Page 53 of Trailer Park Billionaire (Distinguished Billionaires #3)

HELENA

H e invites himself in without waiting for a response, just steps past me like he owns the place. The air thickens with the sharp sting of absinthe, laced with gasoline’s volatile edge.

My body is frozen, muscles locked tight, brain stuck between making a run for it and shutting down entirely.

“Don’t bother,” he says, glancing at my bare feet like he’s reading my next move. “You wouldn’t get far. Not with those tiny legs. And no offense, but you don’t exactly scream track and field.”

I’m too shocked to reply .

He closes the door gently behind him, like we’re about to have tea. “Besides,” he adds, brushing invisible lint from the lapel of his tailored coat, “I think I’ve got something you’re going to want to hear.”

That stops the scream climbing up my throat. I suck in a breath and swallow it. Then I turn to face him without saying a word.

He strolls through my space— our space—casual as hell, like he’s browsing a museum.

Ben is probably just arriving at the restaurant. Even if I could make it to my phone, he wouldn’t get here in time to help. I’m on my own.

His eyes land on the breakfast remnants on the counter, the paint-splattered hoodie slung over a chair, the underwear near the easel. He grins. “Oh,” he says, voice lilting with mock surprise, “so it’s that kind of arrangement.”

He doesn’t need to elaborate. The painting of Ben as a French gargoyle in the nude confirms his assumption. So does the rest of the apartment—the messy, warm, lived-in chaos of a space that hasn’t been empty in weeks. A space filled with Ben. And me. And things that made it feel safe. Until now.

He moves toward the easel, toward the forgery I’m still finishing, but pauses mid-step.

“My God,” he says calmly, very matter of fact. “How rude of me. I forgot to introduce myself.”

My gaze still follows him, but I don’t speak. The only thing I could get out right now would be a scream, and I have a feeling it might be the last thing from my mouth, so I just stay silent.

“I’m Max,” he says, turning back to me with that oil-slick smile. “Maximilian St. Clair.”

The name hits like a sucker punch. My breath catches again—this time not from fear, but from the rush of memory that name brings with it: Two courtrooms. Two verdicts. My grandpa’s hands trembling as they took him away. My own shaking when they took me.

“The name ring a bell?” he asks rhetorically, smirking with dead eyes. “Of course it does.”

I force my voice to come out flat and unimpressed. “It rings a bell, alright. It’s more of a warning bell, though.”

Maximilian St. Clair laughs like I’ve just told the joke of the year. But the humor doesn’t reach his eyes. They remain dead.

“No wonder my brother is obsessed with you,” he says. “You’re fiery. And foul-mouthed. Like a little street rat with a paintbrush.” He takes one of my brushes from the desk and points it at me.

My brother?

Did he say ‘My brother’?

No.

No, it can’t be. He isn’t taking about ? —

My fucking brother?

“From the look of it, I take it he failed to mention we’re related,” Maximilian goes on, watching my expression like a hawk. “I know, shocking, right? I’m so much more handsome.”

My stomach turns into knots and almost makes me topple over.

No.

No, no, no.

Ben wouldn’t—he couldn’t—have lied about something like this.

Why would he…

“I guess he had the same idea as me.” Max takes a few slow steps, circling me now like a lion getting bored with the hunt. He bends down to whisper into my ear. “He just had a very different idea of how to use you.”

When he straightens again, the back of his hand caresses the cheek where he hit me the first time he tracked me down.

“See, you hurt us pretty bad with what you did back then. There were a lot of valuable artifacts in that house you burned down. A lot of uninsurable valuable artifacts… on account of how they were acquired or created.” He looks back over to the painting on the easel.

Ben Lyon isn’t his real name.

It’s St. Clair. Benedikt St. Clair.

I can’t breathe.

“And with your grandpa taking that unfortunate fall shortly before, we didn’t have a way to… shall we say, recreate most of it?”

He tips his chin, displaying the scar that runs along the side of his cheek. “I should thank you, though,” Ben’s brother says lightly. “Really. I wouldn’t be who I am today without that night. You made me into the person I am. And you gave me this dashing souvenir.”

I blink. Then open my mouth. I did this. He got burned because of me.

I want to say I didn’t mean to hurt you . I want to say I was a kid. I was angry. I was alone. I just wanted my grandpa back. But the words jam in my throat, useless.

He’s calm. Too calm. The kind of calm that only exists when something’s bubbling right underneath.

“Yeah, yeah, I read the court transcripts,” he continues like he can read my face.

“I know you checked to make sure no one was inside. Noble, really. You couldn’t have known that I’d come home early.

That I’d try to put the fire out myself.

” His eyes narrow. “So, how do you thank someone for all of that?”

Before I can move, before I can even flinch, his hands are around my throat.

He lifts me off the ground like I weigh nothing.

“Any ideas?” he snarls, his calm slipping at last.

I struggle, fingers clawing at his arm, feet kicking air. My pulse hammers against his grip.

A second later, he lets go. Just drops me onto the ground.

I hit the floor hard, shoulder first, and gasp like I’ve just surfaced from underwater. My head spins. My chest burns.

“None?” Maximilian St. Clair adjusts his suit jacket while hovering over me.

“Well, I had one. A rather ingenious one, I might add. See, I figured reparations were in order. In my opinion, the courts neglected that aspect. You never had to pay any because you were,” he adds air quotes, “just a child. But parents are liable for their children. Or, in this case, grandparents. So when my dad promoted me in our family business, I paid your dear Dada a visit. I offered him a choice: come back and work for me to atone for your granddaughter’s sins, or watch her suffer. ”

My stomach turns. He forced him to create forgeries for the St. Clair family, to go back to the thing that got him locked up all those years ago.

“He agreed, of course. But I guess his heart wasn’t really in it. Get it?” He clutches both hands to his chest and pretends to have a heart attack.

That son of a bitch.

Tears blur the edges of my vision. Rage claws its way up my throat. But I don’t move. I can’t.

“Now,” he continues, turning fully to the forgery on the easel with an admiring nod, “your debt still needs to be repaid, but he isn’t here to do it for you anymore.

So, my first instinct was to just demand a lump sum…

a hundred thousand. You know, initially, as a first time payment.

But color me surprised, when I recently found out that you not only work at a museum, you inherited some of his artistic brilliance.

” He leans in closer, letting his eyes inspect every inch of the canvas. “This was Ben’s idea, wasn’t it?”

Using the wall next to me, I push myself upright and answer with a broken voice. “What do you mean?”

Maximilian points at the canvas like I’m an idiot.

“He got you to finish the painting your grandpa got incarcerated for. It’s quite poetic, actually.

” He looks at me and sees that I still don’t fully grasp what he’s talking about.

“Right, you’re a good artist, not a good detective, I guess.

This painting—the original—is in the possession of our family.

It’s possibly the most valuable painting we own.

Not from a monetary standpoint, but, you know, there’s history there.

And your little boy-toy is planning on stealing it from us.

That’s kind of his thing. He’s got this…

personal vendetta. Against the family. Which you should know.

You two stole two of our paintings just a couple of weeks ago.

” Maximilian bows a little and points at his head.

“I assume I have you to thank for that hit to my head?”

My mouth drops open. That was him at the gallery back then.

“So, what are we thinking? How much does a convicted arsonist get for assault and robbery of the guy she almost burned to death once? Don’t bother answering, the question is mostly rhetorical.

Because the answer is life. But you’re lucky.

You’re getting life in your very own, custom-made prison. ” He pauses to take in my reaction.

By now, there is none. I have surrendered myself to fate.

“Had I known of your skills earlier, I wouldn’t even have bothered with your grandpa.

I would have come straight to you. But it took tracking down my brother and surveilling him to find out what you can do.

So now, you’re going to take over for your grandpa.

You’ll paint for me, instead of for Ben.

You’ll paint like your life depends on it.

Because it just… might.” Maximilian gives me another dead grin and claps his hands together like we’ve just wrapped up a productive business meeting.

Then he takes one last look at the painting.

“Good. Now that we understand each other, here’s how we’ll proceed with our collaboration .

” His voice is syrupy and smug. “Finish this one,” he continues while nodding toward the canvas, “and I’ll be in touch very soon with what comes next.

” Then he walks towards the window and parts the curtain, inspecting the view.

“I have a feeling that we’re about to discover a few long-lost masterpieces.

Tragic, really, how many have been forgotten over time.

But you…” he turns, eyes glinting, “you’re going to bring them back. ”

This time he doesn’t need to say it. I know what he means. I’ll be painting ghosts. Lies. Brushstroke resurrections of what never made it out of the fire—or was never real to begin with. And he’ll sell them to the highest bidder.

I stare down at my scraped palms, my knees still shaking. There’s a scream inside me that hasn’t stopped since he said ‘ my brother’ . But now it’s wrapped in something else. Cold, hard dread.

I think of running, of screaming, of clawing my way out of this, just like I did when I was barely fifteen.

But there’s no one to run to. No grandpa to cover for me. No courtroom to grant leniency. And the man I thought might—just might—be in this with me together is the one who has been lying to me all along. About who he is, about why we met, about why he’s been hiding me here in this apartment.

So I nod.

I nod like someone who understands the terms of a deal she never wanted to make.

Ben’s brother beams like a salesman who just closed a deal with all the fine print in his favor. I guess I can see the similarity between them now. They both have that practiced smile.

“Delighted,” he says, picking invisible lint from his lapel again. “Truly delighted. I knew you were smart. Not like your grandpa, may he rest in peace.”

He takes a step toward the door, then pauses like he’s just remembered a punchline.

“Oh, and do me a favor,” he adds, suddenly sharper. “Tell your little trailer park boy-toy to keep his nose out of this. Or I will deal with him. Permanently, this time.” Maximilian pushes the door open, causing it to crash against the wall.

I flinch. Just slightly. But he catches it, a grin spreading over his face.

“I’ll be by tomorrow evening to pick this one up,” he says, gesturing to the painting on the easel.

“I think it’ll make an excellent Father’s Day gift: a fantastic forgery and Ed Frame’s granddaughter as our indentured artist. It’s almost too sentimental, isn’t it?

My old man will have a heart attack too. ”

And with that, he leaves. The door clicks shut like a guillotine blade.

For one long second, I don’t move.

Then the dam breaks.

I scramble across the floor, nearly tripping over the rug in my rush to the door. My hands fumble on the lock, heart crashing against my ribs. I twist the key. Slide the chain in place. Yank the curtains shut. Check the windows. Lock. Lock. Lock.

Then I sink to the floor and let the grief and fury explode.

He knew. Ben knew.

He was one of them. The family that destroyed mine. The family that extorted and caged my grandfather. He is one of them. And he was using me like his brother was using my grandpa.

He doesn’t feel the same way about me like I do did about him. It was all just an act.

I should’ve known. Should’ve seen it. The easy charm, the soft words, the too-perfect timing. I was being played. I let my guard down, and then I let him in.

“Good job, Helena,” I whisper, knees pulled to my chest, the apartment spinning.

“Ten out of ten. A-plus. You found yourself a Lyon in sheep’s clothing.

” The laugh that comes out of me feels like broken glass.

Too sharp. Too loud. It’s like it belongs to someone else.

“I always knew love was a scam,” I mutter to no one.

“Should’ve just married a nice drug dealer and called it a day. ”

A sob slips out. I swallow it. It burns all the way down. The bruise around my eye that’s almost entirely gone starts pulsing again.

I stare at the painting on the easel. The one I’ve been pouring myself into. The one that was supposed to get me out of this mess. Now it’s only getting me deeper into it.

“This is what happens when you trust people,” I whisper, voice cracking. “This is what happens. They either leave you, or they fuck you over.”

This is what happened to Grandpa. They framed him. Used him. Blamed him. And he still died in their debt.

I press the heel of my palm to my eyes. Trying to press the pain away.

“Guess I’m next.”

I stay like that for a long moment, the silence thick as oil.

Then a key turns in the lock.