Page 89 of Filthy Rich Daddies

I blink. “What?”

He doesn’t elaborate.

Before I can ask, the door opens again.

Colin strides in, carrying a heavy leather folder under one arm and two iced coffees in his other hand. He looks far too smug for someone who collapsed on live television five days ago.

“Morning, gentlemen,” he says, dropping into the seat across from me. “Anyone feeling unusually responsible today? Because I brought paperwork.”

Tic and I exchange a look.

“Should we be worried?” I ask.

“Only if you don’t like planning for worst-case scenarios.” He tosses the folder on the table and slides it open.

Inside: legal documents. Signature tabs. Copies of something stamped by both a notary and our family attorney.

“What is this?” Tic asks.

“A will,” Colin says. “Or, more precisely, a co-parenting agreement. In case of disaster.”

I lean in, brow furrowing. “Explain.”

“If something happens to us…” He pauses, then shakes his head. “Okay, notallof us, because then it’s a very boring funeral—butif anything happens, this makes sure Thalassa and the babies are taken care of. Permanently. Financially, legally, and structurally. No arguments. No infighting.”

Tic flips through the first few pages. “You wrote this?”

“With a lawyer,” Colin says. “And a bottle of very old bourbon. But yes. I wanted it done before she moved in.”

I exhale. It’s sobering. Necessary. And long overdue.

We’ve spent so long pretending we’re invincible. Untouchable. That the name Copeland was enough to shield us. But it’s not.

It didn’t stop Colin from collapsing on live television. It didn’t stop Thalassa from having a scare. And this agreement is the first time we’ve acknowledged that our lives are no longer just our own.

“I’ll sign it,” I say.

Colin raises an eyebrow. “No lecture about paperwork being heavy-handed?”

“No. You’re right.”

Tic nods. “Me too.”

We pass the folder around. One signature. Then another. Then a third.

It’s not dramatic. But it feels momentous. We’re not boys anymore. We’re men. And we’re going to be fathers.

“Did you tell Dean about how I was funding the Puerto Rico project?” Tic asks Colin.

He snorts. “You have a hacker for a brother. Do you think anything is truly private?”

I say, “You know, when I hear that being said to someone else… She’s right. Itiscreepy.”

Colin smirks. “But effective.”

Tic, without looking up, murmurs, “Still creepy.”

We all laugh.