Page 2 of Filthy Rich Daddies
Becca speed-recites functional groups while Arabella highlights the Aspen itinerary. Every bullet reads like an Instagram influencer’s fever dream—heli-skiing, chef-prepared truffle fondue, snowmobile tours to hidden caves. Honestly, I’m surprised it’s just twenty K. It sounds like a fantasy life I thought only existed in movies.
Half an hour in, Becca’s phone pings. Her cheeks bloom pink. “Um, I gotta…rinse-and-repeat human anatomy.” She tries to look apologetic about the euphemism and fails spectacularly. But that’s how she does everything. Spectacularly.
I wave her off. “Tell Mitchell we said hi.”
When the door clicks behind her, silence stretches. Arabella swivels her chair toward me, eyes liquid-blue and focused. “Lass,” she begins, using the shortening of my name that only she dares, “level with me. Are you coming to Colorado or aren’t you?”
I trace the rim of my chipped mug. Steam snakes upward, fogging my glasses. “I want to. Obviously.”
“But?”
“But.” I laugh, hollow as a tin can. “I’d have to sell plasma. And bone marrow. And possibly my soul.”
Arabella assesses me over steepled fingers, calculating. I’ve seen her haggle Fourth-Street vintage sellers down to a quarter price with that expression. It usually ends in her favor. I’m not sure I want those powers used on me.
“Okay.” She taps her phone awake. “Honesty hour. How much do you have after tuition is due?”
“Nothing. Tuition’s on scholarship. Food, books, bus pass, phone bill…that’s me. Tutoring gigs keep the lights on.”
“Parents?”
“They send love and handwritten notes.” And tamarind candy wrapped in tinfoil care packages. Money, though, is imaginary. Mom’s post-doc grant ended last year; Dad’s disability check barely covers groceries. I don’t say the numbers because reciting them aloud feels like hexing currency to evaporate.
Arabella exhales, then flashes a shark-cute grin. “What if I told you there’s a shortcut?”
“Unless it involves teleportation to a universe where Aspen costs twenty dollars, I’m skeptical.”
She slides her phone across the desk. Black screen, gold logo. JustDesserts.app. Tagline:Sweet Arrangements.
“What is this?”
“Are you familiar with sugar babies?”
I blink. “Sugar babies? Seriously?”
“Seriously.” She spins the chair, arms stretched gymnast-wide. “Why do you think I can buy Lululemon like it’s single-use?”
“I figured your parents had oil wells.”
“They have a failing winery in Kentucky and debts the size of Saturn,” she says lightly. “The money is mine.”
The phone sits between us, shiny as temptation. I’ve heard whispers—girls who get tuition covered in exchange for dinners, trips, the occasional plus-one at corporate galas. NDAs. Background checks. Luxury everything. And sex.
Arabella kicks one foot, making the sneaker light blink. “Look, I’ve been doing it since sophomore year—carefully. Never felt unsafe, never flunked a class. My current arrangement? Thirty-five hundred a meetup, plus travel perks.”
Thirty-five hundred. That’s…fourteen of my tutoring paychecks. That’s more than four semesters of laundry money. That’s a new laptop instead of praying the hinge doesn’t snap mid-PowerPoint.
She sees the math flicker in my eyes and pounces. “The holiday season’s prime time. High-net-worth types don’t want to show up to family functions alone. You, my dear, have ‘intellectual arm candy’ written all over you.” She whistles. “Jackpot.”
“Intellectual arm candy?” I echo, half-amused, half-indignant.
“Face it, Lass. You look like the human version of a sea foam macaron.”
I snort-laugh, nearly choking on tea. Could I do it? Spend a weekend being charming? Wear a rented gown, discuss marine conservation, maybe kiss a stranger if he’s not a creep, and walk away with Aspen money?
Arabella reads my silence as progress. “You filter for Atlanta-based patrons. Coffee date first. You set boundaries. You set the price. And if you hate it? Delete profile, block numbers, story over. It’s not like you’re dating anyone right now, so there’s no conflict.”
I lean back onto the faded quilt pillow propped against the wall. My textbook nestles beside me like a twelve-pound guilt brick. Finals loom. My brain is fried. I can’t remember the last time I did something reckless.
