Page 35 of Filthy Rich Daddies
Now is not the time.
Maybe what I need is an actual break. Full disconnect. No ops dashboards, no war rooms, and, crucially, no chance of “accidental” library run-ins.
Colorado? The thought bubbles before I can censor it, immediately ridiculous. Thalassa’s trip is her independence victory lap. Shadowing would trample her boundaries.
But what if I went elsewhere? Iceland, maybe? Volcano hikes, Northern Lights. Far enough to reset mental loops. I open the travel-site tab, and my finger hovers over flight search.
My phone buzzes. It’s Dean, voice call this time. Guilt tells me to answer, but self-preservation declines. I text instead:
Headache since morning. Will sync tomorrow. Promise.
He sends:Fine. Rest. Discuss numbers first thing.
I drop my phone, lean my head on the sofa back, and study the ceiling track lights until they blur. Despite my exhaustion, my mind replays Thalassa’s laugh, the way she hugs friends like they’re life rafts. That’s real balance—knowing when to cling, when to leap.
I’m stuck halfway, arms full of phantoms. Always.
Tomorrow, StarConnector. Tonight, maybe four melatonin and the hope I dream of Icelandic glaciers instead of hazel-eyed girls.
I close my eyes, inhale the city and coffee lingering on my hoodie. “Vacation,” I whisper, trying the word on. It tastes like possibility—and inconveniently, like her.
I’ll figure out distance algorithms later. For now, I let the thought play like background music. White slopes, foreign skies, and heart rate finally gliding under safe-mode limits.
More delusion? Probably. But a man can hope.
13
THALASSA
I usedto think snow was just cold rain that stuck around too long. Wrong. Snow is powdered starlight, and skiing is basically surfing the Milky Way on two Popsicle sticks. Sure, my turns look like baby-giraffe pirouettes at the moment, but I stay upright eighty percent of the time, and that’s a B-minus in my book.
The mountain roars under my rental boots—wind whistling, board edges scraping, distant whoops from show-offs launching. Above, the sky is so blue it’s practically neon. I grin inside my fleece neck gaiter, cheeks burning with that good, sun-kissed sting. This beats PTSD beach flashbacks by a thousand light-years.
I imagine Dad—now with the bionic arm Dr. Hoskins fitted last week—trying a bunny slope. The idea makes me giggle. Mom would film every wobble. Dad would brag to the prosthetist about durability testing.
It’s weird timing. The foundation my parents work for is legendary for taking care of their long-term employees, so whywait four years to surprise him with a new arm? Maybe budget cycles are slow when you’re preserving endangered species.
Whatever. Dad’s jazzed. I’m jazzed. Life is peak. Hell, Mom didn’t even mind when I told her I was going to Colorado instead of family Christmas. “You take everything too seriously, T. Glad you’re going to have some fun.” I suspect Dad’s new arm put her in a good mood, because that was not what I expected out of her.
“Last run, then hot chocolate!” Arabella yells, carving past in gold goggles. She looks like a snow angel sponsored by Vogue. I give a thumbs-up, push off, and angle into a gentle blue trail calledSunset Boulevard.
Cue mental playlist—some pop song about golden hours. I find a rhythm—plant pole, slide, edge, whoosh. My grin stretches so wide that cold air squeaks between my teeth. I?—
Impact.
A human missile—teen boy in a rental helmet plastered with Red Bull stickers—slams my right side. My ski pops off with a thunk. I spin, snow spray blinding. The world tilts. Something hard smacks the back of my head even through the helmet. Stars explode, not the pretty kind.
I flop sideways, half-buried. Head ringing. The boy tumbles ahead, swears, scrambles upright, and skis away, yelling, “Sorry!” like that fixes physics.
Everything inside me goes cartoon static. I breathe slow—check my limbs. Left leg aches like it argued with a sledgehammer. The helmet strap digs into my chin. My vision wobbles.
Rescue volunteers appear. Red jackets, patient voices. They load me onto a sled stretcher—“just a precaution, sweetheart”—andwhoosh me downhill. Trees blur as nausea flickers. My inner voice alternates betweendon’t pukeandDad is gonna lose it.
Breckenridge Medical Center smells like bleach, coffee, and overworked forced-air heating. Nurses wheel me through double doors into imaging. X-ray tech jokes about me lighting up like a glow stick. I laugh so I won’t cry.
Shockingly, my shin bone is intact, yay. The concussion is mild, but my bruises are gnarly. The doctor starts explaining what to watch for. Vomiting, dizziness, blah blah, and a nurse slips an elastic cuff on my arm for vitals. She checks a tablet, frowns, and checks me. “HCG positive,” she mutters.
The doctor stops mid-speech. “Ah—Ms. Howard, this kind of athletics can be detrimental to a fetus, so watch for any spotting or cramping, as well.”
