Page 32 of Filthy Rich Daddies
I exhale through my teeth. The man senses weakness like sharks sense blood. I pivot to my monitor, but a rogue thought surfaces.Marcus oversaw my and Colin’s scholarships, our first car loans, and even wove anecdotes at our grandfather’s memorial. Undermining his counsel feels akin to mutiny. Yet progress stagnates under his frugal eye.
Ninety minutes tick by. I approve three vendor payments, draft a Q1 site-visit itinerary, and sign off on promotional budgets. Output looks normal. Still, my brain’s CPU cycles at fifty percent. Every other minute, I think about Mr. Howard acclimating to his new arm. Perhaps he’ll send a thank-you email to the foundation. Perhaps Thalassa will mention it in future conversations I have no right to expect.
“Enough,” I tell the succulent. It offers no counsel. I force-scroll through the operations-meeting deck. Slide twenty-three analyses StarConnector, citing Marcus’s numbers—migration cost inflated by twenty percent above Colin’s estimate. That figures.
But is the data credible? Marcus is an expert, but he’s also very, very old. I need to ask Colin for his raw data.
I send him a chat ping. No response. I fire a text.Need five min before Ops mtg. Office?SMS shows delivered. No read receipt. Strange. Colin seldom ignores messages.
It’s almost noon. He usually haunts the dev lab by eleven. I stride down the hall, passing glass cubicles where managers conjure fiscal sorcery, then descend a floor to the innovation suite. The badge reader glows green.
Colin’s workstation sits dark, dual monitors asleep. A coffee mug half-full (likely cold) rests beside a spreadsheet printout scrawled with formulas. Evidence of sudden departure. I tap towake his keyboard. Monitors display a live metrics dashboard, stable lines. No emergency.
“Where the hell are you?” I mutter.
I reverse course to the hospitality floor—kitchens, tasting labs. Stainless-steel symphony of clanging spoons and simmering demi-glace. Maybe he got snacky. When he’s been working on code all night, his eating habits range from eating nothing but protein bars and energy drinks to hovering with the chefs. But our head chef reports no Colin sightings.
Floor fourteen—Data Ops bullpen. Analysts stare at screens, eyes ringed by code fatigue. None have seen him today.
Concerning, but not a crisis. I check my phone again—still no reply.
Marcus’s caution echoes.Colin has seemed fragile.My jaw tightens. My brother is not fragile. He’s brilliant, occasionally obsessive. Dismissing his concerns publicly could fracture the trust we’ve honed since childhood Lego alliances.
I step into a quiet alcove and dial him. Straight to voicemail. Curious escalates toward worry.
I text again:Where are you?
Then I add, against better judgment:Important—StarConnector numbers don’t align.
If anything can lure him, that will.
I return to my office, call up Colin’s last StarConnector proposal. His ROI calculus indeed uses lower migration overhead—he assumes phased rollout leveraging existing container clusters.My phone vibrates. Unknown number. I answer. It’s Dr. Hoskins again.
“Mr. Fields, quick update—Mr. Howard has already regained basic pronation control in preliminary tests. He’s eager to show his daughter.”
I smile, relief blowing in. “That’s very good to hear.”
Hoskins continues, “Assuming all metrics hold, he’ll do the final fit next Thursday. We’ll overnight the invoice to the fund.”
“Excellent,” I manage before we end the call. I allow myself ten full seconds of elation—shoulders loose, lips threatening an actual smile. Ten seconds only. Then I stand, smooth cuffs, and gather the meeting deck.
Before leaving the office, I open a secure browser tab and initiate a wire transfer from my personal discretionary account to the Rehabilitation Futures Fund, covering any overages plus an anonymous stipend labeledresearch grant. Overkill, but peace of mind.
Wire confirmation pings. Good. One variable locked.
As acting CEO, I should radiate calm. Instead, as I walk into the board meeting, my gaze darts to every doorway expecting curly hair and coder posture.
Marcus takes a seat beside me. “Everything in hand?”
“Always.”
He nods, begins distributing paper packets—ritual reinforcement of his agenda. I check my phone under the table.
No Colin.
The meeting begins. Slides click, voices drone. But behind my impassive mask, circuits fire. Locate Colin, verify his well-being, and reconcile the StarConnector discrepancy before it calcifies into budget law.
But in the back of my mind glows the mental image of a man flexing a titanium hand, and the young woman who will light up brighter than the sun when she sees it.
