Page 50 of Filthy Rich Daddies
Banish the memory. Focus.
The memory doesn’t matter. She said no when she ghosted us.
Marcus’s pointer laser rakes slide twenty—Cost Containment Mandates. I flip to the financial dashboard on my Surface. The numbers are stark. He’s reforecasted the quarter as if a plague swept our restaurants. That can’t be right. Preliminary reports showed only low-single-digit softness, mainly from the LA avocado shortage.
I tune in fully just as Marcus announces, “So discretionary budgets are frozen across Ops, Marketing, and Technology until further notice. We’ll reconvene next month to reassess.”
A hush. Fifty-two million dollars’ worth of marketing spend just vanished. Colin’s tech upgrades went with it. The room erupts—whisper arguments, chair squeaks, and someone drops a stylus.
Marcus closes his folio, rises with serene patriarchal finality. “If there are no objections—I have a compliance meeting downtown.” He checks his Patek. It gleams like a smug sunrise.
I open my mouth to object, but he’s already pivoted toward the door, cheap theater of urgency.
The double doors swallow him, and the fallout begins.
“Dean, that freeze invalidates our Instagram strategy straight through Chinese New Year!” Marketing VP Lena blurts, voice rising to an octave her vocal coach would hate.
COO Kendrick slams his palm on the table. “I have ice machines on life support. You want them to limp into Valentine’s Day?”
Colin’s empty chair across the table stings—he opted to finish another patch personally. I tack a mental sticky note to brief him before he reads the budget freeze email and wipes servers in revolt.
I stand, palms out. “Everyone breathe. This is preliminary.” My tone lands half-steady. The corner of my eye catches my own freckle doodle, and I shove the notebook shut.
We enter a triage session. I promise Lena a limited release budget and assure Kendrick I’ll prioritize safety assets. I download grievance after grievance, layering them like Tetris pieces so none stick out. People cool, but only slightly. This was a slap in the face, and I wasn’t here to stop it. They exit in twos, still grumbling but no longer at mutiny level.
Last out is HR VP Montez. He lingers. “You okay, Dean? You seem…scattered.”
Scattered? Code for distracted, incompetent. Shame prickles. I stiff-smile. “Little turbulence, nothing more.”
He nods, sympathetic but unconvinced, and departs.
The room is empty, and silence roars. I flex my hands—a small stress tremor. Marcus has tightened screws deliberately. I think he’s waiting for me to crack. Not today. I will escalate to the board, but first I need something stronger than spreadsheets to hold me upright.
I need Tic’s measured counsel. I shove the laptop into my bag and stride into the corridor.
The hall smells of furniture wax and espresso. My footsteps echo on marble, then halt. Fifty feet ahead, mid-corridor between boardroom and elevators, stands a vision I’ve conjured nightly.
Thalassa Howard. Real, breathing, devouring me with equally shocked eyes.
Time collapses. Fluorescent lights halo her braid. Her freckles jump alive. She wears a pale-green sweater, soft jeans, black flats—casual student attire that somehow bends the corporate corridor into her domain. A bruising shadow colors her cheekbone, still healing. Thank God.
I step forward. Words jam. She mirrors movement, hesitates before setting her jaw and closing the distance. Ten feet. Five. I inhale the memory.
“Hi,” we say in tandem, breath skittering.
My rational self should ask about her health, doctor visits, and apologize for the Colorado panic. Instead, passion bypasses my good sense. I cup her face and I kiss her like this isn’t an office. Honeyed warmth floods my veins as she moans into my mouth.
A boardroom door stands beside us—the unused Finance Breakout room—unlocked. I backstep, leading her inside. She follows willingly, and her eyes blaze. The door clicks shut. In the artificial twilight of the projection screen, we collide again. My hands remember her, every curve, every point, every angle.
A sliver of logic surfaces. The concussion? But she’s the one tugging me onto the table.
“Are you good?” I whisper in her ear.
“Need you,” she breathes. Consent squarely offered. My restraint shreds.
The long oak table spans twenty feet. I sweep papers to the floor, lift her in a gentle cradle, and perch her at the edge. She bites her lip, eyes wide, half fear, half hunger. I scan over her body.The bruises have faded. Pupils are equal. She tugs at me. Enough medical scan—she wants oblivion.
We kiss again, slow this time, exploring. Layers drift away from our bodies. Her sweater flies overhead, my jacket flung somewhere behind me. My hands stroke her sides, reverent around her belly, flat still but sacred ground.
