Page 39 of Filthy Rich Daddies
“Arabella—allegedly her best friend—delivered the news. She’s protective, hostile, and not wrong.” I pause to admit what they haven’t asked. “I called to check in on her. Yes, I know that breaks sugar daddy protocol, but I can’t be bothered to give a damn right now. Thalassa’s voice…she sounds so fucking lost that I can’t take it. Arabella stole the phone and told me everything. She’s angry on Thalassa’s behalf.”
Dean’s analytic brain kicks into gear. “Timeline?”
“Had to be Thanksgiving, right? It’s too early for it to be anything else.”
Colin runs both hands through his hair, then gets on his phone. “Give me a minute.”
Dean rubs his temple. “This is a lot.”
I nod. “Drink?”
“I think I’d rather be sober right now.” He huffs a laugh. “How weird is that?”
“Got it,” Colin says, still staring at his phone. “The hospital’s firewall is garbage, fuck. They should hire me?—”
“What are you seeing?”
He slowly nods. “Concussion listed as mild. Lots of bruising…apparently some asshole crashed into her on the slopes. And she’s four weeks pregnant, if we align the doctor’s estimates with what she told them.”
Dean nods instantly. “Then we go to the resort. I’ll contact our pilot?—”
Colin lifts a finger. “Hold. Consent. Does Thalassa want us there? Showing up unannounced could magnify her stress, which has to be pretty fucking high right now.”
I grind back a growl. “She got off the phone mid-panic. You didn’t hear her, Colin. She sounded terrified. I can’t just sit here, wondering how she’s doing.”
Dean says to Colin, gentler, “We owe her a choice, yes. But duty demands proximity.”
Colin exhales. “Okay. We go but stay flexible. She might slam the door right in our faces, and she has every right to do so.”
“Deal. Dean, call Hank. Let’s get moving on this.” While he gets our pilot on the line, I set up a rental SUV, and Colin checks into the resort website, pulling the chalet layout to ensure the stairs won’t aggravate her concussion. He searches OB offices within fifty miles and flags Dr. Norris, board-certified, high-risk pregnancies, accepts walk-ins. Can’t be too careful.
I’m mindful of the fact that we’re coming in hot on this. We should present a united front of calm, not a corporate takeover.When things slow for a moment, I clear my throat. “Guys, what outcome are we working toward?”
The question makes the room fall silent for a beat. Colin shrugs. “Her body, her choice, right? I think we just want to be her support staff for the time being. Let her take the lead.”
Dean nods. “She’s in a shit situation. If there’s a way we can make it better, then that’s our job.”
“And while we’re at it, let’s call Jeff.”
Dean sets his phone on speaker. Our attorney answers, bleary from the late hour. Dean scripts what-ifs. Prenatal expenses, guardianship, trust vehicles, even emailed NDAs for resort staff and others. I half listen, jaw tight, eyes on the resort webcam showing quiet snow-dusty chalets under a cold moon.
Plans are locked by one a.m. Colin’s eyes are bloodshot, yet he’s still fine-tuning altitude oxygen projections for concussion safety and cross-checking avalanche forecasts because apparently that’s how his anxiety manifests.
Dean is all practical logistics. The pilot, the lawyer. He’s even put out a few emails to nutritionists who specialize in prenatal nutrition. They leave to pack, and now, my place feels stifling.
I should be by her side. I should never have let her leave my sight.
Packing should take ten minutes, yet I stand in the closet staring at rows of suits. None fit the situation. I select charcoal slacks, cashmere crewneck—soft, approachable. Then a wool peacoat because Colorado nights bite.
I toss clothes in my carry-on, zipper teeth loud in the night hush. Inside, fear asks too many questions. What if she rejects help?What if pregnancy complications arise? Other triggers? How do three men divide fatherhood? Could we fracture her life more than enrich it?
I kneel by the suitcase, breathing steady. Four counts inhale, four hold, four exhale. Fear won’t win tonight, and I can’t get the answers to those questions if I’m having a damn panic attack.
Before sunrise, we reconvene over protein bars and black coffee in the hangar. I find my voice edging authoritarian. They don’t push back. “Touch any topic only if she initiates,” I decree. “No blame, no shock projections.”
Dean lifts a mug. “Agreed.”
Colin nods but slips a phone into his pocket. “Prepared an app for fetal development if she wants it. No pressure.”
