Page 4 of Filthy Rich Daddies
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ATTICUS
The grandfather clockin my living room has ticked exactly forty-two times since I sat down with this glass of Dalmore. I know because I’m counting. The chime at six o’clock came and went. Still, I linger in the club chair like a museum exhibit titledMan Confronts Retirement and Loses.
The room is immaculate. Not a coaster out of place, not a magazine corner curled. I oversee the vacuum-bot schedule the way I once oversaw quarterly P&L, and the result is that everything here shines, but nothing here lives.
Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, Atlanta flickers on. Brake-light constellations weaving up Peachtree, marquee bulbs igniting at the Fox, rooftop bars exhaling plumes of laughter into cold November air. Inside, my penthouse smells of polish and disciplined solitude.
This is what I thought I wanted when I stepped down as CEO—an expanse of unscheduled evenings stretching beyond the horizon.Freedom. The word sounded lush, if not intangible. How could I walk away from the family business at forty-two?
The real question was, how could I stay when I’d grown to hate it there?
But two months in, I realize freedom is just blank space, and blank space, left unfilled, metastasizes into boredom. I check my phone out of reflex, hoping for a message from Dean about restaurant expansion permits or from Colin requesting advice on a cybersecurity vendor.
None. Both brothers are working late, their comfort zone. I, meanwhile, am marinating in my own redundancy. But then a banner notification slides across the screen.
Just Desserts — Holiday Matches Are Heating Up!
Marketing push, doubtless. I almost swipe it away—almost. Then I remember the vow I made to myself over that second retirement-party bourbon.
Say yes to what surprises you.
So, I tap.
The app opens to a carousel of smiling faces. Women in cocktail dresses, women in ski gear against powdered peaks, women lounging on the decks of yachts I probably know the owners of. I joined Just Desserts three years ago, more for convenience than titillation—banquets, charity galas, the occasional weekend on the Copeland jet. No messy Tinder small talk, no awkward morning-after text exchanges.
Transactional relationships are far less trouble than the alternative.
I thumb through lazily until a ticker on the side panel catches my eye.
Holiday Specials — First-Time Companions.
There’s even a sub-filter:Verified Virgins.
“Crass,” I mutter, but my thumb hovers. Not because I fetishize innocence—God knows I’ve seen enough false ingénues to last a lifetime—but because it’s been months since anything on this app looked remotely unpredictable. The last companion I hired recited the same “I’m spontaneous!” spiel I’d heard in three other time zones.
Still, I hit the filter. You never know what might pop up.
The gallery reshuffles, showing fewer faces now, a minimalist lineup. I flick left… Brunette with a practiced pout, pass. Another, wearing an off-the-shoulder ballgown clearly lifted from a bridesmaid rack, pass. My pulse hasn’t twitched. The clock ticks. I sip my whisky—oak, honey, restraint.
Then a new card loads. My thumb hovers over her pic.
SnowLass
The photo is a candid shot, slightly grainy. She stands in a lab coat beside what looks like a science fair volcano. Her smile isn’t the showroom grin the others cultivate. It’s crooked and exuberant, as if the photographer cracked a joke half a second before the shutter. Freckles dust her nose. A loose rose-gold braid grazes her collarbone. Behind safety goggles, her eyes spark—giant and hazel brown, if the lighting can be trusted.
I tap into the full profile.
Island-raised biology nerd chasing big city dreams. Caffeine heart, Latin music hips, laugh like a seagull. Looking for conversation as bright as fresh powder and twice asmemorable. Need an excuse to see real snow before graduation melts my free time.
Holy shit. An actual personality.
The line lands squarely between charming and absurd. I laugh out of shock—an unguarded bark that startles me and echoes through the apartment. When was the last time an app profile made me laugh? I scroll on to check her out.
If her writing style is anything to go by, she’s direct, cheeky, and yes—innocent, but not naïve.
I glance at the calendar widget. Thanksgiving week is two days away. She’ll have the time off… I picture a private hotel suite, fireplace crackling, red wine decanting while city lights blur beyond smoked-glass windows. She wants snow. Atlanta can’t give her that. But opulence? Adventure?
