Page 37 of Filthy Rich Daddies
A lifeline now cut.
The bathroom mirror reflects a girl with helmet hair, bruised cheek, eyes like storm clouds. I whisper, “Mom’s gonna kill me.” I was supposed to follow her footsteps into science, not detour into teen-mom plotline—except I’m not a teen, I’m twenty-two, and this isn’t a plotline, it’s a fetus. Or a zygote at this stage.
Arabella perches on the counter, shoelace swinging. “Next steps. Clinic in Atlanta on Monday. Confidential.”
I nod, throat raspy.
“And…the father?” She tiptoes around the phrasing.
Three fathers, potentially. My stomach flip-flops. Could be Atticus, Dean, or Colin—same allele pool but wildly differentpaternal realities. Telling them feels impossible. Not telling them feels deceitful.
I croak, “One problem at a time.”
“We keep this between us for now, yeah?”
“Yeah. Tell everyone else I need to rest or something, okay?”
“Of course.”
She leaves, and I lie in my bunk listening to my chalet-mates binge a rom-com downstairs. Every thump of my heart syncs with their laughter. My headache flares behind my eyes—the concussion or panic or both.
I picture embryo cells dividing, oblivious. A weird, fierce protectiveness sparks, colliding with my terror. I can’t keep a houseplant alive longer than a semester. But I want…
I don’t know yet.
Sleep evades me. I thumb through my photo roll—Dad’s new arm, Mom’s soup, three brothers smiling soft in lamplight. That last one is in my head. We never took pictures. It’s against the rules for Just Desserts.
Tears start again, quieter this time. I mute the world under pillow corners, whisper to whatever speck is growing inside. “Hi. Sorry about the crash out. Hang in there. Or don’t. I’m not here to tell you what to do.”
Outside, snow falls—giant flakes this time—dusting eaves, resetting the mountain under fresh white. A blank page. Wish I had one of those right about now.
But for now, I breathe, and let Arabella’s even breathing from her bed across the room anchor me. Maybe the morning will bring a little clarity beneath the mess.
14
ATTICUS
Atlanta’s skylineusually soothes me at night—the clean geometry of lit windows. Simple, tidy. But tonight every window glints like a question I can’t solve. I stand at my penthouse glass wall with a tumbler of neat Japanese whisky I haven’t tasted. My reflection stares back. Silver flattop gone rogue, shoulders squared by habit, espresso-brown eyes weary from hours of pacing hardwood floors. Behind me, the living room’s indirect lighting is dimmed to gallery mode, so my paintings hide in half shadows, and the grand piano looks more like a threat than an instrument.
Dad was explicit in Havana. Hold tight to what you want. Yet tightness is all I feel—no reassuring grip, just tension. Two weeks of endless gym time, philanthropic luncheons, and board consults haven’t diluted the pulse of curiosity, worry, and a gnawing desire todo.
Thalassa Howard has lived in my head rent-free since the morning we left her on the campus steps. Her laugh loops as reliably as a screensaver, sometimes arriving with the faint scent of her shampoo, sometimes with the memory of her eyeswidening in moonlight. I’ve tried journaling, boxing drills, even cold plunges—nothing purges the loop.
It’s been just over a month. My self-discipline—my proudest asset—feels like thin ice cracking under weight. I set the untouched whisky on the bar and walk a quiet lap. Again. Study, dining room, terrace, and back. Hardwood planks creak under bare soles. Even the floor complains of my circling.
Dad’s confession about his wives stunned me—the Thaddeus Copeland I grew up with never admitted insufficiency. But the truth rings in my ears now while I roam my penthouse mausoleum of achievements. A hand-signed cricket bat here, framedFortunecover there. The accolades look strange, like fossils, and the life they were supposed to enhance feels hollow.
What if Thalassa is a key instead of a distraction? The thought scares me more than corporate collapse.
A new anxiety pulses below the desire. What if she’s hurt? What if she needs help? But the truth is, it’s me who needs the help.
My phone sits in the corner like a dare. I circle it three times before giving in. I’m done waiting for something that may never come. I’m a man of action, always.
But right now, I feel like a scared teenage boy with a suffocating crush.
Fuck it. Her name glows. I thumb the call. The ring stabs silence—one, two, thr?—
“Hello?” her voice answers, watery, frayed.
