Page 88 of Filthy Rich Daddies
A few controlled exhales.
“Second, discretionary spending reviews. Anything over twenty-five K gets routed through legal and ops. We’re not doing another spa retreat for ‘team morale’ anytime soon.”
One of the women coughs, unsuccessfully covering a laugh.
“Third,” I say, “effective next quarter, five percent of Copeland Restaurants’ net global profits will be diverted to a new environmental foundation focused on conserving Puerto Rico’s endemic species.”
Now they blink.
One of them—a younger man with a Wall Street haircut and a new tie—raises a hand hesitantly. “Sir, just to clarify…is this in response to the recent—uh—publicity concerns?”
“No,” I say calmly. “It’s in response to a need. A need that has existed for years. The money will go to the foundation, whichwill, in turn, fund both independent research and the expansion of an existing ecological station on a privately held island. The board will be named next month. Oversight will come from a panel I’ve already recruited.”
Someone nods slowly. Another taps notes into a spreadsheet. No one dares object. They can’t. Not yet. And I’m not giving them the opportunity.
After they leave, I stay in the room a moment longer.
The windows face east. Sunlight pools across the glass tabletop. I stare at my reflection, then down at the list I didn’t show them.
On it, a full operations grant for the next five years of research. A new equipment shipment. Housing expansion. Scholarships for field students who want to study there. Enough to change lives.
I keep thinking about Thalassa’s parents. About their cottage and their small boat. Small, according to Tic, could mean a kayak or a thirty-foot yacht. But it doesn’t matter. Their important work was barely surviving.
Not anymore.
Tic’s project—his new center for ecological outreach—won’t drain his personal funds. Not with this in place. And Thalassa’s parents won’t have to worry about the longevity of their research. They’ll be able to hire a team. Build labs. Do more than anyone ever gave them credit for.
And they’ll never know it was me. That matters.
She asked us to stop doing things behind her back. And I meant it when I said I’d try. But I also believe in leaving people better than we found them. Sometimes that means writing a check and walking away. Sometimes that means not being thanked.
I’m fine with that. What I’m not fine with is letting the opportunity pass.
Tic arrives just after ten. True to form, he knocks once on the door and walks in without waiting. I close my laptop and gesture for him to sit. He doesn’t. He rarely does, unless necessary.
Instead, he crosses the room to examine the slides still displayed on the far wall—projected graphs of the company’s current quarterly breakdown and a few summary pages I haven’t dismissed yet.
“I heard about the foundation,” he says without turning around.
Of course he did.
“I know you were planning to fund the station privately. I just thought—if we have the means, it shouldn’t fall on your shoulders alone.”
Tic looks back at me slowly. I’ve seen him surprised before, but never caught off guard. “I didn’t tell anyone about that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
His eyes narrow slightly. “Dean…”
“I know it’s not what she wanted,” I interrupt. “Not exactly. But it’s not behind her back either. The foundation is public. Transparent. She’ll see the paperwork. She’ll connect the dots. If she asks, I’ll tell her the truth.”
He studies me for another long moment. Then, finally, he nods. “Thank you.”
That’s all he says, but coming from Tic, it carries weight.
“I figured you’d rather spend your money on something a little more…impractical,” I say lightly.
“I’d like to keep a few indulgences, yes,” he replies. “I’m considering installing a private flamenco studio.”
