Page 94 of Filthy Rich Daddies

33

THALASSA

Graduatingwhile pregnant with twins and dating three men should earn me some kind of special sash.

Like, I don’t need another cord or pin or certificate—just a big sparkly sash that saysChaos Queenin rhinestones. Maybe something that glitters aggressively in the sunlight and makes people wonder if I wore it on a dare.

But instead, I have a simple navy gown, a cap that keeps sliding because my hair won’t cooperate, and swollen feet that are absolutely protesting these sandals.

Still, when I hear my name called and walk across that stage to the sound of my entire support system erupting in the stands? I wouldn’t trade this moment for anything.

Arabella shrieks loudest, of course. She’s waving a sign that says, “SHE’S GRADUATING WITH HONORS AND TWINS.” Becca is next to her, clapping and crying. My parents are easy to spot—my mom’s got one of those giant sun hats, and my dad’s holding up a tablet, recording everything like it’s the most important footage ever captured.

And then there’s them. Tic. Dean. Colin.

All three of them in suits, all three looking like someone airbrushed them into a magazine spread. Dean is stoic, but I catch the twitch of pride around his mouth. Colin’s straight-up beaming, giving me two thumbs up like a dad who just watched his kid win the spelling bee. Tic…Tic is clapping slowly, but his eyes are locked on mine. Quiet pride. Solid warmth.

I expected the crowd to make me nervous. But I feel calm. Happy. Like maybe I reallydobelong here.

After the ceremony, the crowds start to thin. There’s the typical post-graduation chaos—people trying to take pictures, programs flying everywhere, someone crying three rows down because they lost their stole.

But when I reach my family, everything else goes quiet. My mom wraps me in the tightest hug my belly will allow. “You did it, baby. You did it.”

My dad kisses my cheek. “We are so, so proud of you.”

“I’m proud of me too,” I say, which feels nice to admit out loud.

Tic is already talking to them, which is surreal. My parents don’t warm up to people. Years of island living, minimal social interaction, and being burned by overpromising funders have made them reserved to a fault.

But here’s Tic, cool as ever, cracking a soft joke about lab coats, and my mom is laughing.

Laughing. Mymom.

And my dad? He’s nodding like he just found a new best friend.

We take a few pictures, and then Mom says, “We have something to show you.” She pulls out her phone and opens a video.

It’s a walkthrough. Bright rooms. Floor-to-ceiling windows. Wall-mounted aquariums with native reef systems. A full wet lab. A second dry lab. A conference room. Bedrooms for visiting researchers. Even a new dock.

It takes me a second. Then I recognize the island. It’sourisland. Our home. The island I haven’t stepped foot on since the hurricane. Now completely rebuilt and upgraded.

“Wh—what is this?”

My dad grins. “It’s ours again. The foundation that supported our early work offered a major expansion grant. Full staff. Equipment. Long-term contracts.”

My mouth opens. But nothing comes out. My eyes shoot to Tic. And I see it.

The tension in his shoulders. The subtle anticipation in his eyes.

“Oh my god,” I breathe. “Is this the thing you wouldn’t tell me?”

He nods once. “Yes. Please don’t hate me.”

I burst out laughing and cover my mouth with one hand. “Tic.”

“I wanted it to be a surprise,” he says carefully. “I didn’t want you to feel pressured, or like I was buying your family.”

“You kind ofdidbuy the island,” I say.