Page 34 of Filthy Rich Daddies
There’s chatter about altitude, Airbnb hot tubs, and somebody’s influencer discount code. The Colorado ski trip is locked and loaded. My internal calendar pings. That’s the trip she saved for—the reason she braved sugar-baby territory. A satisfied warmth settles. Goal attained, apparently.
She’s happy. That’s all I needed to see.
They shoulder their backpacks and head for the escalator. I step behind a structural column, holding my breath until their laughter fades. Mission accomplished—health verified, spirits skyrocketed. Time to exfiltrate before my moral compass spins further off course.
Admittedly, there’s something heady about following someone without their knowledge. Knowing that at any moment, I could be caught. I’ve made up a dozen excuses to have at the ready in case she sees me, but in truth, I doubt a single one would come out.
I needed to know she was okay. That’s the only reason I’m here.
Ground floor exit. Winter sun slants across the quad, and students scurry in puffer jackets. I linger by a ginkgo tree, hidden by yellow confetti leaves, watching until Thalassa’s trio disappears into the humanities building.
My chest tightens like it did when I left her dorm steps that Sunday, idling at the curb. Distance doesn’t cure the magnetism. It amplifies it. But shadowing her around campus crosses lines. I’m not that guy.
Except when I am.
Could I text her? No. We’re supposed to be giving her space, letting her life resume unscripted. I need to let the feeling burn out by itself, like leftover code in cache. And if she gets creeped out by us contacting her, she could report us to Just Desserts and we’d never get another sugar baby off that app again.
Not the end of the world, but they’re very convenient. Or at least, they were. I don’t know about Dean or Tic, but I haven’t engaged with anyone since Thalassa’s Thanksgiving weekend.
A coffee-shop neon warms across the street. I head there, order a black drip plus an espresso float—caffeine times caffeine. Sip, replay the library scene. Her happiness pulses through me secondhand, like a weird echo of joy that paradoxically aches. My phone vibrates.
Dean. Work shit. Apparently, I missed earlier pings. Oops. He’s in the operations meeting hell. I already know how it’ll go. Marcus will crucify StarConnector. But my brain is not free for corporate cage matches right now.
I type, then delete:sorry.
Instead? Nothing. Airplane mode on.
I stake a corner table, pull out my laptop, ostensibly to debug the beta app that predicts wait times at our LA burrito bar. But my fingers refuse to code.
A pang. This obsession started as protective worry, but now it flirts with daydream territory. Me teaching her to snowboard, her cheering when I face-plant.
Not healthy.
I draft mental guidelines. No surprise drop-ins, no anonymous gifts beyond what’s done. Respect her autonomy.
Good.
But my craving doesn’t care.
By late afternoon, I’ve consumed two more coffees, rejected five Slack tags from account payables, and coded exactly zero lines. Instead, I’ve scrolled Reddit threads on flashcard advancements and browsed Colorado weather cams suspiciously near Aspen.
Stop. Now.
I pack up, intending to head home, maybe bury myself in sys-log audits until my brain reboots. Feet, however, decide on a detour. The campus quad again, down a path lined with sweet gum trees. I remind myself this is borderline.
But walking aids digestion. That’s the only reason I’m here now.
Halfway down Greek Row, I curse at myself and spin back toward the parking deck. Enough.
Dean’s text pops back to life when airplane mode lifts—another ping follows:Ops meeting done. Where the fuck are you?
I stare at the blinking cursor. I owe him an explanation, but not in my current headspace.
Needed field air. Catch up later.
Three dots, then nothing. He’s furious or worried or both. I sigh at my own incompetence. StarConnector matters, system stability matters, and yet I let hormones override.
Back at my condo, I flop on the sofa. City lights blink like network activity, each flicker mocking my offline brain. Codeme, type me, make me sing. I roll my eyes at the lights, ignoring their siren calls.
