Page 31 of Filthy Rich Daddies
“Your client arrived yesterday with his wife. Some initial apprehension, normal. Once we demonstrated surface-EMGmapping, he was on board. Residual limb health is excellent—kudos to whoever oversaw early rehab. We cast the socket and performed preliminary myo tests. I’m pleased to say he qualifies for our newest multi-articulating hand, the NovaGrip X2. Grip sequences are programmable, waterproof up to ten meters. Turnaround time will be two weeks.”
A slow exhale shudders out of me. “Any obstacles?”
“Your foundation handled the costs. Zero red tape remaining.”
“Side effects?”
“Transient phantom-limb sensations during calibration. We’ll taper desensitization therapy. Prognosis is near-natural function.”
“Thank you, doctor.” My voice edges husky, but I clear it. “Please keep me apprised.”
“Will do. Your discretion is noted.”
The call ends. I set the receiver down with more care than necessary, as though the plastic shell now contains delicate satisfaction. For a moment, the static inside me converts to warmth that spreads through my sternum, shoulders, fingertips. I picture Mr. Howard flexing titanium-plated fingers, maybe lifting a mug unassisted for the first time in years.
Then I picture Thalassa’s eyes when she sees him do it. The warmth sharpens, half bliss, half ache.
“Anonymous,” I remind myself aloud. The word reverberates off the glass. Gifts given in secret carry no expectations. She is not to know. The arrangement ended Sunday at three thirty p.m., when we delivered her to the campus library steps. Anything after that is philanthropy, nothing more.
Though philanthropy has never made my pulse trip like this.
Time to engage the empire. I open the resource-allocation dashboard, and the columns blur. Normally, I inhale balance sheets the way others inhale espresso. Today’s numbers jitter. My gaze keeps overlaying imaginary freckles on top of bar graphs. Unacceptable.
I force-run the mental drill. Capital expense line items prioritized by ROI horizon. StarConnector—the cloud-ops platform—is at the top of Colin’s wish list, but the second column’s red is on mine. Marcus insists StarConnector’s subscription plus migration dwarfs its efficiency gains.
I re-run internal calculus. Fifty-six restaurants stateside, twenty-two abroad. After running Marcus’s numbers, I’m in agreement with him. It’s too much without enough promise of a future.
Yet my brother believes the platform unlocks future-proof scaling. Colin rarely utters absolute certainty unless he’s debugged every line.
I flip to email, half expecting a fresh all-caps plea from him. Nothing. Odd.
My glass door whispers open—Marcus Burgh, CFO emeritus in everything but title. White hair shellacked, three-piece pin-stripe, carnation boutonniere. He moves silently, like a well-oiled grandfather clock.
“Good morning, Dean.” He sets a folder on my desk—a relic. Physical paper. “Pre-read for the operations meeting.”
I glance at the label. StarConnector Cost Escalation Analysis. Of course. “Appreciated.”
He drops into the visitor chair uninvited—a power move so habitual it feels ceremonial. “I wanted a quick word about Colin’s recent…enthusiasm.” The faintest smirk.
I fold my hands. “He’s passionate about uptime stability.”
“As are we all.” Marcus steeples his fingers. “But passion can be reckless, particularly after the holiday incident.”
He means the Thanksgiving memory leak, already patched. I maintain a neutral expression. “The incident cost twenty-two thousand in comps. Long weekend revenue remained positive.”
“Still, optics matter.” Marcus leans back. “Colin may push StarConnector again in this afternoon’s session. I’d hate to see brotherly debate escalate in public.”
I note the implied directive. Rein him in. He’s not wrong—it looks bad for us to argue in front of the C-suite. “I’ll speak to him privately.”
A grandfatherly nod. “Excellent. For the record, CapEx tolerance remains tight. Investors appreciate prudence now that you hold the reins.”
“I’m glad to have their trust.”
He stands, smooths lapels. “One more thing.” Pause for effect. “You seem distracted lately. Hope everything’s quite alright.”
“Perfectly,” I lie. I’m not about to share my latest obsession with a man who’s been like a grandfather to us.
He studies my face as though scanning for microcracks, nods once, then departs, leather soles silent.
