Page 10 of Filthy Rich Daddies
I was eight, soldering LEDs to a breadboard. Some habits calcify.
I key into HQ—fluorescent silence, still air conditioning, floor-to-ceiling windows frowning over a deserted Peachtree. The building feels like the inside of a sleeping dragon, its potential heat curled under stone ribs.
The server room first. Fans buzz, LED constellations pulse. Forty minutes, eighty keystrokes later, and response times settlelike skittish birds. I leave a note in the comment history:Emergency patch. Flag CFO for retroactive approval.
Marcus will scowl at unauthorized spending, but customer retention metrics will muzzle him.
Back in my glass-walled office, I perch on the edge of the couch—a mid-century reproduction I splurged on after reading an article claiming Eames balanced cortisol. Sure, why not.
I open my laptop, but instead of spreadsheets, the Just Desserts dashboard greets me. A message from Thalassa springs up:Let me know the preferred dress code for Friday dinner so I can practice walking in heels.
The mental image—her pacing a dorm hallway, wobbling, giggling—hits me hard. She’s either actually this endearing, or she knows how to play the game, and isn’t a virgin at all.
I prefer to believe she’s who she says she is, so I respond with:Black-tie option for dinner. Practice optional; we’re decent spotters.
The clock reads 03:22. If I go home now, I’ll sleep maybe two hours before the East Coast scrum call. But my skull hums too loud for sleep. I set my phone toDo Not Disturb except VIPs—brothers, on-call team, Dad. Dad rarely calls, but the habit’s muscle memory.
Before closing the tab, I scroll one more time through her gallery. Nine images, each candid. Each tells the story of a young woman who embraces life. Pictures in parks, in a library, in a lab. She has a sweet, uneven grin and dresses casually.
In short, she’s the perfect person to spoil, and we’re the right men for the job.
5
THALASSA
If a museum,a spaceship, and a wedding cake had a baby, it would be the lobby of the Atlanta St. Gevaudin. Ivory marble in every direction, and every surface either glitters or reflects my panicked, painted face back at me. There’s a crystal chandelier longer than my freshman-year dorm and a live pianist whose tux probably costs more than my car—fine, more than myfuturecar, because I still don’t have one.
Focus. You’re here on purpose.
I smooth my dress (actually, it’s Arabella’s) and tell the part of my brain screamingBail out!to take a seat. The Vine Bar is off the lobby, all navy velvet and walnut bookcases. I spot them instantly—three men who look like they walked off the cover ofForbesand accidentally into my life.
Atticus—Tic in the group chat—has short silver hair that belongs in a whisky commercial. He’s tall and muscular; even his expensive midnight-blue suit can’t hide that.
Dean stands next to him, his shoulder-length silvery brown hair neatly tied back. While Tic is tall and muscular, Dean is broaderand heavier with muscle. I can imagine him tackling football fields or boardrooms, given how well his black suit fits him.
And then there’s Colin. His hair is unusually white at his age—a silver fox if ever there was one. His suit is just as dark as the others, but green in just the right lighting.
The predatory glint in their eyes spikes my blood pressure in a good way, and suddenly, I’m all the more determined to make this work. The outfit, the purpose of the long weekend, the reason I’m not seeing my parents for the holiday—it all has to work.
Do not wobble on Arabella’s heels—she will kill you if you break them.
“Thalassa?” Tic says as soon as I reach the table. His voice is low and smooth—decaf Sinatra. “We’re glad you made it.”
“Weather cooperated,” I joke, even though the weather is ninety degrees and humid becauseAtlanta. Colin laughs, which gives me enough confidence to slide into the booth.
“So,” Dean says, folding his hands like we’re in a job interview. “Rapid-fire icebreakers?”
“Bring it.”
“First line on your bucket list?”
“Get to know you guys.”
Dean raises an eyebrow, considering. “Favorite weird science fact?”
“My favorite? Not sure I have one. But pistol shrimp snap their claws so fast they make a plasma bubble hotter than the sun, andthen they stun fish with sound. They’re basically tiny undersea Marvel villains.”
The three of them actually smile, and I feel weirdly victorious.
