Page 1 of Filthy Rich Daddies
1
THALASSA
The second handon the biochem lab clock stutters like it’s as exhausted as the rest of us. 3:59 p.m. I swear it’s been 3:59 for the past seven years. A neon buzz whines from the light over station six, flickering Morse-code threats at my retinas. Petri dishes—fifty of them, each smeared with agar—perch on the stainless-steel countertop, judging my academic worth.
I drag one last measured line beneath my data table, sign my initials with a flourish that looks confident if you don’t get too close, then snap the lab notebook shut. Done. Ish. My handwriting tilts uphill like it’s trying to ski already, and I’m just hoping I can do the same.
Across the bench, Becca Torres bounces on the balls of her platform sneakers, purple ombré ponytail bobbing. Despite the greenish fluorescent lab lights, her medium brown skin still manages to glow. But that’s Becca. Give her enough energy drinks, and she could power the world.
She’s five-foot-nothing of caffeinated optimism, double-majoring in Pre-Med and Theater becausewhy not?—her actual words. Glitter stars cling to her cheekbones, residue from lastnight’s K-pop dance rehearsal. She brandishes a pen like a mic and sings, off-key, “Free-eeeedoooom!” before laughing at my eye roll.
“Think Professor Ahmed’ll notice if the colonies look like a Jackson Pollock tribute?” she asks.
“Only if he takes off his glasses.” I pull off my gloves, powdered latex creasing into ghostly fingerprints on my palms. Maybe one day, tuition will cover decent nitrile gloves, but today is not that day. “You’re safe.”
On Becca’s far side sits Arabella Von Castell, the queen bee of our little friend circle. She occupies the splintery wooden stool the way royalty occupies a velvet throne—long legs crossed just so, spine arrow-straight, glossy golden hair bound in a perfect bun. Even her goggles look designer, matte-black frames curved to match the angles of her cat-eye liner.
Arabella flips a page in her journal, notes immaculate as calligraphy. “Thalassa, you’ve got hydrochloric acid on your sleeve,” she murmurs, voice smooth as a jazz sax riff. “And by ‘sleeve’ I mean ‘entire sweatshirt.’”
I glance down. Sure enough, a constellation of pale flecks are splattered across the faded “Peach State University” logo. The sweatshirt came from a thrift store’s ninety-nine-cent bin; still, my stomach pinches. Another thing I can’t afford to replace. I shrug. “Adds character.”
“Adds holes.” Arabella quirks a brow, but there’s no malice. Texas-sized pity, maybe, but no sting.
The clock finally clicks to four, and we’re allowed to flee. We rinse glassware, disinfect benches, and sign the checkout sheet, Becca drawing little hearts around our initials. The TA throws usa salvation-has-arrived wave, and we tumble into the corridor’s stale air.
Outside, mid-November sun slants over campus like gold foil. Peach State’s walkways echo underfoot, littered with ginkgo leaves the color of butter. Some students lug laundry baskets toward the parking garage, some dribble basketballs on their way to the rec, everyone buzzing with the promise of five days away from midterms, meal swipes, and Wednesday-only morning classes.
Becca links her arm through mine. Her sleeves smell faintly of bubblegum dryer sheets. “Okay, agenda,” she says, adopting her I-mean-business voice. “Pack, dorm fridge purge, I-75 road-trip playlist—there’s a three-hour cut that’s ninety percent Dua Lipa you’ll love—then Aspen money plotting.”
I bite my lip. Time to fake breezy. “Sure. Aspen plotting.”
Becca’s oblivious grin falters. She’s known me since Honors Chemistry freshman year, which means she can spot my forced chill from a mile away. “You are coming, right?”
I open my mouth, but air whooshes out instead of words. Aspen. Two weeks over winter break in a glass-walled mansion perched on the side of a Colorado mountain. Private chef, private ski instructor, the works.
Arabella’s idea, obviously.
The price tag—twenty thousand dollars—glows in my brain like a hazard warning. I currently possess precisely one hundred twenty-seven dollars and forty-three cents. Plus, an emergency twenty folded behind my debit card because Dad says you never know when you’ll need cash for tolls or Band-Aids or a Snickers bar that’ll save your life.
“Hmm.” Becca’s humming means she’s problem-solving. “Could sell a kidney?”
I snort. “I won’t heal in time to hit the slopes.”
We reach the quad. Its manicured lawn slopes toward a koi pond circled with picnic tables. The water glitters, an innocent mirror, but my stomach flips. I snap my gaze away. Becca follows the motion, noting the micro-flinch, then squeezes my elbow. No questions. She knows I don’t do water. She doesn’t push. That’s why she’s my favorite.
Arabella catches up, sneakers whisper-quiet on the pavement. She must’ve taken a detour because she’s swapped her lab coat for an ivory athleisure set—cropped sweatshirt, leggings with mesh cutouts, the whole outfit conspiring to look effortless and cost more than my rent. Elegant, and yet, somehow, she looks naked from a distance.
“Come on, slowpokes.” She nods toward the dorms. “We’ve got a trig final to pretend to study for.”
My room qualifies as “cozy” the way real estate agents talk about studio apartments. It’s eight floors up, eleven feet wide, a single window that frames the concrete parking deck. The cinder-block walls sport exactly three décor items—a fairy-light string that burns one of its bulbs every week, a tiny potted fern valiantly dying on the sill, and the glossy Aspen brochure Arabella shoved into my backpack last month.
The brochure shows a chalet that looks grown from glass and cedar. The driveway is long enough to land a small plane, the mountains behind are frosted like bakery cakes, and the outdoor fire feature glows in the pink sunset light. I keep thepicture because it reminds me that real snow exists—cold water behaving itself, staying horizontal and predictable.
Becca collapses on the braided-rag rug, scattering flashcards like tarot. Organic Chemistry Doom is our Thanksgiving homework. Arabella appropriates my rolling chair, crossing her legs so the leggings’ mesh gleams. I plug in the electric kettle, rummage for chamomile bags, and will my bank app not to vibrate.
It vibrates anyway:Payment posted—$45.00.
Perfect.
