Survival of the Richest (The Trust Fund Duet 1)

“I don’t think Athena cursed her, not really. I think she gave Medusa what she wanted most—weapons to protect herself with. Power, when it had been taken from her.”

It strikes me then, how close Daddy and Mom are standing next to each other. As if they’re a couple, when they could barely stand to talk to each other to arrange visitation.

“Do you know,” I ask the crowd, “that there is no recorded instance of her turning a woman to stone? Only men.”

Christopher might be made from stone, that’s how still he is as he watches me with those mysterious black eyes. It’s like he’s holding his breath, and maybe he is. Waiting to see how the story ends, even if we think we already know.

“In the end, it wasn’t enough. Men found a way to use her, taking her power for themselves, using her head to defeat their enemies. Medusa is a cautionary tale. She always has been, but I don’t think she’s warning us away from rage.” The last words I say directly to Christopher. “She’s warning us to use it better. To use it more. That’s our power, in the end.”

The crowd claps for me while Daddy hoots and whistles, because he can’t help but show his support for me. It feels like absolute exhilaration, stepping down from the platform and accepting the handshakes and hugs from people around me.

Mom squeezes me in a delicate hug, and Daddy puts his arms around us both. How long has it been since they hugged me at the same time? I can’t find a memory to place this with; it’s in a box all its own. And then they let me go—too soon.

I find myself standing in front of Christopher, a lingering smile on my lips. Even my embarrassment over the rejection last night can’t touch me now. We may not kiss again, but this man is a friend. Maybe the best friend I ever had.

“You blew them away,” he says.

“You helped.”

He shakes his head. “I’m not taking any credit for lock picking.”

“It’s a very interesting skill. You’ll have to tell me where you picked it up.?

??

His mouth opens, but I don’t hear anything. There’s a rush in the crowd, a heavy jostle that leaves me unsteady on my green-velvet heels. For a minute I think they must have released fresh trays of champagne from the kitchen. Maybe filled with bonus diamonds?

Until there’s a scream from behind me. I whirl to see my mother kneeling on the ground beside Daddy, who has his hand clutched to his heart, his eyes staring up at nothing.

Something dark moves through me, a sense that I caused this somehow. With my paintings or my hopeless dreams. That this is my fault.

“No,” I whisper, but I can tell from the sound of my mother’s mournful wail, like the sound you hear far away in an untamed desert, haunting and stark, that he’s gone.

“Fuck,” Christopher says, the word harsh.

My head feels light, and I realize in a split second of surprise that I’m going to faint. That my body would rather shut down than face what’s happening. I’m falling, again, and this time there are strong hands to catch me.

The funeral takes place four days later in a historic cathedral in Boston. It’s a private affair, with only me and Mom and Christopher and a handful of very close business partners. One of them gives Mom a look of undisguised hunger and makes her promise to let him know if she needs anything. Another one of them gives the same look and extracts the same promise from me.

I walk through the whole thing in a daze. Vaguely I’m aware that I’ve taken a leave of absence from school, that I should be dealing with grief. And maybe I could, if I could bring myself to really believe that it happened. Mostly I keep waiting to wake up.

Keep waiting for a hand to reach into the water and pull me out.

Christopher doesn’t approach me at the funeral.

He doesn’t write any more letters.

It’s like a second blow, his absence, a fatal one where my father’s death has maimed me. I try not to think about it, the same way I try not to think about Daddy.

While the funeral was a quiet affair, I’m dreading the reading of the will, because it will be a circus. Every single one of his wives and most of his past stepchildren will be in attendance to see if anything was bequeathed to them.

“Please don’t make me go.”

The words come out as a hoarse murmur, because I’ve only said them for the millionth time. It’s not like my inheritance is a raffle ticket that will be forfeited if I don’t show up. The actual will reading is just a formality. An anachronism. A public stoning. Someone will tell me what Daddy gave me, whether it’s two dollars or two billion. It doesn’t matter whether I’m present at the will reading. And God, I don’t want to be there.

Mom sits on the sofa beside me, her eyes rimmed red from crying. She’s mourned the loss of him more in the past two weeks than she did in the decade they had been divorced. “You and I are the only ones who deserve to be there.”

She thinks he’s going to give her something, and it kills me. Could he have changed that much? God, the child support arguments were so bitter. So freaking specific. By the end he had seemed to soften toward her. At the art studio there had been a moment when he’d looked at her and I’d had the thought that every child of divorced parents has at least once, a desperate hope, a terrible dream that they might get back together.