Page 41 of Filthy Rich Daddies
I’ve spent most of my adult life assuming fatherhood was optional. Like owning a sailboat—pleasant in theory, impractical in practice. Restaurants birthed enough offspring equivalents. New concepts, market expansions, every kind of growth. Eachstore opening arrived swaddled in risk, consumed nights and weekends, and demanded tuition in sweat.
The children of my choosing, all without diapers.
Except some nights—especially the ones ending in my silent penthouse—my mind drifted to domestic hush. Saturday mornings with a toddler perched on my shoulders, batter splattering on marble countertops. The stay-at-home-dad life. The thought glows in the back of my mind nightly.
I never told Tic or Colin. In boardroom culture, fatherhood dreams read as vulnerabilities. So I locked them away, safe under layers of quarterly goals. Now a live possibility stirs somewhere in Colorado, and I’m flooded with a frightening but alluring hope.
I set the espresso on the mahogany credenza, gripping the edge until the wood creaks. Not the time for hope—we owe open support, not pressure. She might choose termination, adoption, or she could lose the pregnancy, anything. We back her, no matter what.
I inhale that truth, let it settle like a clause in a contract. It doesn’t smother the embryo of yearning, but it reminds me that professional distance can coexist with personal devotion.
Returning to my seat, I ask Colin for a brief on the concussion report he hijacked.
“The CT scan is clear. Mild contusion. They gave her acetaminophen, recommended forty-eight hours of cognitive rest.” He bites his nail. “Altitude’s mild. We’ll bring a portable oximeter, but the risk to her is negligible.”
Tic nods approval, then levels a gaze at me. “If anyone outside of us finds out before we know anything for real, we’re fucked.”
“Marcus,” Colin growls under his breath.
“He wouldn’t do anything to hurt us, Colin,” I say firmly. But a lingering question nags in the back of my mind. Marcus was clearly disappointed when Atticus chose me as his successor. Will he flip out if the media discovers a baby scandal? Will the board panic about succession optics?
Irrelevant. The baby outranks optics.
Besides, Marcus is a thousand years old. He’s experienced bigger disappointments than not being named CEO. He’s practically our grandfather. He won’t stir the pot.
Tic senses the rift, chooses not to pry. Instead, he closes the textbook and folds his hands. “Gentlemen,” he says, formal, a leader again. “Scenario A—she welcomes us. Scenario B—she politely declines. Either way, we provide health resources and disappear if requested.”
Colin and I nod. Tic’s tone fortifies my own unvoiced vow. No coercion, only support.
Yet a selfish part of me whispers,please choose us. I imagine reading a bedtime story—maybeIsland of the Blue Dolphins—beside an infant who chews the pages. I clamp down on the fantasy, redirect to logistics.
“Her privacy must be bulletproof,” I add. “Hence the NDAs for every chalet staffer and whoever is staying with Thalassa.”
“Agreed.”
Colin toggles the screen. “Also setting a geofence around the chalet for paparazzi drones. Counter-UAV firmware locked.”
Leave it to my brother to treat fatherhood like cybersecurity. My chest warms. “That might be overkill.”
He grins. “There’s no kill like overkill.”
The jet pierces cirrus clouds, and sunrise detonates tangerine along the horizon. Flying west means chasing the morning. Light spills through oval windows, slicing cabin gold.
Tic stands, paces aisle once, stops beside me. “You’re quiet.”
“Cognition overload,” I reply. He waits. Fine. He wants more. “She may not want a baby. We respect that. But if she does want…” My throat closes. Admission hovers. I swallow. “If she does, I intend to allocate resources.”
A half smile ghosts his mouth. “As do I.”
“Same,” Colin adds.
Hank announces descent into the local airport. Mountains jag upward, snow cresting the peaks. I register them like problem graphs—steep, majestic, solvable. Elements that stand between me and my goal.
On the tarmac, we transfer to a black Tahoe rental. Cold air claws my lungs—dry, high-altitude. As I clip my seat belt, I clear my throat. The time for nervousness has passed. The SUV slips onto the highway. Pines blur. Snowbanks stack roadside like frosted ramparts. My nerves buzz beneath cashmere, but excitement swells too—an energy that feels eerily like pre-grand-opening adrenaline multiplied by forever.
If she cannot or will not raise this child, I will.
I would trade boardrooms for playgrounds, turn meeting decks into bedtime forts, and memorize dinosaur taxonomy instead of P&L variances. The longing sits ready, willing, and able. All she has to do is say the word.
