Page 5 of Trailer Park Billionaire (Distinguished Billionaires #3)

HELENA

I know instantly that this is no joke. There's fear in her expression—real fear—like I’ve never seen before.

“It’s—He’s not well. I don’t know. The lady from his home called. She couldn’t reach you. You need to go. Now.”

Fuck.

Frozen, I glance over at Mr. Lyon. Even his smile has vanished, making my heart sink even further.

“Go,” he says, giving me permission to cut our tour short.

My eyes wander back to Elaine, still unsure what to do.

“It’s fine. Go,” she agrees and, with both hands, motions for me to move.

I swallow hard and turn toward the exit. My eyes catch on the green neon installation on the ceiling that reads ‘Dead End’. My mouth tastes like dust.

Breathe. I need to breathe.

And walk.

Quickly.

I make it to the column an arm lengths away from me before stopping again. Bus. “Bus. I don’t have my bus ticket.” Blood rushes to my head. My thoughts start spinning. Bus, subway, bus, run. No time to lose.

My dad’s face flashes before my eyes.

It’ll take at least forty-five minutes to get there.

I used to remember exactly what my dad looked like . Now it’s all blurry.

No, it’s nearly rush hour. It’ll take me at least an hour to get there. I place a hand on the column next to me. It’s cold. Like a corpse.

The blurry image of my dad burns into my mind.

“Easy there,” a calm voice whispers in my ear as a hand on my back steadies me. Then that hand guides me toward the big green letters—now just blurry dots.

“Come on,” Mr. Lyon says, while he pulls out his phone. “I’ll take you to him.”

My mouth still tastes like dust.

“Pull up. Now. Emergency,” he commands into the phone, guiding me around a corner. We come to a stop just in front of the main entrance, the doors opening automatically. “Where do we need to go?” he asks, but not directed at me. He hands his phone to Elaine.

Sleet pellets hit my face, cooling it down a little.

The doors shut, the bombardment stops. Elaine hands Mr. Lyon his phone back, and the doors open again.

Some of the slush flies into my mouth. The scene reminds me of one of grandpa’s recent paintings—a swirl of dark, choking colors bleeding into each other, like something trying to escape but trapped.

No form, just chaos. Angry brushstrokes, jagged and slashing across the canvas, as if everything is unraveling.

Like suffocation—everything collapsing in on you with no way out.

A minute later, at the bottom of the stairs, a big RV pulls up and Mr. Lyon gently moves me along.

He pulls me in, his broad body sheltering me from the hail.

The passenger door flies open and, without my help, I’m lifted inside.

I land softly in the passenger seat, then my head is turned to the side as his torso presses against me in an attempt to strap me in.

I find myself staring into a pair of dark eyes—angry, or maybe just confused. It’s hard to tell with the hail still blurring my vision.

Mr. Lyon shuts my door, opens another one behind me, and a moment later appears between me and those eyes.

“It’s an emergency!” he shouts. “You know the drill.”

“No, I don’t know the drill!” a surprisingly high voice answers with a rather strong Russian accent. “We don’t have an emergency drill!”

Mr. Lyon pushes—who I assume to be his driver—into the seat, buckling the belt around him with a snap. “It’s an emergency! The drill is universal! It’s to go fast!” He presses a button that makes the giant RV turn back on. Then he puts his phone into a holder next to the steering wheel.

His driver grabs Mr. Lyon by the lapels and yanks him close. “What the fuck is this? What’s the emergency?” he snarls quietly. His eyes dart past Mr. Lyon’s shoulder—to me—then back. “And why is it crying?”

“This is my new friend: Helena,” Mr. Lyon says, lowering his voice.

“Something seems to be wrong with her grandpa, so we’re taking her to him.

” He points at his phone, which is set to navigation.

“And she’s crying because you’re arguing instead of going fast like one is supposed to in an EMERGENCY! ”

His driver grunts once, murmurs something under his breath, lets go of the lapels, and grabs the wheel. “Don’t worry, little girl,” his voice softens instantly. “We will get you to your dedushka.”

Not a second later, the wheels are squeaking, I am pressed full force into my seat, and Mr. Lyon is flying into the back of the RV.

His driver chuckles as we whip around a corner at full speed.

I think the wheels actually lift off the ground under me.

“Better put on a seatbelt, boss,” he calls into the back.

“It’s universal. Emergency or not.” He chuckles again as I grab onto the armrest for dear life.

Another of Grandpa’s paintings comes to mind—a swirl of fragmented shapes, all angled wrong, each one desperate to break free but never quite making it. Almost as if you can hear the sound of the canvas ripping.

A voice pulls me back. “What is your deda called?” it asks.

One hand fused with the armrest, the other on my seatbelt, I look over to the guy driving. He’s huge. His eyes are fixed on the road.

“Edward,” I answer.

He nods, passes a line of cars waiting for a green light on the shoulder, and makes another hard left. “I’m Alexei.” He honks and swerves a little to overtake an SUV in front of us. “I hope he will be fine.”

Still somewhat unable to speak, I simply nod and try to focus on my breathing.

“I hope we will be too,” Mr. Lyon grunts from the back.

He will be.

He will be fine.

He has to be.

He hasn’t had so much as a health scare since he was diagnosed with diabetes.

And that was more of a startle than a scare.

“He’ll be fine,” Alexei assures, and follows up with some explicit-sounding words in Russian when a cab holds us up at a traffic light that’s just turned green.

I glance back at Ben, who’s looking a lot more disheveled than before—presumably from being tossed around the RV. By now he is buckled in in the back and gives me a sympathetic smile.

A few sukas and even more blyats later, we arrive at my grandpa’s apartment complex with squealing wheels. An ambulance is parked in the driveway. I look up to where my grandpa lives, but can’t see anything from down here.

Deep breaths.

He will be fine.

He has to be.

He’s not going to leave me too.

I inhale once, twice, then unbuckle my belt and turn to Mr. Lyon and Alexei. “Thank you. I owe you one.”

Before they can reply, I throw open the door, jump out, and hurry through the entrance.

When he sees me coming, Paul Bearer—the building’s receptionist—shoots up and rushes over to the elevator. I didn’t know he could move that fast, considering he probably has a decade on my grandpa. He holds the elevator doors open and gives me a quick nod as I step in.

Twenty seconds later, I arrive on the sixth floor and know that I’m too late.

It’s quiet.

Too quiet.

I hold my breath and slowly step out of the lift, then turn left. My grandpa’s door is ajar. A cone of light escapes the frame, and with it, I feel something leave my body.

The elevator closes behind me with a low rumble as it continues up the levels.

Somehow, my breathing returns and steadies.

My knees work almost as well as Mr. Bearer’s.

Slowly, I walk over to the open door and find exactly what I expected feared: a group of people gathered around my grandpa, who is lying in his bed.

An EMT is putting some medical device back into a bright orange bag. Another wipes some sweat from his forehead using his arm. My grandpa’s girlfriend, Robyn, stands to the left, covering her mouth with both hands.

Fuck.

When I step into the apartment, another woman turns around first—Sienna Grayson. She runs the place.

“Helena,” she says gently, walking over and placing an arm around me. “I am so, so sorry.”

“It’s okay,” I reply, for lack of better things to say. I step closer as the little group parts to make room.

He doesn’t look peaceful.

His lips are slightly parted—not in a sigh of relief, but frozen mid-grimace, as if he had tried to say something but ran out of time.

His eyes are closed too tightly, the skin around them creased—like the weight of his struggle is still clinging to him.

His face is pale, waxy. There’s no serenity in it, no grace—only the remnants of a pain that didn’t have the courtesy to leave with him.

“What happened?” I ask, my face burning hot, as a tightness begins to build in my chest—something heavy and all too familiar pressing down.

Sienna sighs. “Well, Robyn was with him when it happened. She called me, and I called the ambulance.”

My gaze wanders from my grandpa to the man in the blue uniform. “Heart attack, most likely,” he answers with trained compassion. “I am sorry for your loss.”

My eyes wander back to my grandpa.

“If it’s any consolation, it’s a good way to go. He didn’t suffer much.”

Didn’t suffer much.

Just some suffering.

His body says otherwise.

I step closer.

His face is still contorted.

He still doesn’t look peaceful.

I kneel down and reach for his hand.

It’s unexpectedly warm.

Not like a corpse.

Not yet.

I swallow the lump in my throat. “What now?” My voice suddenly sounds distant, as though it’s coming from someone else.

It’s quiet for a moment. When Sienna responds, I can see the entire room from above, as if I am just hovering there, observing from outside my body, kind of like he might be now.

“You take all the time you need to say goodbye,” she says gently, her voice echoing. “We will handle the rest. There will be some paperwork and some decisions to be made in regard to the funeral, but that can wait until you’re ready.”

From above, I watch as Sienna signals everyone to leave. She is the last person in the room with us. With me.

“Would you like me to stay?” she asks, placing a gentle hand on my shoulder, causing me to snap back into my body.

“No.”