Page 71 of Filthy Rich Daddies

“Yes.”

He hesitates. “Do you want them to be yours?”

I glance at him.

“You said you’re not the biological father. I’m asking if you want to be one anyway.”

I stare at the light, waiting for it to change.

My heart hurts. I don’t want to admit it. But I’m not lying to Dean. My voice rasps, “More than anything.”

Dean nods. “Then you are.”

It’s not biology. It’s belief. And I want to believe.

Colin is awake when we return. Thalassa is curled sideways on the edge of the bed, her hand in his, fast asleep. Arabella is dozing in a chair with a book open on her lap. I’m surprised to see her here. I thought she didn’t like us.

She’s probably just here to support Thalassa. I respect that.

The room is warm, quiet, and soft in a way hospitals rarely are. Dean walks over and gently brushes Thalassa’s hair out of her face. She stirs, eyes blinking open, confused but calm. I stand in the doorway a moment longer, watching them.

My family. Messy. Unconventional. Utterly mine.

I’m still afraid. But the difference is—I’m here. I’m not hiding in retirement or grief. I’m here. Maybe that’s what makes a family. Not biology, not inheritance, not legacy.

Maybe it’s being there for your loved ones when they need you the most. Or when you need them the most. Right now, it goes both ways.

27

DEAN

I wakewith a crick in my neck and Thalassa’s hand in mine.

The couch beneath me is a war crime in the form of furniture. It’s too short, too narrow, and stuffed with what feels like rolled-up newspaper. But her fingers are curled against my palm, warm and soft, and that makes everything else feel like background noise.

Across the hospital room, Colin is still asleep. His monitor beeps quietly, steady and slow, the sound now familiar enough to be almost soothing.

Tic is gone. He probably slipped out around dawn. Hospitals don’t agree with him since he lost his wife and child. It’s not obvious in any way that shows up on paper, but in the quiet wariness in his posture. The way he nearly jumps out of his skin every time a nurse or doctor comes in.

Arabella is curled in a chair under a scratchy blanket, one sock half-off, hair falling over her eyes. It’s a chaotic kind of peace in here, the kind that only happens after something worse.

Thalassa is curled sideways against my chest, still asleep, one arm tucked under her head, the other tangled with mine. Her hoodie’s pushed up at the wrist, revealing the pale inside of her forearm. There’s a small scar there—faint, but visible. I wonder if it’s from something ordinary, or if there’s a story. She doesn’t talk much about her past.

Her nose twitches as she stirs. She blinks up at me, still not quite awake. “Hi.”

“Hi,” I say back.

She shifts, stretches. Her spine pops audibly. “Ow. This couch sucks.”

“Agreed.”

Still, I haven’t let go of her hand. She notices. Looks down at our fingers. Then doesn’t pull away. It does something to me I’m not prepared for.

This woman grounds me in a way I didn’t know I needed. I’ve spent years perfecting distance. Politeness. Efficient conversations. Professional charm. But none of it applies here. Around her, I feel…stripped.

And yet, I don’t want to hide.

When it comes to Thalassa, I have no defense. No armor. No way to stop the way she’s already working herself into places I’d walled off for good reason.