Page 112 of Trailer Park Billionaire
I’m going to murder him.
At least she wasn’t hurt. That’s something, right? He didn’t hurt her—this time. But he saw her. He told her about me, about us being brothers. He knows where she is. And knowing him, he won’t just disappear. He and my father will reel her in like they did her grandfather. They’ll exploit her talent, threaten her, break her down until she’s nothing but a set of hands painting ghosts for their collection of lies. The collection I’ve dedicated my life to destroying.
And I… I led them straight to her.
I was so fucking focused on keeping my secrets, I forgot the one thing that mattered—her safety.
I didn’t protect her.
I should have seen it coming. I shouldn’t have left her side. Really, I should’ve told her everything the moment I realized who she was—who she really was to me. But instead I tried to have it both ways. I tried to have both: my revenge, and her love. And now she’s paying the price by becoming my family’s slave.
“I can’t just leave like this,” I say, voice hollow.
Robyn groans behind me. “Ben, buddy. I don’t know what you did, but it looks bad. So unless you have a time machine to undo all of this, I’d suggest giving her some space. Be smart about this.”
I don’t have a time machine. All I have are regrets—piled up like bodies behind me.
But she’s right. I need to be smart about this.
I may not be able to just kill my brother, but I can still fix this.
Not for me.
But for her.
Because even if I can’t make it better, if I can’t earn her forgiveness—I can at least make her safe. From him. From the St. Clairs. From me.
Even if it means sacrificing myself. Even if it means she never looks at me again.
I’ll burn every fucking gallery down if I have to. I’ll give up the revenge, the score, the name, the plan—everything—if it means she gets out of this whole.
Because I’d rather remain the villain in her story than the reason it doesn’t have a happy ending.
39
HELENA
When I wake up, the bed is cold.
It’s not dramatic, or poetic. It’s just cold. The kind of cold that creeps in through your skin and takes up residence in your bones. The kind that makes you reach out in the dark, even though you already know what you’ll find.
Nothing. No warm shoulder. No crooked, sleepy grin. No Ben. There’s no humming coming from the kitchen while he burns toast or makes the perfect omelette.
I stare at the ceiling for a long time. Too long. Until my eyes blur and my chest aches and the silence starts to press down on me like a weighted blanket I didn’t ask for. It should feel comforting in a way—I used to love this sort of stillness.
I don’t anymore.
Not right now.
Because something inside me misses him.
Like a fucking idiot.
And I hate that I miss him.
I hate that I still want him. Still want his laugh. His annoying cheerfulness. His strong arms around me. The way he looked at me like I was a masterpiece.
He was good at pretending, I guess.
