Page 4 of Trailer Park Billionaire (Distinguished Billionaires #3)

“I need to restore two more paintings before the exhibition gets here, since they’ll be used to thematically connect the visiting art with our own collection—which, of course, will have to be rearranged altogether to form a coherent experience for our visitors.

And on top of that,” it sort of just stumbles out of me involuntarily, “it’s my grandpa’s 80th birthday today, which means I won’t be able to do any overtime.

So…” I take a deep breath, extend my arm to get him to move again, and am surprised at myself.

This is probably the longest I’ve talked all month.

“Oh, that’s adorable. Are you guys close, then? You and your pawpaw?”

I pause, debating whether to answer at all. “I call him Dada,” I say carefully. “And… yes, I suppose so.”

Mr. Lyon’s eyes light up like he just stumbled upon a treasure map. “That’s adorable. What’s the plan for the big day, then?” He eyes me suspiciously. “I bet you’re secretly the type who plans very thoughtful surprises for people, even though you don’t want them to know or acknowledge it.”

“Not really,” I mutter, hoping to leave it at that.

But he doesn’t move. Instead, he narrows his eyes more, tilts his head, and leans ever so slightly toward me—as if his proximity will crack me open. Certainly a move he has practiced numerous times before.

“Not even for Dada? Come on. Spill it. You’re probably hosting an incredibly elaborate birthday bash. I’m picturing balloons, a cake shaped like his favorite thing—which is probably you—and a heartfelt toast that will make everyone cry.”

I hesitate again and wonder whether I should really share more about myself, then decide that it’ll probably be faster that way (and that I need to at least debunk such ignorant accusations about my character).

“I’ll have you know that I don’t even know any people I could do such things for…

except for my grandpa. And all I have prepared is a tiny gathering. ”

“A tiny gathering! What kind?”

I sigh, realizing he won’t drop it until I give him something. So, to avoid getting stuck here longer than absolutely necessary, I relent. “It’s an escape room/murder mystery. We do one every year. It’s sort of a tradition.”

Mr. Lyon straightens, for my taste a lot more intrigued by this whole conversation than he should be. “An escape room? I love escape rooms. How’d that become a tradition?”

I hesitate, the words sticking in my throat, wondering when this whole ordeal will finally be over so I can get back to my paintings. “It’s… just something we do.”

His brows lift.

I exhale sharply. He reminds me of Elaine at that moment. They both seem to have a tendency to not stop until they get what they want.

And I don’t have time for that, so I relent again. “He used to be in prison. And every year on the anniversary of his release, we celebrate by doing an escape room. And as it happens, his birthday is also his release day.”

For a moment, Mr. Lyon is stunned into silence.

Then he grins. “First of all, I knew you were secretly a thoughtful and considerate person. Secondly, that might be the most endearing tradition I’ve ever heard of.

And thirdly, you know what you could do?

You could have the murderer draw on a face tattoo. A teardrop, to signal their guilt.”

“Well, that’s… actually a pretty good idea. Too bad you’re now officially uninvited for knowing too much.”

“Oh, that’s a bit of a relief, actually.” Mr. Lyon sighs. “I never know what to get an 80-year-old ex-con from a museum. Do you get them the van Gogh or the Monet? Tough call.”

I suppress the grin that’s threatening to form. “As an artist himself, he has strong opinions on that, actually. For whatever reason, he hates both. We recently started selling period toilet paper in the gift shop, though.”

Mr. Lyon’s eyebrows draw into one confused line. “Period toilet paper?”

“Right, not what it sounds like. It’s toilet paper printed with artworks from different art periods. So for people who think Impressionism is kind of shit, you might want to get a roll of that.”

His face shifts into a smile so big, I find myself staring for a second longer than I’d like.

“Well, speaking of period paper, I’ll take the opportunity to use that restroom over there, if you don’t mind,” he excuses himself, leaving me behind. On his way, he fixes one of his sleeves that had started unrolling.

In the meantime, I sit on a bench nearby and watch him head straight into a supply closet next to the bathrooms. A second later, he reappears, shrugs with a smile, points at the actual bathroom door, and vanishes behind it.

My gaze shifts to a painting of a thief stealing a donkey while I pry my phone from my pocket and see a new message from Elaine:

Did you fall in love yet?

I fire off a quick reply:

Thanks, but I’d much rather fall asleep instead.

There are a few missed calls from a number I don’t recognize. Probably telemarketers trying to sell insurance or some other scam. Since I already resolved not to buy anything today, I shove the phone back in my pocket.

When Mr. Lyon returns a minute later, we pass through the Baroque wing again and eventually end up in the dark room that houses?—

“My favorite,” he exclaims, rushing over to my favorite painting. “This is my favorite. I’ve been waiting for this one.”

I pause, watching him for a beat without saying anything.

His eyes meet mine, then return to the canvas. “Surprised? You thought it’d be something flashier, didn’t you? Maybe one of the Impressionists.”

I did think that. “It’s what most people come to see. And not for nothing. They’re popular for a reason. You just didn’t strike me as someone drawn to the melancholy of dear Ophelia here.”

He shrugs, visibly amused. “I’m not sure, that’s what I’m seeing here. Melancholy.”

“Oh?” Against my better judgment, I find myself intrigued.

“Well,” he clears his throat, “I know Ophelia is often seen as a symbol of tragic beauty, a representation of a woman’s descent into madness and death, driven by unrequited love and societal pressure.

But that’s not what I see here. What if her drowning isn’t just a tragic accident or the result of a broken heart?

Why if it’s a symbolic act of rebellion?

” Mr. Lyon glances over to me, then back at the painting.

“In a world where women were seen as fragile vessels of emotion, Ophelia's death could very well be seen as her ultimate rejection of the role society expects her to play. Instead of submitting to the whims of men—her father’s manipulations and Hamlet's cruel rejection—she takes control of her fate by choosing to drown herself. Sure, she could’ve lived what society called a ‘good’ life for a woman back then. Yet she chooses not to. This death is her final, defiant act: not a passive victim but an active agent who chooses to escape a life that offers her no autonomy, no freedom. Tragic? Absolutely. Melancholic? Maybe. But that’s not the first thing I think of when seeing this painting.

Also, Sir John Everett Millais was just excellent at painting pretty flowers, don’t you think? ”

I am stumped. Our wealthy patrons sometimes have an interest in art, but I’ve never met one as eloquent—or unexpectedly insightful—as Mr. Lyon.

I am intrigued, almost looking forward to hearing more of his thoughts.

At least until, from far away, my name echoes through the museum. For a second, I think I imagined it, until Mr. Lyon also raises his head. Another ‘Helena’ rings through the atrium and into the little room we’re in.

“Is this some kind of art installation?” Mr. Lyon asks, turning toward the big hall.

High heels keep clacking on cold stone, rapidly joined by the sound of my name being called over and over. I think it’s Elaine. Looking for me.

We make our way into the atrium and head toward her.

“Helena,” Elaine calls one more time before she skids into view, out of breath and wide-eyed. “It’s your grandfather,” she pants.