Survival of the Richest (The Trust Fund Duet 1)

PS. If I had written this textbook, I deserve to be shot. With a silver bullet.

Dear Christopher,

You have an amazing brain, which is something I can state without any hesitation because you said I was smart—so obviously you have a clear and accurate understanding of the world. Plus, Daddy keeps talking about how you’re going to do great things.

And I’m not just saying that because you’re a vampire who wrote a shitty textbook.

PS. For the love of God, don’t die.

Dear Harper,

Finals damn near killed me, but I kept your letter on my desk. I figured as long as you had ordered me not to die, I had no choice but to listen. That’s how saving your life works, right? I never took etiquette class, so I’m just guessing here.

Your dad gave a speech at commencement and took me out to dinner. He said you were doing some kind of big art exhibit in New York City. That’s incredible.

PS. Why didn’t you tell me about it?

Dear Christopher,

That’s exactly how saving my life works, and congratulations on graduating!!! The only reason I applied to Smith College is my art professor. Her work is amazing. In my admissions essay I wrote about the Medusa painting. I thought they only made interns read those things, but Professor Mills foun

d out and asked me to do an exhibit.

I thought about vandalizing the school and tearing out the wall of the gym, but shipping rates are ridiculous. So instead I’m doing a series of canvas paintings about the myth.

PS. I’m enclosing an invitation to the exhibit in case you can make it.

It seemed impossible that Christopher would spend his weekend traveling to New York City for a girl he knew for a week a couple years ago. The fact that we kept in touch felt surreal, almost a dream, like the night I fell into the bay. That we were stepsiblings, if only for a few months, made it more strange, not less. I couldn’t be sure what I wanted from him, not even in the privacy of my mind. What were the odds a man like him would be interested in a girl like me?

I never told Daddy that Christopher and I wrote letters. At first I wasn’t sure what he would think about it. And then it became weird to mention, as if I’d been keeping a secret. That’s what the letters were—a secret. An escape.

A lifeline, like the red and white round buoy.

The exhibit becomes bigger than I thought it would, once my mom finds out about it. She invites every friend and enemy she ever knew in New York City, and the whole thing blows up. It would have been nice to have a small show filled mostly with the art scene, people who would appreciate the work more than the champagne.

But I accepted my mother’s ambitions in society a long time ago. As Christopher said once, It’s not exactly a hardship. Even if I do have to dive into cold water.

All the pieces for the show are packed into foam-padded crates stacked along the foyer of the penthouse suite. Daddy’s paying the bill, of course. Mom’s last divorce gave her the smallest payout yet, which had less to do with a prenup and more to do with the man’s failure in the stock market. Only the main piece remains propped against the window, surrounded by tubes of paint and a disarray of brushes. I can’t seem to stop myself from dabbling at it, even though I’ve lost any perspective on whether I’m making it better or worse.

Mom breezes from her bedroom in a casual blouse of ivory silk and skinny jeans, the perpetual cloud of Chanel achingly familiar. “Oh, baby, are you still working on it? It’s perfect, you know.”

I twirl a dry paintbrush in my fingers. “This is the one they’ll write about.”

She comes and gives me a kiss on the forehead. “I’m so proud of you. Everyone is going to be blown away by your talent.”

Despite our weird money issues, I love my parents. Mom always supports me, and even if she can’t settle down to save her life, that only makes her human. Daddy is puzzled by everything I do, but he’s coming to the exhibit. Cancelled a business trip to Japan to be here.

The fact that they’ll be in the same room for two hours is cause for concern, but at least neither of them are married to someone else right now. That makes it ten percent less likely to devolve into a screaming match by the end.

I sigh, flopping back onto the oversize leather couch. “Don’t worry about me. I just need to stare at this for approximately twenty-four more hours, and then I never have to see it again.”

Mom checks her lipstick in a gold-leaf mirror. It’s already perfect, of course. “Are you sure? I can stay in tonight. Sandra and the girls will understand.”

“No, you should definitely go out. We haven’t been in NYC in forever.” It was back to LA after the relationship with the German count ended, and thank God for small favors.

She smiles. “You’re the best daughter.”

“I really am.” I blow her a kiss. “Now go have fun. That’s an order.”