Page 29 of Filthy Rich Daddies
I picture Thalassa—a smattering of freckles like constellation fragments, a laugh that expands any room’s oxygen capacity. She materializes behind my eyelids without warning. In a robe on the penthouse balcony, taking her first bite of caviar. In Colin’s stolen hoodie, smearing hot sauce on her eggs. In Dean’s arms, standing taller than fear.
She shouldn’t still be haunting me. It’s ludicrous, and I know it. We agreed to a finite weekend—money paid, memories made, clock out. Sugar daddies don’t do encores.
Yet she floats in my headspace like a message in a bottle.
“I met someone,” I say, shocking myself more than him.
Dad’s eyebrows shoot north. “Atticus Montgomery Copeland—volunteering personal information? I hardly believe it.”
I rake fingers through my hair. “She’s…remarkable. College senior. For Thanksgiving, we arranged a fun weekend, just me, her, and the twins?—”
He whistles low. “Another sugar baby? You never bother remembering their names, let alone pining two weeks later.”
“She’s not them,” I mutter, and that defense exposes a vulnerability I didn’t realize was loaded.
Dad hands me a coconut water. “Hydrate. Then start at the top.”
I walk him through the short version. Bored retirement scroll, virgin filter, Thalassa’s uncanny profile, our brothers’ collective bid, first times that felt less like conquest and more like ceremony. Each detail tastes brighter than it should when I speak it aloud—makes my pulse accelerate even as I try to downplay it.
Dad listens without interrupting, save for an impressed grunt when I confess the fee. At the end, silence cushions us. Waves crash somewhere far below.
“And now?” he prompts.
“Now she’s back at school, I imagine. My days are pastel. I wake, swim laps, tour the estate, count hours ’til evening, sleep. It’s…” I search for a word. “Gray.”
He nods slowly. “And your brothers?”
“Sharing the same color palette, I suspect. But we haven’t said it out loud.”
Dad sets his club aside, folds his arms, and eyes the pool where Julia has coaxed Astrid onto a float shaped like an iridescent shell. “You know my arrangement wasn’t planned.”
Understatement. Four wives across four countries, acquired over fifteen years. Dad remains head over heels for each, yet there’s always been an unspoken vacancy—a gap shaped like my mother.
“I love them,” he says, voice softer. “But none could ever replace your mother. I fucked that up. One wander, one unwanted headline, and she closed the door. Took four women, four love languages, entire oceans of patience to fill the silence she left—and even that? Only patches.”
He watches Lizel hand Ibara a pineapple mocktail with a tiny umbrella. “Took four women to steady me after losing her, but the math doesn’t add up. I’m happy. Yes. They’re wonderful people, each with their own gifts and quirks.” He swallows, eyes distant. “Still, the ledger shows a deficit only one person balanced.”
I know the story. Mom, brilliant and unforgiving. She left when we were in high school, tired of paparazzi pictures captioning Dad with whichever hostess smiled closest. Dad attempted grand gestures. She countered with iron boundaries. We kids got two holidays a year, alternating custody, and a therapy stipend.
I don’t blame her. He humiliated her for years before she finally called it quits. I respect her for leaving. But it still sucks.
“So,” Dad continues, turning back, “if one woman lights you up enough to make paradise feel dull, pay attention. Don’t let hubris or convenience bulldoze that signal.”
I toe a divot in the turf. “Not exactly singular. Dean and Colin are tangled up in this too. I think.”
Dad barks a laugh. “Well, you three have shared empires since teething. Why not affection?”
I flush. “This isn’t a locker-room bet. She might be open to more than one partner. That’s not the issue. The issue is I can’t figure out where lust ends and something weightier begins, and the uncertainty is…unsettling.”
“Uncertainty,” Dad echoes, tasting the word. “The birthplace of discovery. You retired to explore a new life. Looks like a new life found you first.” He claps my shoulder. “Experience it.”
“But what if I’m just chasing novelty?”
Dad points the shaft of his driver at me. “Novelty fades within forty-eight hours. You’re on hour three-hundred-plus and counting.”
He glances at his wives again. Julia waves, and he waves back, affection rolling off him like sunlight. “I love each of those women differently. Julia is storm strength, Astrid is empathy, Lizel is laughter, and Ibara is ferocious logic. If I lost any of them, the mosaic would fracture. But I’d trade their combined radiance to undo my betrayals and keep your mother. Old age means telling harsh truths.”
His gaze lands on me, steady. “So, Atticus—if you see a chance at one woman who steadiesallyour pieces, don’t assume you can replicate that ROI with substitutes. Markets don’t work like that.”
