzzing in my ears—“100k.”

I want to scream. I want to break something. I want to rewind time and not open that fucking door.

But mostly, I just want to understand how I ended up here.

I curl my arms around my stomach, like I can press the nausea back into place. Like I can soothe the knot that’s formed there—tight, ugly, pulsing with every unhelpful emotion.

Sorrow, sharp and aching. Anger, simmering like acid. Confusion, thick as fog, wrapping around every thought and choking it quiet. Ultimately, panic…