Page 103 of Filthy Rich Daddies
I’m their father.
I’ve said the word a hundred times in the past few months—usually in theory, often in planning. I’ve discussed co-parenting schedules, legal guardianship, installing new locks and baby monitors, and restructuring trust funds. I’ve even filled out paperwork marked “father.”
But this? This is different.
This is me holding a child in my arms and knowing, without hesitation, that I would give anything—everything—for her safety. That I’d take on fire or loss or pain if it meant she’d be okay. That I want to be there for every scraped knee, every nightmare, every crooked tooth and every graduation.
It’s easy to say you’d die for your children. Dying is easy. But living for them? That’s the hard thing. Dedicating your life to making sure you’re doing your damnedest to stay healthy and sane every single day, that’s the challenge of parenthood.
I will show up for the assignment every time. A sound escapes me—somewhere between a laugh and a breath and maybe even a sob. I don’t care. No one comments.
Colin is curled in the armchair with Calla, whispering something about calculus and pudding cups and server stations. Tic is quietly texting from the window bench, no doubt notifying a dozen departments of the birth in efficient, bullet-point style.
And me?
I just hold Aurelia and sway gently, like I’ve done this a thousand times. Somehow, I know already that it will never get old.
The sun starts to set, casting long bands of golden light across the floor. Eventually, the nurse returns to check Thalassa’s blood pressure. She blinks awake, squints at the clock, then at all of us. “You haven’t eaten,” she says groggily. “Any of you.”
“I’m fine,” I answer automatically.
She frowns. “That wasn’t a suggestion. Go get food.”
“I’m not leaving you.”
She gestures toward the tray beside her. “You’re going to pass out, and then I’ll have to raise three babies instead of two. We’ve had enough passing out in this family.”
Colin snorts. Tic looks up. “She’s not wrong.”
I sigh, shift Aurelia gently into the bassinet, and stretch. My back cracks in protest. I hadn’t even noticed how stiff I was until now.
“I’ll go get something,” I promise.
“And water,” Thalassa calls. “You guys are all dehydrated.”
“We should’ve made her a general,” Colin mutters. “Commanding entire battalions already.”
We leave her briefly, the three of us shuffling down to the cafeteria for something vaguely edible. I order two of everything, just in case, and bring it all back up in a paper bag balanced in one arm.
When we return, she’s asleep again. Both girls are sleeping too.
And the room is quiet. Not tense. Not strained. Just…soft.
I sit. Peel open a container. Force myself to eat. Halfway through the sandwich, I pause.
Look at them. Look at her. And let it land. This is my family.
A weird, wonderful, illogically constructed family that no one on paper would believe—but one that works. Thatthrives.
I’ve been many things. A brother. A strategist. A planner. A businessman. Now I get to be a father. And somehow, despite everything I feared, everything I doubted…it feels exactly right.
EPILOGUE
COLIN
Gettingthe babies home takes a freaking army.
We’re not even five minutes into it, and I already feel like I’ve survived a tactical deployment. Two car seats, two diaper bags, two backup diaper bags (because Dean insisted), extra wipes, formula, the breast pump, snacks for Thalassa, and the portable white noise machine that Tic swears by even though it sounds like a haunted humidifier.
