Survival of the Richest (The Trust Fund Duet 1)

And it turns out that Sutton is good with rope, at least in an abstract sense. With every word he pulls the knots a little tighter. He tugs me a little closer. I’m not sure how I let him ensnare me this way, but already it’s hard to see my way free.

“When are you coming home?” Mom says after picking up the phone.

I cringe a little at the word home, but I’m careful not to let my feelings enter my voice. She has more things to worry about than whether her daughter, fresh out of college, wants to live in the spare bedroom. So much has changed in the four years since the will reading, but in other ways everything is the same. “It’ll take longer than I thought.”

She sighs. “Christopher isn’t going to bend, baby.”

“He might,” I say, because there’s no point in explaining the whole thing about the library. It will only stress her out. “Actually he’s being more reasonable. I think if I stay a couple more weeks, we might have it worked out.”

“I don’t need the experimental treatment,” she says for the millionth time. “I don’t want that. I only agreed because you were so adamant. My herbalist has a whole plan laid out for me, to make sure I stay in remission.”

“Mom, you know what the doctor said. A good diet can help you stay strong and healthy, but it’s not going to keep the cancer from coming back.”

“I’m convinced it was all that coffee I drank. I never realized how toxic that stuff is. You aren’t still drinking lattes, are you? It’s basically poison.”

I don’t bother arguing with her, because the poison that caused her cancer changes every week. It was whatever they put in the facials or the chlorine in the gym’s pool. I think in a weird way it helps her feel in control of what’s happening to her body, being able to place the blame on something specific.

“No lattes,” I say, ignoring the empty coffee cups strewn around the hotel room.

“Good. I never want you to go through this.”

Worry is a hand around my chest, because mostly Mom doesn’t complain about how she’s feeling. She tuts and fusses and worries but she never just yells, this fucking hurts. I wish she would actually; it seems like that would be cathartic. This is the way she tries to help me, but the doctor was very clear on her chances for staying in remission. Which are high.

“I actually need you to do me a favor,” I tell her, feeling guilty that I need this from her. There’s only so many times I can wear paint-splattered clothes to the office. “Can you throw some clothes in a box and overnight them to me? I didn’t pack enough.”

“Oh,” she says, sounding relieved. She likes it when I need her. “I can do that. What do you need, more jeans? A few bras.”

“Nicer things, if you can find them. Some evening clothes. And there’s this black skirt somewhere in the back. No pressure, don’t spend too much energy on it, okay?”

“Evening clothes,” she says, proving her mind is just as sharp as ever even if her body has wasted away to half its size. She’s always been fashionably slender, but now she’s painfully skinny. “What are you doing with Christopher that you need evening clothes?”

“I’m visiting Bea tomorrow night,” I say, glad to have some excuse. “You remember her? Beatrix Cartwright. The daughter of the famous concert pianist.”

“Of course I remember her,” Mom says. “I’ll send you a few cute dresses to pick from. But Harper, remember to be careful.”

“Beatrix doesn’t bite.”

“That’s not what I mean. Men like Christopher, they can be charming when they want to be.”

“Don’t worry, Mom. He doesn’t want to be.”

Which is probably the only reason I’m safe. In a weird way I’m almost grateful he’s such a pompous asshole. It would be so easy to fall for him again if he weren’t.

Beatrix Cartwright lives in the penthouse of L’Etoile. We met a long time ago at some party where my pink tulle itched me like crazy and the children mostly tried to stay out of sight so we didn’t get roped into reciting our life goals. Then tragedy had fallen on her family, leaving her orphaned and absent from elite society.

I found her years later on the online artist scene, where I recognized her voice and her hands and her inimitable talent with the piano. Despite her large platform and success, she had managed to stay anonymous—something that made me green with envy. There were memes about my untouchable fortune that I ended up tagged on with unnerving regularity. The Internet has a long memory.

She’s since gone public and found true love in the strangest place. I’m a fan of her boyfriend, Hugo Bellmont, even though he was a high-priced escort when they met. Or maybe because of that.

He’s the one who meets me when I arrive, devastating in his handsomeness, his hair in perfect disarray. It feels perfectly natural that he should kiss me on both cheeks and take my wine offering with a groan that sounds sexual. “Chateau Leoville,” he reads. “Nineteen eighty-nine. Merci infiniment. I love a great Bordeaux.”

I breathe deep, taking in the scent of spices. “It smells delicious, and I haven’t eaten all day. Don’t tell me Bea has taken up cooking?”

“Sometimes she helps me with the vegetables, where her fingers are as efficient with a knife as they are with the piano keys, but today she has been shut into her music room.”

“A difficult piece?”

“She plays it perfectly, again and again. It is the artist temperament,” he says, teasing because he knows I paint. “Never satisfied.”