Survival of the Richest (The Trust Fund Duet 1)

“But call me when it does.”

“I’m literally never going to call you again, because nothing is going to happen.”

“Okay,” she says, not believing me for a second. “Talk to you tomorrow.”

I hang up with an exasperated smile, tossing the phone onto the nightstand. I’m feeling a little punchy without any of my supplies with me, but I don’t want to make a trip to the art store.

For one thing I don’t think the concierge would take kindly to me splashing oil-based paint all over their antique furniture and old wallpaper. I also don’t want to imply, even to myself, that I’ll be staying in Tanglewood for longer than a few days. I’ll sort out the issue with the Tanglewood Historical Society and be back in LA with my mother and her new treatment and my brushes.

The only thing of interest in the hotel room is the book on Cleopatra, which is more interesting than the cover could possibly imply. There’s intrigue in here about her life, going beyond her experiences with Julius and Antony. Chapters and chapters from before she was ever a glint in their eyes. The making of a powerful woman, through the only means available to her.

Those men, who wanted her for her body. And her mind?

Did they think they were in love with her?

She was more than a pretty face to them, this much we know. They used her, and she used them back. And in the end she outlasted them both, so maybe that’s the moral of the story.

It ended in tragedy for all three of them, though.

Maybe that’s the true moral of the story.

The Grand fits its name with a gorgeous fountain in the front and ornate carving along the front that’s been lovingly repaired with plaster. Old trees surround the property like an embrace. A thick red carpet covers the cobblestone close to the entrance.

“See?” I tell Sutton, who looks ridiculously handsome in a suit. “This is how you treat a place with history. You don’t blow it up into a million pieces.”

“We aren’t going to blow up the library,” he says, that rough voice underlaid with amusement. “And besides, I don’t think this is the example we should follow. The Grand used to be a strip club.”

Through an arched doorway I can see gilded wood box seats and a wide stage. “And you know this by rumor only, I’m sure. It’s not that you would have gone to a strip club yourself.”

He laughs in a fully masculine way that does not confirm or deny anything. “I work with the construction company that did some of the restoration.”

It’s almost impossible to believe that this place was anything but a theater. It’s cleaner and more elegant than some of the theaters I’ve been to on Broadway, which maybe isn’t saying much. “Some businesspeople clearly value culture.”

“Ivan Tabakov values beautiful women,” Sutton says. “Especially the beautiful woman he married, who was herself a stripper until they converted it to a theater. Or back to a theater, I should say, since that’s how it started.”

“That’s what the mall would be,” I say, quiet so only he can hear.

“A strip club?”

“I’m not judging the women who worked here, but there’s a reason they converted it back. Because desperation and money and sex are not the answer.”

“Hey,” he says, laughing silently. “Leave sex out of this.”

I look at the ceiling, at the dark wood beams and the faded pink textured wallpaper. They’re original to this place; I can feel it in my bones. “I’m not bashing malls or strip clubs,” I say, still looking up. “I’m not even bashing money, but it’s a problem when you have to destroy something beautiful to have them.”

When I glance back at Sutton, his expression is grave. “What other beautiful things have you seen destroyed?” he asks softly.

I don’t answer him, but I think he already knows. My mother’s dignity. My own innocence. The better question is, what beautiful things does money not destroy? It touches everything with its dirty hands, marking us, leaving us weaker than before.

“There they are,” he murmurs, nodding toward a box to the right of the stage.

It’s the one with the best view, of course. The best view of both the stage and the rest of the theater. Seats fit for royalty. Penny transformed from a bartender in a crisp white button-down to a gorgeous asymmetrical lilac gown of different textures. The man beside her must be Damon Scott, the angles of his face severe as he surveys the crowd.

And beside them is Christopher, murmuring softly to Damon. Probably making a backroom deal. That’s why men come to these things, isn’t it? It’s an excuse to do business.

Of course I can’t blame the gender, since that’s why I’m here.

“Wait,” I say, when Sutton moves to escort me toward the stairs. Half the seats are full with people settled in, chatting and flipping through the program. The other half of the seats are still empty, waiting for the people who are milling around or still out with their glasses of champagne.