Page 100 of Filthy Rich Daddies
She snorts a laugh. “Not that part. You said biologically, andlogicallyis a part of biologically, and logically speaking, these kids are as much yours as they are Colin’s and Dean’s. We can do some DNA testing if you want?—”
“No. It’s not necessary.”
“Good. You were there when they were created, Tic. That’s all I care about, as far as paternity goes. Does it bother you?”
I swallow against the knot in my throat. “No. I just never thought I’d get a second chance like this one.”
She studies me for a long beat. “Second chances are good for everyone.”
“I’ve been thinking the same thing.” I scoot onto the bed, and she falls asleep curled against my chest.
It happens gradually, the way all the most meaningful things in life seem to—without ceremony, without warning, like breath leaving a windowpane in winter. She’s talking, or half-talking, murmuring something about the babies and needing more cocoa butter, when her voice just trails off. A sigh follows. Her arm tightens around my ribs.
Then silence. Her breaths come slower. Deeper.
I stare up at the ceiling, one arm around her, the other draped protectively across her belly, and wonder how I got here.
Safe. Warm. Within reach.
Serena comes to me sometimes in dreams. She never speaks. She just looks at me, and I wake up wondering what it means that she’s still there, even now.
But tonight I don’t think she’ll visit. Tonight, I don’t feel haunted. I feel…filled.
I shift slightly so I can kiss Thalassa’s temple, brushing her hair back from her forehead. She stirs a little but doesn’t wake. Her body fits against mine like she was carved there.
She trusts me. Not just with her safety, but with her story. Her fear. Her future. That is no small thing.
When I lost Serena, I made a vow—never again. I wouldn’t love that way again. Wouldn’t risk it. Wouldn’t drown in the ache of almosts and never agains.
But vows made in grief aren’t promises. They’re armor. And Thalassa has undone mine piece by piece, without ever asking me to take it off.
I exhale slowly, and my breath doesn’t catch this time. I let myself close my eyes. Let myself want. Let myself breathe.
35
DEAN
It starts with a cough.
Just a dry, harmless sound from across the library. I look up from my tablet, where I’ve been reviewing financial updates and debating whether it’s too early to order lunch, and I see her at the long table under the windows, surrounded by envelopes.
She’s sorting through applications—graduate programs from every coast and continent. She’s glowing with focus. She looks tired, but proud. Every few seconds, she writes something down or murmurs a thought to herself.
I smile. I love watching her think.
Then she coughs again. This one is sharper. She sets her pen down. She shifts in her seat, pressing her palm to her stomach. Her brows furrow. Then she exhales slowly.
“Dean?” she calls, voice too steady to be true calm.
I’m already standing. “Yes?”
Her eyes meet mine. “I think it’s time.”
There’s no chaos. Not at first.
We’ve trained for this, in our way—bags packed, hospital codes memorized, team briefed. The car is always gassed. Colin and Tic appear within seconds, already sliding into roles like we’re preparing for a mission instead of delivering children. Calm, practiced. We move like a machine.
But my heartbeat betrays me. It thunders.
