Survival of the Richest (The Trust Fund Duet 1)

“Then this shouldn’t be a problem for very long,” I say, even though my insides squeeze at the thought of being pushed aside. It almost seems worth it, to experience the wild power of Sutton, even knowing that heartbreak is on the horizon.

“You should stay away from him. Go back to New York.”

“Does ordering people around work well for you? Because I really want to do the opposite of whatever you say.” I would have done the opposite anyway, but now I want to make a point.

He runs a hand over his face. “I’m trying to look out for you. Sutton uses people.”

“You went into business with him.”

Christopher holds the bedpost, a carved wooden bulb that makes me think of dirty things. Maybe I’ll always look at bedposts differently now. “That’s exactly why I went into business with him. Because I’m going to succeed no matter what. No matter what some society thinks about my plans.”

I shake my head, remembering when I saw him in his cabin on the yacht, head bent over his textbook late at night. He’s always been driven. And clueless. “You really do need me.”

“I don’t need anyone.”

The words ring in the silence that follows, an explanation of what came before and foretelling of what happens next. It’s the heart of this man, his determination not to need anyone. Even the people who love him. That’s what I felt for him, once. It took me years to admit it to myself, the reason why I could never get serious with a boy after him.

“Well,” I say softly. “Regardless of whether you need me, here I am. I’m going to do the job Sutton’s given me, and then you’re going to pay for that butterfly garden.”

A notch between dark eyebrows. “Tell me why.”

“That was the deal,” I say, deliberately avoiding the question. It’s easier to deal with Christopher when he’s purely hypothetical. Harder when I place the issue in front of him. He becomes flesh and blood. Vulnerable. Fallible. I don’t want him to be wrong, because I’d hate him. I don’t want him to be right, because I’d have to stop hating him. And that would mean facing what he means to me, which should be nothing at all.

He growls. “You know what I mean. Why do you need to pay for a damn butterfly garden when she’s in remission?”

“You must have been keeping tabs on her to know so much.”

“Apparently they left something out.”

His bluntness makes me laugh, though nothing is funny right now. “There’s a pretty high chance that it will come back, and then we’d have to do it all again. The radiation… God, it nearly killed her on its own. She won’t do it again. She already said so.”

He stares for a moment. “She’ll change her mind.”

My stomach clenches, because that’s what I want. “Contrary to what you think, people don’t work like machines that do whatever you program them to do.”

“She’ll change her mind if it’s the only way.”

“You don’t know her,” I say sharply. “And you sure as hell don’t care about her, so don’t pretend to me. But there is another way. There’s an experimental treatment. A study that’s already full, but they’re going to make an exception.”

He makes a rough sound. “Oh, that’s rich. Trading the chance to live for a new goddamn butterfly garden. Very noble of them.”

“That’s the way the world works. The only reason they even made me the offer is because they knew I could afford it. Or at least they thought I could.”

Christopher turns away, looking out at the dark window. It’s too reflective, showing his silhouette and my shoulders at the forefront of the city. “I didn’t know.”

“It doesn’t change anything, though. Does it?” He’s still not going to let the trust fund pay for the butterfly garden. It has nothing to do with money.

Everything to do with control.

He swings back to face

me, at least doing me the courtesy of looking into my eyes when he shakes his head. “No. I can see why that made you grateful to Sutton, the offer he made, but he’s doing this for our project. Or to get under your dress.”

It doesn’t even occur to Christopher that he’s basically calling me a prostitute, suggesting that the only reason I let Sutton touch me is out of gratitude for a job. There’s no anger in me, because even though Daddy made me messed up about men and money, he also helped me understand them.

“What I do with Sutton is my own business,” I say, before adding, “You made sure of that when you pushed me away after the will reading.”

His throat works. “I shouldn’t have been so hard on you.”