Page 30 of Filthy Rich Daddies
Finance metaphors. That’s Dad-speak fordon’t screw it up.
A pause drifts in. We soak in sensory wealth. The thud of a mango dropping somewhere in the garden, distant laughter echoing off curved stucco, the lazy lap of pool water against tile. Even the sunlight feels flavored—hints of lime and sugar cane. I sip my coconut water and taste salt on my upper lip. Paradise saturates every synapse, yet a phantom taste of Thalassa’s body edges the drink, reminding me this isn’t where I want to be right now.
Dad wipes moisture from his glass. “Remember flying to Zurich with me?”
“Yes. You let me taste barley wine, swore me to secrecy.”
“Do you recall the rooftop view that first night? How you said the city lights looked like circuit boards?”
I nod. The memory glitters.
“Next day, we toured chocolate factories, castles, and snow peaks. Yet what’s etched clearest for me is not the tourist grandeur, but your face—young, curious, alive.” He taps my chest, right over the heartbeat currently slamming against my ribs. “It’s never the scenery. It’s the company.”
The wives call us for lunch—grilled snapper, papaya salad, microgreens that taste peppery and sweet at once. We agree to wrap up our drives and head in.
Dad shoulders his club. “The first time I kissed your mother, the room smelled of rain and cheap coffee. I could afford Versailles by then, but that scent outshone Versailles. Your brothers and you”—he smiles—“were born from that coffee-rain universe. Never forget how small a thing can redirect an empire.”
One ball remains. Dad motions for me to take it. I square up, inhale ocean iodine, exhale. Thalassa’s laugh loops, syncing with gull shrieks. I swing.
The strike sings truer than any today, the ball a perfect comet heading sunward.
Dad laughs, claps. “That’s the one you bottle. Momentum for whatever comes next.”
We walk toward the veranda. The wives arrange plates under a pergola, sunlight dappling their shoulders. They wave me over, urging taste tests. Their warmth pulls a tentative smile out of me. Despite the storm in my brain, I feel seen.
Dad pauses at the step, turns, delivers the coup de grâce, “If one woman stirs you better than a Caribbean breeze, hold tight and never let go.”
He leaves the driver leaning against a palm and strides toward Julia, who’s holding out a forkful of snapper like an offertory. The moment freezes—sun haloing them, laughter layered over the sea’s hush—and I finally grasp what paradise can’t provide on its own.
I follow him inside, heart lighter than when I arrived, yet heavier with decision. Hold tight, says the cautionary tale disguised as my father. My hands flex at my sides, ready to test their grip.
11
DEAN
Copeland HQ risesthirty-one floors above Peachtree Street, a prism of glass and logic. I arrive at 07:05—five minutes past my target—and the biometric turnstile scolds me with a red flash before accepting my palm. Inside, the lobby still smells of the citrus disinfectant they over-applied after last quarter’s norovirus scare. Overhead, pendant lights impersonate natural dawn; outside, real dawn smears peach across the skyline.
Elevator ride—thirty seconds of mirror-polished restraint. I practice my neutral face, chin leveled, eyes alert but unrushed. The reflection looks competent. Inside, I’m a hive of static.
My calendar is a trench run—CapEx review at nine, menu R&D tasting at ten, consultant pre-call at eleven—but every item feels ornamental. At 08:00 sharp, Dr. William Hoskins, chief prosthetist at Southern Biomech, will ring my private line. I arranged the appointment covertly, using a shell charity and a law-firm intermediary. No Copeland branding, no personal name. If Thalassa or her parents trace anything, they’ll find a generic “Rehabilitation Futures Fund.”
Anodyne enough to dissolve questions.
The reasoning is simple. A father missing an arm deserves the best replacement science can craft. Full stop. Altruism should not require applause—certainly not the beneficiary’s daughter’s admiration. Still, a secondary motivation hums, unwelcome but undeniable. Imagining Thalassa’s delight when her father flexes a state-of-the-art myoelectric hand for the first time. That imagined delight has powered every late-night spreadsheet marathon since Thanksgiving weekend.
I reach my office on the executive floor—a glass box, with a 270-degree view, barren of personal photos. Keeps things clean. A single succulent stands guard beside the monitor, defying the odds. I set my leather folio down, but instead of logging into the dashboard, I pace.
07:56. Four minutes.
I check the encrypted VoIP handset—green LED blinking standby. I check the door lock—engaged. I check the air vents, as though corporate espionage teams might be crouched inside with parabolic mics. Ridiculous. But I need this to go off without a hitch.
07:59. The handset chirps. I lift the receiver, depress the mute, and inhale.
“Dean Copeland,” I say, keeping my voice pitched low.
“Good morning, Mr. Fields,” Hoskins answers, using the alias. Gruff but upbeat. “I assume you’d like a status update on Mr. Howard.”
I close my eyes for a moment, centering. “Yes, please.”
