Page 3 of Filthy Rich Daddies
I don’t do reckless. Life is risky enough.
The kettle clicks off. I top off my mug, watching the amber swirl. Aspen’s chalet glints from the wall—the brochure photo catches the last sliver of sun before evening smudges the window. Real snow. Real mountains. A horizon line that doesn’t ripple.
I’m not sure where to begin. “Tell me the rules.”
She smiles like she’s won the discussion. “Create a burner email—not your school address. Nothing traceable. No personal phone number until you’ve googled him six ways to Sunday. Negotiate payment up front. Cash apps only—no checks, no wire weirdness. First meeting happens in a public place, with your exit strategy parked within walking distance.”
“Burner email and payment aside, this sounds like anything you’d do before a regular date.”
“That’s important to keep in mind. This isn’t anything but an honest way to date someone. Everyone gets what they want—he gets companionship, you get paid. I’ll be your big sister contact, meaning the app sends me a meeting location ping. No second meet unless you feel comfortable and queen-level respected.”
I’m not sure what to say to that. “Huh.”
She stares at me over the rim of her mug. “By the way, virgins make a ton for their first time.”
My cheeks flush before I can look away. “Um, what’s that got to do with anything?”
“Don’t kid a kidder, Lass. You’re a beautiful girl who doesn’t date. You’re not religious, which was what I assumed initially, but apparently not. Are you scared, or?—”
“I’m just focused on my studies.” I hide my face behind the mug. My track record in romance involves exactly two high school non-dates and an end-of-sophomore-year almost-hookup that ended with the guy puking raspberry Smirnoff onto my Converse. Science seemed like a much better pastime after that.
Arabella nudges the phone closer. “Fill out the basics. I’ll coach the bio later. Sound good?”
The tea’s steam fogs my glasses, blurring the world into warm watercolor. I want this skiing trip. I’ve worked hard. I deserve to play hard.
Somewhere I feel safe.
I place my fingertips on the screen. The virtual keyboard pops up, hungry.Display Name?“SnowLass,” I mutter. “Too on the nose?”
Arabella beams. “Perfect.”
I type. SnowLass. Next, email. I fill out everything until I reach the About Me section. “What should I put?”
“Keep it short,” Arabella coaches. “Fun, smart, no trauma dumps.”
So, I go for it.Island girl turned city scholar. Marine-bio brain, caffeine heart, looking for conversation that’s as bright as fresh powder on the slopes and twice as memorable.Quality time, new experiences, mutual respect.
“Don’t forget to check the virgin box,” Arabella says with a teasing edge.
Sure enough, there it is at the bottom of the screen. “Do you really think it matters?”
“The sugar daddies love exploring new territory. A lot of them have been around the world, searching for adventures, so when they come across—forgive the term—unconquered territory?—”
“Gross.”
She snorts. “Yeah, but that’s actually how I heard one of them put it. When they find a virgin, they will spend, Lass. Trust me.”
Weird, but I do. So, I click the virgin box, sign her up as my big sister, and hit submit.
Profile under review. Verification pending.
I stare at the screen. No lightning strikes, no alarm bells, just a quiet sense of a domino tipping.
Arabella’s phone dings. “They’re quick. You’ll get an email in an hour asking for ID selfies and a fifty-dollar refundable verification fee. Pay with that tutoring money—keep sugar money separate.”
I nod like I’m absorbing nuclear physics equations. My pulse drums behind my ribs, not entirely unpleasant.
Arabella folds her long limbs, stands, and stretches. “I have spin class at six. Text me screenshots, and I’ll help you polish your bio copy.” She flicks a playful salute. “Welcome to the sweet life, SnowLass.”
