Page 40 of Filthy Rich Daddies
My protectiveness, once clinical, feels primal now—like a tectonic plate locking. “Any threat must break against me first. This is territory defense. She’s ours to protect until she says otherwise.”
Dean says softly, “Tic, we’re with you. Not under you.”
“Sorry,” I concede, shoulders lowering. “Old CEO habits die hard.”
Sunrise hints purple along the horizon. The city hums low in the distance. An ache in my chest sets up residence, and Dad’s words echo in my head again.Hold tight.
I will.
15
DEAN
The Gulfstream G700eases off the tarmac with the frictionless grace only thirty thousand pounds of thrust and Hank Waller’s steady hands can deliver. Hank has captained Copeland jets for thirteen years. He still tips his cap every time we board, as though we don’t know him. Cap tipped, cabin door sealed, engines spooled, and now Atlanta’s grid of streetlights vanishes under a slate dawn.
Inside, cabin lighting glows amber—low enough to keep our circadian rhythms intact, bright enough to read the stack of Q4 variance reports in my lap. The leather seat cradles me, custom-formed to my body.
Creature comfort has never felt quite this irrelevant.
Across the aisle, Tic reviews a hardbound obstetrics textbook he apparently ordered at three this morning. Pages turn quietly, but every so often he stops, presses two fingers to his temple, then continues—his version of pacing while seated.
Colin lounges farther aft where he can plug into the fuselage server, hoodie hood up like a monk’s cowl. On his screen—apregnancy tracker program he coded in his downtime between finding out about the pregnancy and arriving at the airport. According to him, the ones on the market are sneaky tools to sell user data—can’t trust them. Now, tiny gray blobs swim across a black background. He clicks measurements, frowns, and adjusts algorithm constants.
The elephant invisible yet everywhere makes the pressurized air feel ten percent denser. Impending fatherhood. To avoid being crushed, we pretend to care about mundane tasks.
Tic quietly asks, “Is it just me, or are the letters on the page dancing?”
“It’s not just you.”
He looks up from his book. “The office. How goes it?”
It’s been a while since he’s asked about the job I took over. “Good. Harold is still bugging Jennifer about a company retreat this spring, Marcus is…Marcus. Dave?—”
“I mean you, Dean. It’s a lot to wrangle a board and a corporation as large as ours. How are you holding up?”
Somehow, I don’t think we’re talking about the business anymore. “As good as I can be. How’s retirement?”
His shoulders pop. A silent laugh. “About as good as it can be, I suppose.” He drifts back to his book, which is fine by me.
My jealousy over his retirement tastes like bitter herbs.
I open a binder and force attention onto the first chart. Ingredient-cost inflation across protein categories. My brain reads numbers but files nothing. Instead, it assembles imagesat random speed. Thalassa’s freckles. Tiny pajamas hung to dry. Me handing a plushie dinosaur to little hands…
Focus, Dean.
I clear my throat. “Protein costs up three point six percent. Weather events are hammering the feed supply. Might be time to hedge futures.” My voice sounds steady. My pulse says different. “There was that one investor who brought up an experimental vegan restaurant. Might not be a bad time for that.”
Tic looks up, glasses caught half-down his nose. “Make the call Monday,” he says absentmindedly. His thumb taps the page margin where he’s scribbled a question mark next to “gestational hypertension.”
Colin swivels. “Vegans are picky, but there’s less volatility in the market. Makes sense to me.”
I arch a brow. “Since when do you care about the food end of the business?”
He shrugs. “Since we’re about to be dads. Gotta keep the business running long-term now.”
Atticus huffs at that, but says nothing.
We lapse quiet again. Hank’s voice crackles over the intercom. “Cabin safe. You’re free to move.” Good. I stand to pour espresso from the galley and discover my knees are weak—nerves, not altitude.
