Page 69 of Filthy Rich Daddies

“Itisreal,” he says firmly. “What we have with her is real. What we’re building is real. And those kids? We’ll raise them together, or not at all. That’s real.” His voice is steel. His certainty cuts through the noise in my mind like a clear bell.

“I never thought I’d get another chance,” I murmur.

“You have one,” he says. “Right now.”

The elevator doors slide open.

And I believe him. Even if part of me still doesn’t believe I deserve it.

We order drinks—Dean’s black coffee, my espresso, and something disgustingly sweet and cinnamon-sprinkled for Colin, who only pretends to like plain things, and chamomile for Thalassa.

On the way back up, Dean doesn’t say much. He doesn’t need to. The silence between us is no longer heavy.

When we return to the room, Colin’s sitting up, bed reclined, pale but awake. He grins when he sees the coffee. “You read my mind.”

“It was that or another cup of industrial hospital runoff.”

He takes a sip and makes a face. “Damn. Now I know you love me.”

I glance over at Thalassa. She’s watching him, but something in her expression is lighter now. Less panic, more grounded worry. She hasn’t let go of the idea that something worse could happen—but she’s breathing again.

We all are.

The doctor comes in an hour later. Young, competent, more cheerful than I would prefer at this hour. He checks Colin’s vitals, reviews his chart, and declares he can be released tomorrow, barring any new complications.

“Good news,” the doctor says. “Just exhaustion and dehydration. Pretty spectacular exhaustion, to be fair. But with rest and fluids, you’ll be back to yourself in no time.”

“Damn,” Colin mutters. “Was hoping for at least a broken rib. Get some sympathy points. I fell pretty hard, you know.”

Thalassa smacks his arm.

Dean laughs, then his phone buzzes. He glances at it. His expression shifts. “Marcus.”

Of course.

He walks toward the window to take the call, and I follow him. “Yes?” he says flatly. Then, “I resigned three days ago, Marcus. What do you want me to do about it now?”

A pause.

Dean’s jaw tightens. I catch only his half of the conversation, but it’s enough. Too much is happening. Too many fires. Marcuswants someone in charge. Wants a Copeland face back at the helm—even if just for appearances.

Dean hangs up and turns toward me, exasperated. “He’s panicking. Trying to get me to rescind the resignation.”

I consider it. Then I smile. “Tell the board to meet me in conference room three in twenty minutes.”

Dean stares. “Tic?—”

“Trust me,” I say. “I have an idea.”

When I get there, the conference room feels smaller than it used to.

I think it’s the chairs. Marcus swapped them out a few months ago for sleeker ones—low-backed, modern, uncomfortable. He said they make the room feel “more agile.” I think they make us look like a tech startup having an identity crisis.

Today, I sit in the old chair. The one at the head of the table. The one he didn’t replace, because he wanted it for himself.

Marcus is already here when I arrive. He’s pacing. Pretending he isn’t, but he is. I’ve known the man since I was born. I’ve watched him orchestrate hostile takeovers and manipulate board sentiment like a concert pianist. But today, he’s off-key.

He smiles when he sees me, but his eyes are tight. “Tic. Dean said you called this meeting?”