Page 65 of Filthy Rich Daddies
Thank God.
They’re both here, both looking like hell in different ways—Dean with his jaw clenched and his button-down rumpled, Tic in all black like he just walked out of a boardroom funeral.
But they’re calm. And somehow that helps.
“They’re with us,” Dean repeats, and the nurse nods, just like that.
Money talks. Or maybe it’s his voice. Or maybe the Copeland name still carries more weight than I understand.
Whatever it is, we barrel down the halls. Tic says, “He fainted from exhaustion and dehydration. They have him hooked up to a bunch of monitors. It looks gnarly, but he’ll be alright.”
Hearing the words makes my knees go weak, but I stay on my feet. I won’t believe it until I see him with my own eyes. We get to his room faster than I expect and far too slowly for my liking.
Colin’s room is warm and too quiet, except for the soft beeping of the heart monitor and the low hum of a machine I don’t recognize. He’s awake, thank God, and sitting up, though he looks like he’s been steamrolled by a truck full of regret and caffeine.
When he sees me, his face lights up. “Hey, sweets.”
“Don’t youHey, sweetsme,” I snap, moving to the side of the bed and smacking his arm lightly. “You scared the hell out of me. Don’t you ever do that again!”
“Ow,” he says, but he grins. “Yes, ma’am.”
“You’re an idiot.”
“That was never in question.”
Arabella slides into a chair by the window. “He looks like shit.”
“My hearing works, thanks,” Colin mutters.
Dean comes to stand on the other side of the bed. Tic doesn’t sit—he just leans against the wall like a silent sentry.
“You gave us a scare,” Dean says, voice low.
“Yeah, well.” Colin shrugs, then winces. “Turns out fifty straight hours of system triage without sleep is not, medically speaking, great.”
“Imagine that,” I deadpan. “Science confirms the human body needs rest. I’m sure that’ll be the headline.”
Colin smiles at me, and something inside me softens just a little too much. “I’m fine. Really.”
Dean shoots him a look. “You fainted on camera.”
“Dramatically,” Tic adds. “Could’ve waited until after the conference.”
Colin rolls his eyes. “Thanks for the support, fellas.”
“We’re just glad you’re okay,” I say quietly.
I mean it. God, I mean it.
A nurse comes in and gives him juice. Like, actual apple juice in a little paper cup with a plastic lid and a bendy straw. And for some reason, that’s the thing that makes it all real.
This man—this absolute menace of a tech genius, who regularly rebuilds networks from scratch and once set up a baby growth alert system just so I wouldn’t get surprised by anything—is sipping hospital juice like a middle schooler after a blood draw.
It’s almost funny. If I weren’t still shaking.
I sit in the chair beside his bed and curl one knee up to my chest, trying to ground myself. It’s getting harder to sit like that—my stomach feels tight these days.
Tic stands just inside the door, arms crossed, scanning the hallway like he’s expecting paparazzi to burst in at any moment.Dean is sitting now too, in the chair across from me, one leg crossed over the other, chin resting in his hand as he watches Colin with a kind of exhausted fondness. Arabella’s on her phone, probably texting half the universe with updates.
