Page 74 of Filthy Rich Daddies
I lean my head back and close my eyes. The air in the car is too warm. My jacket’s too stiff. I want to tear it all off and sink into something simpler. But I don’t know what that looks like anymore.
This morning, her fingers were tangled in mine. Her head rested against my shoulder. And now? Now I’m not sure she even wants to see me. I deserve that. But fuck, it hurts anyway.
I finally make it to the house when the sun is already starting to sink behind the trees. The mansion feels colder than usual. I’m not sure why I came here. Maybe I was hoping Thalassa would be here.
The silence inside is different now. Louder. Not empty—just full of echoes. Every footstep feels like a reminder. Every breath sounds bigger than it should. I walk through the kitchen, turn on the stove like I’m going to make tea, and then turn it back off again without touching a kettle.
There’s too much noise in here. So I go out to the garden. The air is heavy with damp green things—clover, moss, the first tulips pushing through the soil. The sky’s gone pink at the edges, like it’s trying to apologize for how long today has been.
I walk the perimeter of the hedges, hands in my pockets, and try to make sense of how I ended up here—how something that felt so natural unraveled so fast.
And maybe that’s the real problem.
I’ve spent my whole life making things run smoothly. Knowing what to expect. Reading the room. Controlling the variables. But this—her—it’s all emotion and instinct and heart.
No rules. No control. And I can’t fix it with money. I can’t buy my way back into her trust. That realization sits in my chest like a weight I can’t lift.
I’m in the library when I hear the front door open. It closes gently, like someone’s trying not to disturb the house. Footsteps follow. Unhurried. Confident.
It’s Tic.
He finds me sitting on the edge of the reading chaise with a glass of water I haven’t touched. He takes one look at me and lifts an eyebrow. “You look like you’re bracing for impact.”
“Maybe I am.”
He doesn’t ask for details. He just sits in the leather armchair across from me and crosses one ankle over his knee. He’s always calm. Always composed. I used to think it was because he didn’t feel things the way the rest of us do. Now I think it’s the opposite. He just doesn’t let feelings dictate his actions.
I envy that.
“Did you talk to her?” he asks.
I nod. “I told her about the prosthetic.”
“And?”
“She was grateful,” I say. “But she was also angry.”
“She has a right to be.”
“I know.”
We sit in silence for a long minute. The tick of the grandfather clock behind us is the only sound.
“I didn’t expect it to sting this much,” I admit.
Tic hums. “You didn’t think of it as control.”
“No,” I say, voice low. “I thought of it as kindness.”
“Kindness without consent is still control.”
I close my eyes. Let that truth sink in again.
“She said it was heavy-handed. It has to stop.”
“Do you think she’s wrong?”
I shake my head. “No. But I wish I didn’t feel like I broke something just by doing what I thought was right.”
