Page 72 of Filthy Rich Daddies

It’s real. And it’s pure. And it terrifies me.

We stretch and stumble our way upright. Colin’s awake now, sipping weak coffee and already cracking jokes about hospital food. He looks better. Pale, but better.

“I told you two to go home last night,” he says, voice scratchy.

Thalassa sits at the edge of the bed. “We weren’t going to leave you alone.”

“You should’ve,” he says. “That couch is probably made of rebar and spite. You’re going to need a chiropractor just from breathing next to it.”

“I can’t argue that,” she mutters, rubbing her back. “My spine might actually be in the shape of a question mark.”

“Go home,” Colin says. “Both of you. I’ll get a ride. I’ll be fine.”

I hesitate. “Are you sure?”

“Positive. They’re discharging me later today. I’ve got Tic breathing down everyone’s neck. I’m pretty sure the cafeteria guy brought me extra Jell-O out of fear.”

That earns a snort from Thalassa.

I gather our things. Her bag is light—just a sweatshirt, a water bottle, the ultrasound photo she carries around like a treasure.

Being on a college campus feels wrong. Maybe it’s my age, but I feel out of place. I’m not a professor. I’m walking with the woman I love, hand in hand, but I don’t belong here.

Her dorm room is small. Cramped, even.

The ceilings are low, the windows narrow. The bed is a twin, pushed up against the wall under a corkboard with photos and faded Post-it notes. There’s a hot plate, a battered electric kettle, and three mugs that don’t match. One of them says, “Caffeine Is Not a Personality.”

The mug lies. Just ask Colin.

It’s clean, but in the way that comes from necessity, not design. Everything has a place because there’s nowhere else to put it. She throws her bag on the bed and exhales like she’s finally able to breathe. “Sorry,” she says. “It’s not exactly palatial.”

“It’s lived-in,” I say. “And warm.”

“Which is code for tiny and underfunded.”

I glance around. “And yet, far more human than the mansion.”

She looks up at me. “You think?”

“Our place feels like a museum most days. We don’t live in it so much as visit it. That’s why we keep apartments out of the house.”

She chuckles, pulling off her hoodie and stretching again. “Well, yeah. I couldn’t imagine actually living there. Too many echo-y rooms. Too many doorways that look like they belong in a castle.”

“I agree.”

I don’t mean to say what comes next. It just slips out. “It takes a woman’s touch to make a house into a home.”

She freezes. Just for a second. Then she looks at me with something unreadable in her eyes. The air shifts. Warmer, but heavier.

I clear my throat. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you.”

She raises a brow. “That’s never a comforting sentence.”

“I don’t want it to sound like a confession. Or a brag. But I also don’t want to keep it from you. Lately, I’ve watched secretsand lies tear apart my family’s legacy, and I’m done with them.” The panic surfaces. When I saw the footage of Colin’s fall, I lost it. I decided then and there I had to do this, no matter what. “Marcus’s lies about Starconnector costing too much led to Colin’s collapse. If he hit his head on the way down or…if it wasn’t just exhaustion…he could have died. No good comes from keeping secrets. Agreed?”

She narrows her gaze. “Dean…”

“I arranged for your father’s prosthetic.”