Page 59 of Trailer Park Billionaire (Distinguished Billionaires #3)

HELENA

T he RV rattles like it’s personally offended by my urgency. I take a hard left, tires squealing and then lifting off the ground slightly. I imagine Ben bumping his head against the passenger door when the car comes back down.

“Okay,” I say to the empty passenger seat, as if he’s sitting there with his stupid, hopeful eyes and that ridiculous ability to make me believe in things I shouldn’t. “What if I go in, hit you over the head, drag you back out, and we flee. To Laos. Together.”

Ben’s imaginary self raises an eyebrow. “You think you’re strong enough for that plan or that my family will just let you walk away?”

“Fine,” I mutter. “What if I show up and confess to the cops? Say everything you did was actually me. I orchestrated it. I’ll say I tricked you. That you’re the victim. That I’m blackmailing you.”

Imaginary Ben snorts. “Helena, I’m on my way to prison right now. You think I’d let you go through with that? That I’ll let you take the fall for me?”

I grip the wheel tighter.

“Fuck,” I hiss.

Ben’s quiet for a second. Then he sighs. “I love you, Helena. But you need to stop.”

“Fuck you,” I whisper. “I’m not letting you do this alone.”

I swerve around the parking lot behind the museum and slam on the brakes. Because the whole block is drowning in red and blue. The lights paint the museum’s facade like it’s bleeding—like something valuable has already been stolen.

A familiar feeling settles low in my gut, like an old enemy.

I slam the RV into park by the garbage cans out back and don’t even bother locking it. Then I barge through the back door and make my way to the atrium.

First, I don’t see anyone, and then they’re everywhere. Police officers. I leave the annex, round a corridor and nearly collide with a pair of them escorting someone in cuffs. My heart drops to my knees?—

But it’s not him. It’s his brother.

Maximilian St. Clair.

His suit is impeccable, but his jaw is tight, eyes dark with something more than rage. He sees me, and stops walking. Just for a second. Just long enough to glare.

If looks could kill, I’d be in a can of paint right now. Then the officers drag him along.

Behind him, his father follows, silent and brooding, his handcuffed wrists shaking, not from embarrassment, but from anger. Another pair of officers flank him like a dangerous felon.

I turn, wanting to shout for Ben. It looks like his plan worked the way he intended—which is when I see it, when I see Elaine.

Getting cuffed. Like the St. Clairs.

“Wait—what? No.” I push toward her. “No, no, no—what are you doing?”

“Helena,” she says when she discovers me, her voice calm. Too calm. Like she knew this was coming.

“There’s been a mistake,” I say to the officer holding her arm. “You don’t understand—she didn’t—she’s not?—”

“Stop,” Elaine cuts in, her eyes flicking to mine, sharp and steady.

She leans in, just slightly. “I’ll explain everything later,” she says gently.

“Take care of the museum for me while I’m gone, alright?

Especially the Greek statues in the back.

” She straightens her shoulders and nods. “And promise to visit me?”

My mouth drops open while I’m trying to process what’s happening here. I just nod.

What the hell is happening?

“Good. I love you, Helena. And I’ll see you soon.”

“I… love you too?” I say more confused than ever when they lead her away. I want to scream. To cry. To stop them. But I can’t seem to move.

Then, from somewhere nearby, I overhear one of the officers. “So you’re saying the whole thing was recorded?”

I turn toward the sound. Two cops are questioning Pat.

“Yeah, she set up cameras,” Pat explains, handing them a flash drive. “The whole meeting’s on tape. You’ll see it all. Every crime. Every confession. Every lie.”

“And you’re saying there’s a forgery that should have been evidence in an old case in which they framed someone for their crimes?”

“Still in its case,” Pat shrugs and points to it. “Untouched.”

“Alright, alright,” the officer says and drums on his big belly.

“Should be a closed-and-shut case then. We’ll need you to come down to the station some time, but for now that will be all.

” Then he turns to the rest of the officers that are still lingering.

“Okay, pack it up boys. Looks like we’ve successfully solved another crime. Time for celebratory naps.”

I stare as they all disappear into the night.

And then it’s just me.

And Pat.

Ben is nowhere to be seen.

So I turn my stare to him.

“I monitored the feed,” he begins. “She told me to watch from the security room and wait for the signal to call it in.”

I blink. “She planned this. How did she know?”

“Your boyfriend,” Pat says matter of fact. “He asked for her help. And you know how she is, she loves to meddle. Sometimes she takes this whole hands-on-approach a little too far.”

The lights outside fade. Some yellow tape flutters in the breeze next to us.

“You helped her? Why?”

Pat shrugs. “Because she asked me to. I’d do anything for her.

” He puts his hand on my shoulder and starts leading me towards the annex with the offices and my lab.

“Which is why I really need you to have that dinner with me like we talked about, yeah? I want to pick your brain about how I can ask her out. I know right now’s not a good time, and maybe it’ll be a while before I actually get to ask, but I figured you guys are so close, you’ll surely be able to help a friend out, right? ”

My mouth drops open once more. “Right, that’s why you wanted that dinner date,” I answer like a robot. I press a hand to my chest. It feels too tight. Too full.

We step into the back hallway, past the exhibits and towards the conservation lab. The quiet buzz of the green emergency lights reflects off the polished floor. It feels eerie. Like the museum is a patient on life support.

Pat walks ahead, pulling a key from his belt and unlocking the door to the lab.

“You might want to brace yourself,” he mutters, flicking on the light.

In the corner of the room sits a massive shipping crate that would usually be used for a statue. A statue that wasn’t here when I left my office last.

A couple of nails still stick out from the edges like the whole thing was sealed in a rush.

Pat grabs a crowbar from the corner and begins prying the crate open.

“Elaine knew something was up when Ben contacted her.” A plank screeches as it comes free.

“Actually, that’s not true. She had suspected something was wrong a while ago, which is why she had me look after you.

Then she had that talk with Ben some time ago.

And what really tipped her off was the meeting she had with him yesterday.

Not sure what they talked about, but she had me get some horse tranquilizer.

We injected it into a cardamom-rosewater pistachio muffin.

” The third plank drops with a thud, revealing soft packing foam and a tangle of limbs.

I step forward. “What the?—”

It’s Ben. He’s safe.

Folded awkwardly like some kind of poorly packed inflatable. His face is pale, drool dripping from his mouth, his shirt collar askew. He makes a tiny sound. Not quite a word. Not quite consciousness.

I stare at him.

“She said no one can resist something called a ‘cardamom-rosewater pistachio muffin’ . I think she bought them at the Deli next door though. And they get them from a wholesaler. Probably just vanilla.”

It looks like a smile is spreading over Ben’s face. Or he might be about to puke. It’s hard to say.

“Don’t worry,” Pat adds, crouching down to check Ben’s pulse. “It’ll wear off soon. I think. Probably. He might talk some nonsense for a bit.”

“Nothing new then,” I say and help get the last plank off. I squeeze my eyes shut for a second, then take a breath.

“Alright. Let’s get him out of this,” Pat says on a sigh.

Elaine gave herself up… to save Ben.

Why would she do that?

I get a transport cart we usually use to move heavy art pieces. Pat and I lift the idiot, and lay him gently onto it. The thing creaks beneath his weight. His hand brushes mine. His fingers twitch. He murmurs something too low to understand.

Pat raises an eyebrow. “See? Looks like he’s already dreaming of you.”

I grumble audibly. Partly to cover up the tiniest warmth that spreads in my belly at the thought. “Just help me push, please.”

We wheel Ben through the museum like a stolen artifact—down silent halls and past glass cases still lit with spotlights. When we drive over a threshold, he moans once, then slumps again.

Outside, the air is cold and heavy. The last patrol car has long disappeared as we cross the lot to the RV. Pat slides the back open, and we lift Ben inside. Pat climbs in after and drags him all the way to the bed in the back.

When he returns, I turn to Pat, not sure what to say. “I don’t know how?—”

He just shakes his head. “No need. I’m happy to help, Helena. You’ll want to keep him flat for a few hours. And hydrated.”

I nod as a realization dawns on me. “Pat… do you know… Did Elaine say why?”

He just shrugs. “I didn’t ask. But it seems like you two are very important to her.”

I nod. “You still want help with asking her out?”

Pat looks at me as if to say ‘Duh’ .

“Cardamom-rosewater pistachio muffins. Make her some. For the next time you see her. Maybe forego the horse tranquilizer. And then ask her to have dinner with you after, as a treat.”

Patrick nods with a smile on his face.

“If she says no come to me and I’ll force her to go out with you.”

Then he laughs out loud, slides the door to the RV shut and turns back to the museum.

Ben stirs in the back, mumbling something again.

I walk over and sit beside him, brushing my fingers lightly over his forehead, checking the pulse I already know is there. It’s regular. Strong. He’ll be fine.

His eyes flutter open. Glazed. Unfocused. But they land on me.

And he smiles.

“Am I…” he croaks. “Am I dead?”

“No,” I whisper. “Not yet.”

His brow furrows. “But I see you.”

“You’re not dead, you idiot,” I reply as softly as I can muster. “Maybe once I’m done with you.”

“Are you dead?” he asks, still out of it.

I laugh, breath catching. “No. No one died.”

He sighs in relief, closing his eyes again. “Thank God. I thought I got to heaven and all there was to eat was disgusting muffins.”

I press my lips to his forehead. “You’re not in heaven. You’re in a stolen RV. With me.”

“Oh,” he mumbles, smiling faintly. “That’s much better than heaven.” Then he starts to drift again, and just before he slips under, his eyes open one more time. “I love you, Helena,” he whispers.

Then he’s out cold.