Page 54 of Trailer Park Billionaire (Distinguished Billionaires #3)

HELENA

I scramble to shut the door the moment I hear it open. The chain on it only allows for a little gap. Quickly, I slap my palms against the wood, sending an echo through the room that makes me wince.

The door flies shut again.

The apartment seems to hold its breath between us.

Ben calls my name from outside. When I don’t answer, he unlocks the door once more, and rams his shoulder into it, causing the chain to snap off, and me to tumble back.

“Shit, are you okay?” he asks when he sees me on the ground. “I thought someone had?—”

The look in my eyes causes him to shut up immediately. Whatever emotion of worry had been on his face melts away in an instant. He notices the puffiness. The redness. The way my mouth trembles even though I’ve got my jaw clenched so tight I could crack a tooth.

“What happened?” he asks softly, tentatively, before taking a step closer, like he might be the one to fix it.

And I?—

I want to scream.

I want to shove him, and hit him, and crawl under a blanket never to be seen again, all at once.

Instead, I just hold out my arm to keep him away. “Get. The fuck. Out.”

Quiet. I barely recognize my own voice. It sounds like it comes from somewhere deep, somewhere dangerous, somewhere so full of fury it could flood the room.

Ben freezes, that smile he likes to wear as armor nowhere to be seen.

“Helena—”

“Get. Out.”

The tears come again, but this time they don’t spill. They simmer behind my eyes, like the rage is boiling them off before they can fall.

“What’s going on?” he asks, voice tighter now.

I barely have to think about what to say. There’s no need to be considerate here. I just want him gone.

“I know,” I say, my voice shaking now—but not with fear. With rage. “I know who you are. I know that you lied. About us. About everything. That you’ve been using me.”

Ben looks like I just punched him in the face. I see the dots connect behind his eyes. His breath catches. “Did they?—”

“Not they. Just him. Just your brother. And no, he didn’t do anything but talk.”

Ben looks confused for a moment, then like he’s going to be sick. But I don’t care. I just need him gone. So I get up and shove him back with both hands. He doesn’t stumble. He just stands there, taking it.

“Please,” he says, shaking his head. “Just—please. I know I’m not who you think I am, but I didn’t?—”

“I don’t fucking care! I don’t care who the fuck you are, St. Clair.

” I push him again. “I am sorry for what I did to your family, to your brother, to your house—but this... between us… you went too fucking far.” I grab the door again, trying to slam it shut in his face. He catches it with one hand.

“I swear to God, Ben, if you don’t move, I will stab you with a fucking palette knife.”

His mouth opens, but nothing comes out. There’s nothing but pain written on his face.

“Step back, sweetheart,” an old voice says from behind him. Then a figure steps forward, and a weapon comes into focus.

It’s Robyn.

Gun raised. Posture casual.

Ben looks over his shoulder at her like he’s trying to calculate whether she’s real or a particularly weird hallucination.

“You heard the young lady. Step back,” she repeats, eyes locked on him.

Ben hesitates, then takes a full step backwards. Robyn nods, satisfied.

“Now, Helena,” she says calmly, “close the door, lock it, and don’t open it again until you hear my secret knock.”

Before I do like I’m being told, I pull Ben’s key from the lock. “I don’t know your secret knock,” I say.

Robyn nods, then explains, matter of fact, “Well, it’s secret. Of course you don’t know it.”

“Please, Helena. Just let me explain,” Ben pleads, his voice now fraying.

Robyn cocks her gun for emphasis. “Start walking.”

I look at him one last time, my pulse so loud I can hear it in my ears. It’s hard to see through the oncoming tears, but first it seems like he’s struggling to make sense of all this, then like he might be struggling to keep it together as well.

Then I shut the door and lock it.

I lean against it and slide down until I’m on the floor, knees to my chest, hands tangled in my hair.

Robyn is leading him away. The steps grow more and more quiet until there’s just silence. Nothing but silence. For minutes. The absence of sound stretches long enough to convince me it might actually last. That maybe—finally—I’m alone. Like I was supposed to be the entire time.

Which is when the dam breaks.

I don’t sob. I seethe.

Tears spill, but they don’t feel soft or sad. They feel erosive, like turpentine sliding down a canvas. I press my palms into my eyes, hard enough to see sparks.

How did I get here?

I tilt my head back against the door, stare up at the blurry ceiling like it might give me answers.

Ben. Fucking. Lyon. My. Ass.

Benedikt St. Clair.

From the moment he walked into my museum, pretending to be interested in that godforsaken artist—which should have been the first red flag—I should’ve known. No one that cheerful ever has any good intentions. But he somehow won me over anyway.

And for a moment—several, really—I believed. I let myself get swept up.

Because I am an idiot. And maybe because I was vulnerable after my grandpa’s death.

Mostly the idiot thing, though. I mean, how fucking dumb do you have to be to fall for a con artist after they literally tell you that they cheat people for a living?

I should have just called the police and let them handle it. But no. I let him in. I let myself hope.

Only to find out that he was a literal billionaire after all. Sort of. His family is.

Only to find out that all of it was just a long, elaborate act of revenge for him. That I was getting used in it.

I’m not even mad that he lied. I’m mad that I fell for it.

Every sweet moment, every dumb joke, every time he looked at me like he actually cared—it was all just... theater. Performance art to get me to help with his heist.

I wrap my arms around my knees and curl in tighter. The worst part isn’t even that I was used.

The worst part is that it somehow meant something to me.

That he meant something to me.

And now I’m not just alone again.

I’m alone and in pain.

The kind of pain that crawls into your ribs and rattles around in there like it owns the place.

The kind that makes you wish all you had to worry about was a grief-related knot in your stomach and a villain threatening to beat you up over 100k.

The kind of pain that makes you think even prison was easier.

At least in prison, no one pretended to care about you before they stabbed you in the back.

I don’t know how long I sit like that—curled up on the floor, cheeks damp, brain spiraling about all the ways I’ve been an idiot—before I hear it.

“Knock, knock,” someone says from the other side of the door.

A pause.

“Who’s there?” I ask, wiping the tears off my face.

“Boo,” the voice answers.

“Boo who?”

“Exactly. Stop crying and let me in.”

I wipe some snot away with the sleeve of my sweater and drag myself up. Carefully, I crack the door to peek through.

It’s Robyn.

I open wider. She looks at me like I was left out in the rain for too long. Her gun is secured in what appears to be a crocheted holster.

She notices my look and explains that it’s just a water gun. Then, after shooting me right in the boobs twice, she asks whether I’m okay.

“I’m fine,” I say, my voice sounding like sandpaper and sorrow. “I just need some time.”

Robyn nods. She doesn’t believe me, but she also doesn’t press. Which I appreciate.

“What did you do with him?” I ask.

She shrugs, entirely too nonchalant for someone who just held a man at (fake) gunpoint. “Told him if he comes near you again, I’ll come and find him. He got the message.”

“Thanks.”

Robyn shrugs again and pats my shoulder. “I’ve got booze and snacks at home if you’d like some company,” she says. “Also an actual taser in case you decide you want to go find him and get some real revenge for whatever he did.”

I nod. I don’t have the strength to joke back, but I’m grateful for the effort. She gives my arm a gentle squeeze, then leaves with one last look that says: You’ll be fine .

“Oh, and, hey,” she adds before she’s on her way, “if you ever need me again with water guns blazing, our secret code word from now on is ‘peaty.’ Like ‘peaty whiskey.’ Alright?”

I repeat the words and shut the door again. And this time, instead of sliding down onto the ground, I go straight to bed.