Page 7 of Filthy Rich Daddies
The domestic life isn’t for people like me. It’s for…well, I’m not entirely sure who it’s for. Some of our board members have it, but they make every excuse to fill the C-suite instead of goinghome. My employees? The DMs travel nonstop. Our chefs aren’t interested in home life—they want to create their next culinary masterpiece.
Maybe domestic bliss is a myth.
A willowy redhead in latex approaches. “Haven’t seen you in months, Sir Dean.” Her hand skims my sleeve—an invitation. Any other night I’d test my palm against her throat, see if her pupils dilate. Tonight, the gesture irritates me, like static cling.
“Taking the evening off.” I smile—polite, but cold enough to discourage her inquiries.
“As you wish.” She drifts away. I feel her glance back, disappointment cutting through the pheromone haze. That used to please me, the evidence of effect.
Right now it feels like wearing someone else’s suit, tailored but wrong.
I check the time. Just after eleven. Early, by Slash standards. I could stay, accept the next invitation, remind myself I’m not tethered to a fantasy girl from the internet. Instead, I set the empty glass on a tray and thread toward the exit.
City lights smear past the windows of my Bentley, my driver taking me smoothly through the turns. I google her name for the fourth time, for reasons I don’t quite understand. The search yields a sparse LinkedIn, a dormant Instagram with exactly nine photos (sunsets, coffee mugs, one nerdy meme), and a public-access article quoting her in a student research showcase. In the article’s photo, she’s standing between two older figures—parents, clearly. The father’s left shirtsleeve is pinned shut.
He needs a prosthetic. Good myoelectric models run mid five figures. I wonder whether that’s the real reason Thalassa is doing this. Maybe she made up the snow vacation as a cover—didn’t want to seem like a poor girl in the world of sugar babies. It tends to attract the wrong kind of sugar daddy—men who prey on the vulnerable.
Smart of her.
I email the best prosthetist in the Southeast, the one who custom-built a glove for the Paralympic fencer we sponsored last year. After our long weekend, I’ll handle introductions discreetly.
It’s absurd. Filthy, even. Pay the daughter, rescue the father. But it isn’t about purchase. It’s about justice. If a problem has a fix and I’m capable, then withholding my help is negligence.
My phone buzzes.
Colin:Sales rep taking me to Chacha’s. Wanna come?
To a strip club?Rain check. Long night.
Suit yourself.
The truth? I don’t want to talk. Not right now. Colin would sniff out the budding preoccupation I refuse to name.
I do not imprint. My fixation is only due to our impending holiday weekend.
Yet I already know her finals schedule, her favorite café (discovered via geotag scroll), and that she once liked a tweet about alpine pika conservation. My chest tightens in an unfamiliar squeeze—anticipation mixed with something softer, dangerous. A mystery to unravel.
Once home, I undress and tumble into bed. My emergency laptop glows red, connected to my work computers. But not now. The red can wait. It’s been a long day that became a long night. A yawn ambushes me. Tomorrow I have to look like a man who sleeps.
I shut the lid. That decision alone feels decadent.
I need a drink.
Soft lights dim as motion sensors register stillness. The skyline beyond glass seems softer than Slash’s dark glamor—fog diffuses neon, blurs edges. I stand at the kitchen island, fingers drumming. It’s too silent.
In a parallel universe—the one I discarded—someone might hum while wiping counters, ask about my day, set out grapes for a bedtime snack.
I fetch a bottle of water, twist the cap. Fantasy is useless, but I indulge a single frame. Thalassa curled on my couch, knees up, explaining something marine biology adjacent with enthusiastic hand gestures while I pretend not to memorize the shape of her mouth.
Another ridiculous fantasy. She’s a weekend arrangement. We’ll give her luxury and pleasure, she’ll give us bright conversation and maybe her first taste of kink if she consents, then everyone returns to separate orbits.
Clean and efficient. The perfect arrangement. Anything else leads to attachments, and attachments never work out for anyone.
Still, when I climb into bed, the second pillow looks naked. I grab my phone, skim her profile one last time.
Light off. Ceiling fan hum low. My laptop’s fan whirs. Responsibility hovers outside the bedroom door, piled in my mind like mail no one wants to open.
I fall asleep counting not numbers, but the expressions I hope to map on her face. Surprise, curiosity, trust. The truth is, I didn’t take the girl at the club up on her offer because I want Thalassa to be the next girl in my bed. I’m being ridiculous again, and I know it, but maybe I need something ridiculous.
