Page 106 of Trailer Park Billionaire
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’sthatkind 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 ofhowto 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 ofuninsurablevaluable 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,recreatemost 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.”
