Page 98 of Filthy Rich Daddies
Her father chuckles. “She’s not the kind to fall in love with luck. She falls in love with character.” His eyes sharpen slightly. “So make sure you keep earning it.”
“I intend to,” I say, with more certainty than I feel. “Every day.”
Her mother sighs, watching her daughter conquer her fears. Conquer me. Every second that Thalassa is in the water, I am in awe of her. Cindy quietly asks, “Do you know what Thalassa means?”
“Conqueror?”
She smiles at that. “It’s the Ancient Greek name for the goddess of the sea. The Mediterranean, to be exact, but that was the entire sea to them.” Her smile fades, her eyes still on her daughter. “After the storm, she said she hated me for naming her that.”
A spike wedges in my heart. If my child ever said anything like that to me… “She was scared?—”
“She was angry,” James says carefully. “I get it. After losing my arm, I was angry too, for a while. But the sea is in my blood, and my blood is in the sea. It’s a give and take, and when you’re a water guy, that doesn’t stop when something goes wrong. It just takes time. Time to heal, time to make amends.”
Cindy runs her finger along the edge of her mug. “Thank you for giving her the space for that, and for giving her the tools we couldn’t give her.”
I don’t know why, but a knot forms in my throat. “It’s an honor. Every moment with her is an honor. We will always do everything we can for her.”
She smiles again, but there’s a sharpness in her eyes. “You better.”
No threat said out loud, because there’s no need. It’s implied. And I don’t mind. I like that they’re protective of her.
So I smile too, then watch Thalassa make amends with the water. Sitting with her parents feels strangely natural. Like family.
I’ve always imagined this moment would be awkward, stilted. Some undercurrent of male suspicion, overprotective stares, and “what are your intentions” tension. But there’s none of that. Her parents don’t posture. They don’t push. They just…exist here. As though we’ve all been part of each other’s stories much longer than the calendar says.
Maybe that’s what happens when love is real.
It makes time irrelevant. Ages too. I’m twenty years her senior, but I don’t feel it. I haven’t since the first day. Maybe that should concern me. It doesn’t. No one else brings it up much either.
I take a quiet breath. Then say, carefully, “Would your new facility be available for events?”
Her mother glances at me. “Events?”
“Small ones. Private.”
Her father raises a brow. “What kind of event?”
I keep my eyes on the water as I answer. “A wedding.”
There’s a beat of silence.
Her mother gasps softly. Then her father says, in a tone that brooks no uncertainty, “You don’t even have to ask.”
“She doesn’t know yet,” I say quickly. “Nothing’s official.”
Her mother’s smile widens. “It will be.”
I nod once. Then let myself smile too.
Later, I find myself standing in the nursery.
I didn’t intend to come in here. I was walking past, the way I usually do, intending to keep going. But something drew me in—maybe the way the sunlight hit the mural, the way the room smells faintly of lemongrass and baby detergent, or the quiet.
Colin’s handiwork is everywhere. He’s tried to keep the palette light and friendly, but there’s still so much ocean in this room that it almost hums like waves crashing. Seashell mobiles hang in soft arcs above the cribs. The curved bookshelf in the shape of a tide pool makes me smile, even now. He did this with love, and he did it with imagination. A rare combination.
But I understand why she bolted when he first showed it to her. I see it in the shapes, in the reflections off the deep blues. The illusion of depth can be beautiful. Or it can be suffocating. Sometimes both.
I cross the room slowly. Press a hand to the mural along the wall—sunbeams filtering through painted water. It’s stunning. And still, I’d scrap the whole thing if she ever asked. But she hasn’t.
