Page 46 of Filthy Rich Daddies
What am I doing?
Crackling fear overrides sense. I left without a note—ghosted men who literally hopped on a jet to check on me. They said no pressure, yet some part of me panicked at the tenderness. They looked at me like I already mattered more than anything. I’ve never mattered that much to anyone outside family—and even there, my value was always science prodigy daughter, not the center of the solar system.
How could this work? It can’t. I know that. Even if they don’t.
It’s too fast. Too bright. I’ve known them for what, a month? Kind of? But my heart does this weird cardio whenever they smile. My body knows them intimately. My brain is playing catch-up. I can’t decide life-altering stuff while hormones are ping-ponging like stray electrons.
So I bolted.
The bleep of gas gauge at half makes me flinch. I stopped at the gas station and forgot to get gas. Yeah, I’m a genius.
My head still aches, bruise throbs, and somewhere deeper a tiny cluster of cells is silently splitting. Snow ghosts swirl across asphalt like unfinished sentences.
Thankfully, I make it to the Denver airport at dawn. It’s a fluorescent fortress full of ski-boot percussion. I ditch the Jeep, limp through baggage check, and buy a standby seat on the earliest flight to Atlanta. The credit-card swipe feels like larceny, but that money is mine. I more than earned it, I’d say.
Gate C24 is purgatory. I sit near a defunct charging station, hood up, earbuds in with no music. People around me smell like peppermint gum and travel excitement. I smell like fear sweat, I’m sure of it.
My phone starts going off with texts.
Dean texts:How’s the head?
Tic sends:Breakfast soon?
Colin sends a GIF of the blanket fort with sad face.
I stare, tears pricking. Can’t reply. Not yet.
I board the flight and wedge my currently slender self into the middle seat between a snoring businessman and a teenage girl knitting something neon. She nods politely, and I mouth hi. The plane pushes skyward.
Hours later, touchdown ATL. Humidity hugs my bruises like sandpaper, but it smells like home. A rideshare takes me to campus.
What if they think I’m kidnapped? They have security staff—could track my phone probably. I have it off. I should text:I’m alive. But I can’t.
On campus, winter-dead oaks drip condensation. My heart hammers as I unlock my dorm room door. Really, I should let them know?—
I yelp when I see someone on my bed. It’s Arabella, cross-legged, paint-chip sample in hand like she’s redesigning my life.
Her eyes snap up—mascara smudged, fury on simmer. She crosses her arms. “Thought you’d ghost me too?”
Shame floods. “Arabella?—”
She holds up her palm. “First, yes, I beat your stealth Uber. Geo-tag was child’s play. Second, I haven’t slept since you Houdinied at four this morning. I slept on the couch, if youcan call it sleeping, but I thought you needed private time with your billionaires since the four of you barely left the room yesterday. Third, I brought backup snacks.” She jerks her chin at the bedside crate stocked with Saltines, ginger chews, prenatal vitamins, and a plush koala.
The plush breaks my last defense. I drop my backpack, collapse against the door, and cry. Not neat movie tears—full-body ugly sobs that wobble the dorm door on its hinges. Arabella’s expression softens tothere we go.
She pats the space beside her. I sink down, bury my face in her hoodie. Snot exchanges happen. After shock waves subside, she hands me a tissue mountain.
“Talk,” she says.
I tell her everything, including their texts that make me feel like shit. Cared-for, but still shit.
She sighs. “I’d’ve driven too but, babe, text the rescue squad next time. They’re probably hacking the TSA to find you.”
My phone vibrates—eleven missed calls now. I switch it to airplane mode again.
Arabella leans back. “So. Options time?”
My heart stutters. I rub my temple. “Everything’s a tangle. Grad apps, next semester, Dad’s new arm, three maybe-dads. Baby. I don’t know which string to pull first.”
