Page 20 of Trailer Park Billionaire (Distinguished Billionaires #3)

I reach for one of the few framed canvases that people usually avoid because they cost extra, place it in landscape onto my easel, and begin drawing.

I take my time, making sure every stroke of my brush captures the essence of Ben Lyon: his charm, his sunshiny demeanour, his kind eyes, his smug smile.

It takes a lot longer than my usual portraits, but I feel like he deserves a proper painting. Plus, I’m not entirely opposed to staring at him for a while. It’s not quite taking my mind off things like I intended, but still.

“So,” I finally say after considering his unexpected appearance, “are you stalking me then?”

Ben’s head jerks over to me—mostly, I think, just to give me some side-eye. “Don’t be ridiculous. Stalking suggests I’ve been doing this for a while now. But I only started, like, yesterday. So at most, I’d say I’m following you.”

“I should probably call the police then,” I comment, absentmindedly, while adding a few trees with lovely red autumn foliage.

Ben nods. “I wish you would. We could tell them all about what happened to your face, Panda.”

Both my eyes shoot up over the painting towards Ben, who’s still sitting on the bench, expression unchanging.

They didn’t say I couldn’t go to the police.

I hadn’t even considered that an option.

Maybe I should.

Then again, it was probably implied. That’s just how criminals work.

Also, it’s not like the police would actually be helpful.

Plus, that would probably make them angry, and they’d hurt me even more.

“We’ll do no such thing,” I say, and let my eyes wander down to the canvas again. “Gravity is very elusive when it comes to the law—both in a legal and in a physics sort of way.”

Ben huffs through his nose. “Yeah, well, Florence and the Machine isn’t. Maybe we should go after them.”

I decide to ignore him and pretend to be fully immersed in the painting. Every once in a while, I glance over and quickly avert my eyes again because he is staring at me, and for some reason, I’m worried he’ll be able to read my mind (which is definitely not G-rated at the moment).

The background is a nature scene that looks rather romantic, with dark red hues and a bunch of lovely flowers—similar to those of Sir John Everett Millais’ in the Ophelia painting—framing the actual focal point. When I finish, half an hour later, I turn the canvas over and let him have a look.

Ben slides to the front of the bench to get a better view, then laughs so loudly people start turning their heads as they walk by.

“Helena… is that me on a guillotine?” he asks, pointing at the wooden contraption.

“You asked for regal,” I explain. “What’s more regal than a royal beheading?”

Ben nods, visibly delighted. “And is that our son, Panda Junior, pulling the rope of the guillotine?”

I sigh. “Yeah, sorry. It would seem you’re not the alpha anymore.”

Ben gets to his feet, grabs the canvas carefully, and turns it so the last few rays of sun can illuminate it. His smile looks different right now—every so often, it seems like that fake smile of his cracks, letting the real one shine through. I like the real smile.

“Beautiful, brutal, romantic, moving…”

“Regal,” I add.

“Regal, indeed. I love it.” He sets the painting down on the bench and reaches into his pocket. “What do I owe you?” he asks, pulling out a stack of bills and—when I don’t accept them right away—tucks them into the collar of my turtleneck. “Eh, doesn’t matter. Here, take it all.”

I retrieve the money and stare at the bills. “This is?—”

“Triple what you usually make, I hope.” He shrugs.

It’s a lot more than that.

“So, what are you up to now?” Ben asks once I’ve packed up all my supplies. “You know, so it’ll be easier to follow you.”

I’m not sure if he’s just joking, but for some reason, I don’t think I’d mind at this point. There are worse things than Ben Lyon following you around. Still. It is weird. That he’s here.

Why would he follow me?

No, he’s just joking.

I nod toward the museum. “Got some work to do,” I lie, so he doesn’t feel compelled to take me home.

“Okay, great,” Ben says, already getting ready to leave. “I’ll send over Alex. I need to go home right now, attend to some business, but he’ll take you where you need to go.”

I shake my head, starting to decline his offer, but he’s already walking off, his painting in hand.

“I’m not asking,” he calls out over his shoulder. “He’ll be waiting for you in front of the museum once you’re done.”

I want to protest some more, but Ben just pulls the collar of his jacket up against the upcoming breeze and my pleading.

As he walks away, and I watch him go, an idea forms in my mind.

I turn over the money that’s still in my hand, then start counting the bills.

There’s a couple hundred bucks here. For a painting, I finished in less than an hour.

What’s 100k to someone who can throw money around like this?

What’s 100k to a fucking billionaire?

Maybe the guillotine was poorly chosen… or at least mistimed.

This would solve the issue once and for all. I could just pay Mr. Lyon back over time. With interest, of course.

Problem solved.

Life saved.

Crisis averted.

I breathe out a long sigh of relief, then quickly gather all my things and follow Ben. He’s got a head start, but if I run, I should be able to catch him.

Unfortunately, running with all my supplies is harder than I thought.

It takes a while to gain on him. He walks past the museum, over a bridge, and I almost lose him when he crosses a busy street.

The neighborhood he’s walking toward is known for its skyscrapers that are either filled with offices or luxury apartments by and for people who never actually have to worry about money.

When I’m almost close enough to call for him, Ben takes a left up a few stairs, and enters one of the skyscrapers. That’s where he must live, then.

Still juggling my things, I follow—and am promptly denied access by the doorman. Of course he has a doorman.

“Residents only,” he grunts.

“Right. Obviously,” I answer, trying to act like I belong, but am swiftly stopped by a long arm cutting off my path.

“Alright, listen, I just need to talk to Mr. Lyon, okay? He knows me! We’re…” I think about it for a moment, “friends.”

The doorman raises his eyebrows at my unconvincing suggestion. “Sure you are,” he says in a phony-nice tone, and urges me to step back from the door. “You are free to give your friend a call so he can give me permission to let you in.”

I nod with annoyance and almost drop my easel. “Well, I’m gonna do that,” I say and stomp off. “I just need to guess the digits that make up his phone number first,” I mumble to myself once I’m a few yards away.

Unfortunately, my crystal ball skills are still insufficient.

I look around and weigh my options. It’s not like I need the money today. It can wait until tomorrow—or the day after. I’ll just ask Elaine for his number, if he doesn’t stop by the museum unannounced, anyway.

The expensive architecture around here reminds me of the cash that’s in my coat pocket right now, and the growl in my stomach reminds me that I skipped breakfast to catch up with my routine.

As it so happens, we’re near one of the best sushi places in the city, so I decide to treat myself to dinner there. They have the best rainbow rolls.

Next time, I’ll look for a Lao restaurant. I find myself a little curious about their cuisine now that I’m not going to get to experience it in the actual country anymore. Maybe once I’ve repaid my debt to Mr. Lyon, I could travel there. So sometime in my 70s probably.

I sigh and make my way down the stairs again, then take a left, and another left turn. I’m pretty sure this is the way.

As I round the block, I spot something from the corner of my eye and stop dead in my tracks. It’s him. Ben. Leaving the building through a back exit.