Page 63 of Filthy Rich Daddies

I blink hard, shake my head like it’ll clear the pain, but it doesn’t. The lights get brighter, and my stomach drops, and then?—

Everything tilts. I lose my grip on the podium.

And then everything is on its side, fading to black.

The first thing I register is the cold.

Someone presses something cold to my forehead. There’s noise—blurred voices, a hand on my chest, people moving. The lights are too much. I’m on my back. I squeeze my eyes shut, try to catch my breath, but everything hurts.

“Colin?” a voice says.

I open my eyes, barely. Possibly Cheryl. Her face is above me, pale but focused.

“You’re okay,” she says, voice soft. “You fainted. EMTs are on the way.”

I try to speak. Fail.

She smiles, ever the professional. “We’ve got it from here. Rest.”

Possibly Cheryl deserves a raise.

I, however, do not.

I fainted? What the fuck?

Question is, do I care? I’m too numb to care, save for the clawing in my brain. So, I let myself drift.

The damage is done. Nothing else to do but ride the wave.

25

THALASSA

Arabella doesn’t knock—shebreaks in.

Well, okay, technically she doesn’t break anything, but the way she slams my dorm room door open like we’re under siege? Not subtle.

“I swear to God,” she pants, laptop under one arm, keys still dangling from the other. “If you don’t have your phone on?—”

“I don’t. I was studying—what’s going on?”

She doesn’t answer. She just flips her laptop around and shoves it at me.

I blink. It takes me a second to process what I’m looking at. A press conference. The Copeland logo. The sleek background. A podium. Lights.

And Colin.

I feel the world sink.

He’s standing under enough heat to melt an ice sculpture, in a wrinkled hoodie and jeans, eyes ringed with exhaustion, voicehoarse. My guy looks like hell. His hands are white-knuckling the podium, and I know that look—he’s holding himself up with it.

“What—”

“Just watch,” Arabella says, breathless.

Colin speaks. He’s saying all the right things—explaining the breach, the fallout, what’s being done. He’s calm, collected, but I can see it. The tightness in his jaw, the way his eyes keep losing focus. He hasn’t slept. I don’t need to ask to know it’s been days. He’s running on fumes and fury, and I want to scream at someone for letting this happen.

Then the questions start. Fast. Loud. One of them cuts deep, and he flinches.