Filthy Rich Single Daddies (Filthy Rich Harems #2)

25. Skylar

Chapter 25

Skylar

I hate hospitals.

There’s no sob story behind the aversion; I just don’t like them. The too-bright lights, the sterile smell of antiseptic and sickness, the way time seems to slow to a crawl the second you step inside. It’s the waiting, the uncertainty, the quiet tension that clings to the air like a second skin.

People come here to get better, but it never feels that way to me. It feels like a place where people unravel—where control slips away, where vulnerability is exposed under fluorescent lights and scratchy sheets. Where you sit in a stiff plastic chair, waiting for news you may not be ready to hear.

I square my shoulders and head down the hall, my boots echoing against the linoleum. The scent of disinfectant clings to the air, mingling with something artificial and vaguely floral—an attempt to mask the inevitable. I hate it. All of it.

But I love Birdie.

And that’s why I’m here.

That and I needed an escape from the house, from the chaos that is Theo, Austin, and Cohen—three men who've managed to knot themselves into the fraying edges of my life.

Birdie has been in here much longer than she expected to and I've been by to keep her company many times in the past few weeks.

I pause outside her room, pressing my hand against the cool metal of the doorframe. Just a second to breathe, to push back the tightness in my chest and the worry about Birdie’s future…and my own. Then I step inside.

Birdie is sitting up, propped against a mound of pillows, her thinning silver hair brushed back neatly. She looks smaller than she should, swallowed by the hospital bed and the endless wires and machines that beep softly in the background. But her eyes—sharp as ever—find mine, and she smiles.

My chest tightens at the sight of her, the vibrant spirit I know now muted by illness.

"Hey, Birdie."

“There’s my girl,” she says, her voice warm despite the rasp of exhaustion beneath it. “I was beginning to think you got lost in this godforsaken place.”

I huff a soft laugh and drop into the chair beside her bed. “Not lost. Just loitering.”

“Good. Wouldn’t want you taking up real estate anywhere but right here.” She pats the edge of the mattress, an invitation I don’t hesitate to take. I shift, sitting so I can face her, my hands resting in my lap.

“You’re looking better,” I lie, and Birdie snorts.

“Flattery won’t get you out of helping me break out of here.”

My lips twitch. “And where exactly would we go?”

“Anywhere with decent coffee and a damn porch swing.” She sighs, her gaze drifting toward the window. “I miss home.”

I swallow hard, because home isn’t really home anymore. Not since she decided to sell the house. Not since I moved next door. “I know.”

She glances at me then, really looks at me, like she can see straight through the cracks I’m trying to hold together. “How’s it been over there?”

I know what she’s asking. How I’m doing. How I’m handling the complicated mess I’ve landed in with the three men next door.

I force a smile. “It’s…an adjustment.”

Birdie hums, unconvinced, but she doesn’t push. Instead, she reaches for my hand, her skin papery and cool against mine. “You’re a stubborn thing, you know that?”

“So I’ve been told.”

"Guess what?" Birdie leans forward slightly, as if to share a secret between old friends. "There's an offer on the house. A nice family, from what I hear."

"Already?" The words tumble out, sharp with surprise. The house has been another source of tension—a symbol of change I'm still grappling with.

"Mhm," she nods, her silver hair catching the light. "And they say I'll be out of here soon. Back to causing trouble before you know it." A mischievous glint dances in her eyes, but it doesn't quite reach the usual level of rebellion I've come to love.

"Good," I manage, though the idea of her being so far away hurts more than I thought it would. I’ve made a life out of complete detachment.

It’s safer that way.

If you don’t get attached, you don’t get hurt. If you don’t care, it won’t break you when people leave—because they always do. That’s the one thing life has been consistent about. People walk away, situations change, and the second you start to feel steady, the ground shifts beneath you.

And I...I've been broken one too many times.

So I learned not to hold on. Not to let myself want too much. Not to expect anything beyond the moment.

But lately…I’ve been slipping.

Birdie was the first crack in the armor. I told myself it was different—she was temporary, an older woman who needed some company, nothing more. But somewhere between late-night talks on the porch, her blunt wisdom, and the way she looked at me like I was hers , she snuck past every wall I had.

Then came the guys next door.

And now?

Now I feel exposed .

Because for the first time in a long time, I have people in my life who matter. People I don’t want to lose. And that terrifies me more than anything.

"Really, Skylar," she says, her tone softening. "It's good news."

"I know," I reply, forcing a smile. "It is."

We sit in silence for a beat, the steady beep of her heart monitor filling the space between us. It’s a precious reprieve, reminding me that sometimes, just being present is enough. And for the first time in days, I allow myself to simply breathe.

But old and fragile as she may look in here, Birdie is not one to be fooled.

She watches me, her sharp gaze scanning my face like she’s reading between the lines I haven’t spoken. She watches me with those sharp, knowing eyes, and I can feel her reading me like one of her beloved, dog-eared novels. She’s always been too good at that. At seeing the things I try to bury.

After a long moment, she tilts her head. “Something’s eating at you.”

I shake my head. “I’m fine.”

“Bullshit.” Her hand tightens around mine, frail but firm. “You’re wound up tighter than a cat in a room full of rocking chairs.”

I huff a laugh, but it’s weak. “I just…it’s a lot. You selling the house, moving in next door, you being here…” I swallow past the lump forming in my throat. “Everything feels like it’s shifting all at once.”

Birdie hums like she expected that answer but isn’t satisfied with it. She waits, letting the silence stretch between us, giving me the space to fumble my way through my own thoughts.

And I almost leave it there. Almost let her believe it’s just the house, just the change, just the usual discomfort of life shifting under my feet. But then her fingers squeeze mine again, and something in me buckles.

“It’s Austin.” The words slip out before I can stop them.

Birdie lifts a brow. “Ah.”

That’s it. Just ah . Like she already knew.

I fidget with the edge of the scratchy hospital blanket, avoiding her gaze.

"Sky?" she presses, and I know I won't escape this conversation without spilling something.

“And Theo,” I grumble. Then after a moment of silence where I can feel her stare digging into the marrow of my bones, I relent. “And Cohen.”

Birdie doesn’t speak right away. Instead, she watches me, her expression unreadable. Then she sighs, shaking her head. “Men are stupid.”

A surprised laugh bursts from my lips. “That’s your wisdom?”

“That’s my truth, dear. Talk to me," she urges gently.

My mouth opens and closes, hesitant. The dam inside me trembles, ready to break. I clamp my lips shut, shaking my head again.

Birdie doesn’t push right away. She just watches me, her thumb brushing over the back of my hand in slow, deliberate strokes. Then, after a long silence, she murmurs, “You know, I’ve seen you scared before.”

My chest tightens.

“But I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this scared.”

I exhale sharply, my whole body going stiff.

She doesn’t let up. “So, what is it? What’s got you looking like you’re waiting to be left behind?”

And just like that, the dam breaks.

“It's just...everything feels like it's closing in on me," I start, the confession tasting bitter. "I went to my father's funeral. And it was like I was that teenager all over again, completely cut off from the family."

"That must've been tough," she murmurs, squeezing my hand.

"Without him, Birdie, I..." My throat tightens, choking the words. "I literally have no family left. I mean, I know I didn’t really have him to begin with, but it felt more—I don’t know, final?"

Birdie is quiet for a moment, then she tilts her head. "And what am I, then?"

I blink, caught off guard. "What?"

Her grip tightens just slightly. "If you have no family left, where does that leave me?"

My breath stutters. "Birdie, that's not what I meant—"

"Then say what you do mean," she says, her voice gentle but steady. "Because as far as I'm concerned, you are my family. And I don’t need blood to make it so."

When I don’t respond, she continues: “Family can be built, not just born, Skylar. And being alone doesn’t mean you have to be lonely. Remember that."

She squeezes my hand before letting go, settling back against the pillows.

“And, what about the boys?”

I’m quiet for a long moment, then finally shrug, trying to feign casual. Birdie raises an eyebrow, a soft smile tugging at her lips. She waits. And waits.

Dammit.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” I confess, the words tumbling out in a rush. “I told myself I wouldn’t get involved, that I’d keep my distance, but somehow, I’m in the middle of this tangled mess, and I don’t know how to get out. Or if I even want to.” My voice drops to a whisper. “And that’s the worst part.”

Birdie doesn’t flinch, doesn’t look surprised. She just nods like she’s been waiting for me to catch up to what she already knew.

“They make you happy?” she asks simply.

I let out a breath, running a hand through my hair. “Yes. No. I mean…sometimes. And other times, they make me want to scream.”

Birdie chuckles. “Sounds about right.”

“I don’t do this,” I admit, gesturing vaguely. “Relationships. Feelings. Letting people in. But with them…it’s like I don’t have a choice. And it scares the hell out of me.”

Birdie squeezes my hand again, a knowing smile tugging at her lips. “That’s how you know it’s real, sweetheart.”

I blink at her, my throat tight.

“Life’s gonna change whether you want it to or not,” she continues, her voice softer now. “The question is—are you gonna fight it the whole way, or are you gonna let yourself have something good for once?”

I watch her chest rise and fall with a steadiness I crave as my own breath comes in jagged pulls. The beep of her heart monitor is a metronome to my spiraling thoughts, a reminder that life ticks on even when you feel stuck.

"Skylar," Birdie says, her voice cutting through the fog of my mind. "You're still holding back. Spill it."

My gaze flicks to her, then away. I study the sterile white walls, anything to avoid those knowing eyes.

"It's...complicated," I finally admit, feeling the tension knot up in my shoulders. "Theo, Austin, Cohen—they're all tangled up in this mess that's my life." I pause, swallowing hard. "They're from that world. The one I've been running from. And yet..." My voice trails off, betraying the conflict within.

"And yet?" Birdie prompts, her tone soft but insistent.

"Despite everything, I've fallen for them. Hard." The words tumble out, laced with an edge of disbelief. "But how can I trust they'll stick around? Choose me?”

No one else has. Theo included.

“Haven’t they already?”

“What?”

“Well, they offered you a job. They drove you to the hospital after my unfortunate incident. Stayed with you too, if I’m not mistaken. Then they offered you a home too, didn’t they?”

“All of that is temporary.”

“Is it? Don’t let fear make the decision for you, sweetheart.”

She reaches out, her touch grounding. Her eyes hold mine, fierce and unwavering. "You create your own family. With friends, with lovers. It's about the people who choose you, who stand by you."

"Choose me," I echo, the concept foreign yet intoxicating.

“Yes, choose you. Those boys have chosen you, whether you see it or not.”

"So, build your tribe, love. Blood relations or not, it's the bonds we forge that make us whole." Her conviction resonates, stirring something deep within me.

I sit with that thought, rolling it around like a smooth pebble in my hand. Could I really fashion a new family from the shards of my past? From the men whose very existence complicates my life in ways I never imagined?

She squeezes my fingers gently. “Don’t let your pride keep you from happiness, Skylar. Sometimes, all it takes is reaching back.” I press my lips together, the lump in my throat making it impossible to answer. Because the truth is, I don’t know if I’m reaching for them—or running away.

We don’t talk much after that. We just sit and watch her favorite game show until she drifts into a restful slumber, and I find myself alone with the weight of her words.

I stand, my body stiff from hours spent crouched on the edge of a paper-thin mattress, and move to the window. The city sprawls beneath me as dusk settles like a blanket over the skyline. Families are reuniting after long days, their lives intertwined in a thousand small, unspoken ways. A pang of longing stabs through me; an ache for something I've only just allowed myself to acknowledge.

It's more than desire that connects me to Theo, Austin, and Cohen. It's laughter shared in the darkest hours, hands held without hesitation, and silent understandings that scream louder than any words ever could. They've become my sanctuary, the eye of every storm I've weathered since we collided in a twist of fate.

A family.

The realization hits me hard, fast—a comet streaking across my personal night sky. Despite the guilt that gnaws at me, the fear that they're too good to be true, there's no denying the space they've carved in my life. They offer belonging, a place where I'm wanted, not for the Deveraux name or any semblance of wealth, but for the fractured, spitfire soul that is entirely mine.

With a sigh, I press my forehead to the cool glass. Birdie's words echo, a mantra that seeps into the cracks of my self-built fortress. Create your own family .

Night presses on, and eventually, I slip away from the window, back to Birdie's side. Her steady breathing tells me she won’t wake anytime soon. With visiting hours coming to an end, I’ll have to leave without a proper goodbye. I scribble a note for her to read when she wakes and head back to the mansion.

I don’t sleep much that night.

I toss and turn, my mind racing with Birdie’s words, every thought a tangled mess of confusion and frustration. It’s like trying to untangle a knot I didn’t know I tied, each thread representing something I’ve spent years pretending didn’t matter.

Family. People. Relationships. The idea that I could need anyone—that I could let someone close enough to matter. It all feels...wrong. But why does it feel so wrong? Why do I feel like I'm suffocating at the thought of needing someone, even when part of me knows I’ve been doing exactly that?

The silence in the house is heavy, the kind of quiet that makes me feel like I’m the only one awake in the world. I stare at the ceiling, fighting against the suffocating pull of uncertainty. Why did I let Birdie get under my skin? Why did I let myself start believing in something I know could tear me apart?

I groan, burying my face in the pillow, but nothing helps. I’m stuck in this loop of wanting to connect and pushing away, afraid of what will happen when I do.

By the time the sun starts creeping through the blinds, the exhaustion has settled deep into my bones. My eyes sting from lack of sleep, but all I want is clarity. Some kind of sign that tells me what to do. How do I make sense of all of this without letting myself get hurt?

But instead, there’s only more questions. More confusion.

And the nagging feeling that maybe…just maybe…it’s time to stop running from the people I care about.

I just wish I knew how to stop being afraid of what that might mean.

The distance I've been maintaining, the walls I've fortified around my heart, they have little to do with the men who've patiently chipped away at them. It's my own fear—of being loved, of not being enough—that's kept me at arm's length. I've been guarding myself against heartache, but in doing so, I've also shielded myself from the very thing I crave most: connection.

I slip out of bed, careful not to disturb the quiet. The floor creaks under my feet as I move across the room, my fingers grazing the edge of Theo’s sweatshirt that he left behind. I pull it over my head, the fabric soft and comforting, tinged with his scent—earthy and familiar.

I breathe it in deeply, and it settles something in my chest.

The house is still, the silence inviting rather than oppressive. I move through it with a sense of purpose, drawn toward the kitchen. I start the coffee, and fill a mug with the steaming liquid when it's ready. Then, wrapped in the warmth of the sweatshirt, I walk outside to the covered patio, the early morning dew glistening on the lawn.

I settle into one of the wicker chairs, cradling the mug between my hands as I watch the sun finish its ascent, the light spilling over the horizon in shades of pink and gold. The world feels alive, as if it’s waking up with me. For the first time in a long while, I feel like I might be ready to do the same.

I trace the veins on the back of my hand, paths that lead to an uncertain heart. Love isn't a battlefield; it's a garden, and I've been starving mine of light.

I’ve spent years tiptoeing around my own heart, believing vulnerability was synonymous with weakness. But here, in this small kitchen, with the sun rising just for me, I see the lie for what it is. Love isn't about losing myself; it's about finding myself and us, together.

A laugh escapes me, unexpected and bright. They’ve shown me what a family can be—not bound by blood or obligation, but by choice. By the sheer force of wanting to weather every storm side by side.

Austin and Cohen might be brothers by blood, but Theo is found family. And…I could be too if I just let it happen. Their trust, their patience—it's not something to fear or run from. It’s a gift, a foundation upon which to build a life I've never allowed myself to imagine.

I set the empty mug in the sink, its hollow clink a punctuation mark at the end of an old chapter. The time has come to choose the future I want—unscripted, uncertain, and utterly mine. My chest swells with a courage I didn't know I had, and my heart beats a steady rhythm of newfound determination.

"Alright, girl," I say to the silence, "let’s write a new story."