Filthy Rich Daddies (Reverse Harem Daddies #9)

1. Thalassa

THALASSA

I drag one last measured line beneath my data table, sign my initials with a flourish that looks confident if you don’t get too close, then snap the lab notebook shut. Done. Ish. My handwriting tilts uphill like it’s trying to ski already, and I’m just hoping I can do the same.

Across the bench, Becca Torres bounces on the balls of her platform sneakers, purple ombré ponytail bobbing. Despite the greenish fluorescent lab lights, her medium brown skin still manages to glow. But that’s Becca. Give her enough energy drinks, and she could power the world.

She’s five-foot-nothing of caffeinated optimism, double-majoring in Pre-Med and Theater because why not?

—her actual words. Glitter stars cling to her cheekbones, residue from last night’s K-pop dance rehearsal.

She brandishes a pen like a mic and sings, off-key, “Free-eeeedoooom!” before laughing at my eye roll.

“Think Professor Ahmed’ll notice if the colonies look like a Jackson Pollock tribute?” she asks.

“Only if he takes off his glasses.” I pull off my gloves, powdered latex creasing into ghostly fingerprints on my palms. Maybe one day, tuition will cover decent nitrile gloves, but today is not that day. “You’re safe.”

On Becca’s far side sits Arabella Von Castell, the queen bee of our little friend circle.

She occupies the splintery wooden stool the way royalty occupies a velvet throne—long legs crossed just so, spine arrow-straight, glossy golden hair bound in a perfect bun.

Even her goggles look designer, matte-black frames curved to match the angles of her cat-eye liner.

Arabella flips a page in her journal, notes immaculate as calligraphy. “Thalassa, you’ve got hydrochloric acid on your sleeve,” she murmurs, voice smooth as a jazz sax riff. “And by ‘sleeve’ I mean ‘entire sweatshirt.’”

I glance down. Sure enough, a constellation of pale flecks are splattered across the faded “Peach State University” logo. The sweatshirt came from a thrift store’s ninety-nine-cent bin; still, my stomach pinches. Another thing I can’t afford to replace. I shrug. “Adds character.”

“Adds holes.” Arabella quirks a brow, but there’s no malice. Texas-sized pity, maybe, but no sting.

The clock finally clicks to four, and we’re allowed to flee. We rinse glassware, disinfect benches, and sign the checkout sheet, Becca drawing little hearts around our initials. The TA throws us a salvation-has-arrived wave, and we tumble into the corridor’s stale air.

Outside, mid-November sun slants over campus like gold foil.

Peach State’s walkways echo underfoot, littered with ginkgo leaves the color of butter.

Some students lug laundry baskets toward the parking garage, some dribble basketballs on their way to the rec, everyone buzzing with the promise of five days away from midterms, meal swipes, and Wednesday-only morning classes.

Becca links her arm through mine. Her sleeves smell faintly of bubblegum dryer sheets. “Okay, agenda,” she says, adopting her I-mean-business voice. “Pack, dorm fridge purge, I-75 road-trip playlist—there’s a three-hour cut that’s ninety percent Dua Lipa you’ll love—then Aspen money plotting.”

I bite my lip. Time to fake breezy. “Sure. Aspen plotting.”

Becca’s oblivious grin falters. She’s known me since Honors Chemistry freshman year, which means she can spot my forced chill from a mile away. “You are coming, right?”

I open my mouth, but air whooshes out instead of words. Aspen. Two weeks over winter break in a glass-walled mansion perched on the side of a Colorado mountain. Private chef, private ski instructor, the works.

Arabella’s idea, obviously.

The price tag—twenty thousand dollars—glows in my brain like a hazard warning.

I currently possess precisely one hundred twenty-seven dollars and forty-three cents.

Plus, an emergency twenty folded behind my debit card because Dad says you never know when you’ll need cash for tolls or Band-Aids or a Snickers bar that’ll save your life.

“Hmm.” Becca’s humming means she’s problem-solving. “Could sell a kidney?”

I snort. “I won’t heal in time to hit the slopes.”

We reach the quad. Its manicured lawn slopes toward a koi pond circled with picnic tables.

The water glitters, an innocent mirror, but my stomach flips.

I snap my gaze away. Becca follows the motion, noting the micro-flinch, then squeezes my elbow.

No questions. She knows I don’t do water.

She doesn’t push. That’s why she’s my favorite.

Arabella catches up, sneakers whisper-quiet on the pavement.

She must’ve taken a detour because she’s swapped her lab coat for an ivory athleisure set—cropped sweatshirt, leggings with mesh cutouts, the whole outfit conspiring to look effortless and cost more than my rent.

Elegant, and yet, somehow, she looks naked from a distance.

“Come on, slowpokes.” She nods toward the dorms. “We’ve got a trig final to pretend to study for.”

My room qualifies as “cozy” the way real estate agents talk about studio apartments.

It’s eight floors up, eleven feet wide, a single window that frames the concrete parking deck.

The cinder-block walls sport exactly three décor items—a fairy-light string that burns one of its bulbs every week, a tiny potted fern valiantly dying on the sill, and the glossy Aspen brochure Arabella shoved into my backpack last month.

The brochure shows a chalet that looks grown from glass and cedar.

The driveway is long enough to land a small plane, the mountains behind are frosted like bakery cakes, and the outdoor fire feature glows in the pink sunset light.

I keep the picture because it reminds me that real snow exists—cold water behaving itself, staying horizontal and predictable.

Becca collapses on the braided-rag rug, scattering flashcards like tarot.

Organic Chemistry Doom is our Thanksgiving homework.

Arabella appropriates my rolling chair, crossing her legs so the leggings’ mesh gleams. I plug in the electric kettle, rummage for chamomile bags, and will my bank app not to vibrate.

It vibrates anyway: Payment posted—$45.00.

Perfect.

Becca speed-recites functional groups while Arabella highlights the Aspen itinerary.

Every bullet reads like an Instagram influencer’s fever dream—heli-skiing, chef-prepared truffle fondue, snowmobile tours to hidden caves.

Honestly, I’m surprised it’s just twenty K.

It sounds like a fantasy life I thought only existed in movies.

Half an hour in, Becca’s phone pings. Her cheeks bloom pink. “Um, I gotta…rinse-and-repeat human anatomy.” She tries to look apologetic about the euphemism and fails spectacularly. But that’s how she does everything. Spectacularly.

I wave her off. “Tell Mitchell we said hi.”

When the door clicks behind her, silence stretches. Arabella swivels her chair toward me, eyes liquid-blue and focused. “Lass,” she begins, using the shortening of my name that only she dares, “level with me. Are you coming to Colorado or aren’t you?”

I trace the rim of my chipped mug. Steam snakes upward, fogging my glasses. “I want to. Obviously.”

“But?”

“But.” I laugh, hollow as a tin can. “I’d have to sell plasma. And bone marrow. And possibly my soul.”

Arabella assesses me over steepled fingers, calculating. I’ve seen her haggle Fourth-Street vintage sellers down to a quarter price with that expression. It usually ends in her favor. I’m not sure I want those powers used on me.

“Okay.” She taps her phone awake. “Honesty hour. How much do you have after tuition is due?”

“Nothing. Tuition’s on scholarship. Food, books, bus pass, phone bill…that’s me. Tutoring gigs keep the lights on.”

“Parents?”

“They send love and handwritten notes.” And tamarind candy wrapped in tinfoil care packages.

Money, though, is imaginary. Mom’s post-doc grant ended last year; Dad’s disability check barely covers groceries.

I don’t say the numbers because reciting them aloud feels like hexing currency to evaporate.

Arabella exhales, then flashes a shark-cute grin. “What if I told you there’s a shortcut?”

“Unless it involves teleportation to a universe where Aspen costs twenty dollars, I’m skeptical.”

She slides her phone across the desk. Black screen, gold logo. JustDesserts.app. Tagline: Sweet Arrangements.

“What is this?”

“Are you familiar with sugar babies?”

I blink. “Sugar babies? Seriously?”

“Seriously.” She spins the chair, arms stretched gymnast-wide. “Why do you think I can buy Lululemon like it’s single-use?”

“I figured your parents had oil wells.”

“They have a failing winery in Kentucky and debts the size of Saturn,” she says lightly. “The money is mine.”

The phone sits between us, shiny as temptation. I’ve heard whispers—girls who get tuition covered in exchange for dinners, trips, the occasional plus-one at corporate galas. NDAs. Background checks. Luxury everything. And sex.

Arabella kicks one foot, making the sneaker light blink. “Look, I’ve been doing it since sophomore year—carefully. Never felt unsafe, never flunked a class. My current arrangement? Thirty-five hundred a meetup, plus travel perks.”

Thirty-five hundred. That’s…fourteen of my tutoring paychecks. That’s more than four semesters of laundry money. That’s a new laptop instead of praying the hinge doesn’t snap mid-PowerPoint.

She sees the math flicker in my eyes and pounces. “The holiday season’s prime time. High-net-worth types don’t want to show up to family functions alone. You, my dear, have ‘intellectual arm candy’ written all over you.” She whistles. “Jackpot.”

“Intellectual arm candy?” I echo, half-amused, half-indignant.

“Face it, Lass. You look like the human version of a sea foam macaron.”

I snort-laugh, nearly choking on tea. Could I do it? Spend a weekend being charming? Wear a rented gown, discuss marine conservation, maybe kiss a stranger if he’s not a creep, and walk away with Aspen money?

Arabella reads my silence as progress. “You filter for Atlanta-based patrons. Coffee date first. You set boundaries. You set the price. And if you hate it? Delete profile, block numbers, story over. It’s not like you’re dating anyone right now, so there’s no conflict.”

I lean back onto the faded quilt pillow propped against the wall. My textbook nestles beside me like a twelve-pound guilt brick. Finals loom. My brain is fried. I can’t remember the last time I did something reckless.

I don’t do reckless. Life is risky enough.

The kettle clicks off. I top off my mug, watching the amber swirl. Aspen’s chalet glints from the wall—the brochure photo catches the last sliver of sun before evening smudges the window. Real snow. Real mountains. A horizon line that doesn’t ripple.

I’m not sure where to begin. “Tell me the rules.”

She smiles like she’s won the discussion.

“Create a burner email—not your school address. Nothing traceable. No personal phone number until you’ve googled him six ways to Sunday.

Negotiate payment up front. Cash apps only—no checks, no wire weirdness.

First meeting happens in a public place, with your exit strategy parked within walking distance. ”

“Burner email and payment aside, this sounds like anything you’d do before a regular date.”

“That’s important to keep in mind. This isn’t anything but an honest way to date someone.

Everyone gets what they want—he gets companionship, you get paid.

I’ll be your big sister contact, meaning the app sends me a meeting location ping.

No second meet unless you feel comfortable and queen-level respected. ”

I’m not sure what to say to that. “Huh.”

She stares at me over the rim of her mug. “By the way, virgins make a ton for their first time.”

My cheeks flush before I can look away. “Um, what’s that got to do with anything?”

“Don’t kid a kidder, Lass. You’re a beautiful girl who doesn’t date. You’re not religious, which was what I assumed initially, but apparently not. Are you scared, or?—”

“I’m just focused on my studies.” I hide my face behind the mug. My track record in romance involves exactly two high school non-dates and an end-of-sophomore-year almost-hookup that ended with the guy puking raspberry Smirnoff onto my Converse. Science seemed like a much better pastime after that.

Arabella nudges the phone closer. “Fill out the basics. I’ll coach the bio later. Sound good?”

The tea’s steam fogs my glasses, blurring the world into warm watercolor. I want this skiing trip. I’ve worked hard. I deserve to play hard.

Somewhere I feel safe.

I place my fingertips on the screen. The virtual keyboard pops up, hungry. Display Name? “SnowLass,” I mutter. “Too on the nose?”

Arabella beams. “Perfect.”

I type. SnowLass. Next, email. I fill out everything until I reach the About Me section. “What should I put?”

“Keep it short,” Arabella coaches. “Fun, smart, no trauma dumps.”

So, I go for it. Island girl turned city scholar. Marine-bio brain, caffeine heart, looking for conversation that’s as bright as fresh powder on the slopes and twice as memorable. Quality time, new experiences, mutual respect.

“Don’t forget to check the virgin box,” Arabella says with a teasing edge.

Sure enough, there it is at the bottom of the screen. “Do you really think it matters?”

“The sugar daddies love exploring new territory. A lot of them have been around the world, searching for adventures, so when they come across—forgive the term—unconquered territory?—”

“Gross.”

She snorts. “Yeah, but that’s actually how I heard one of them put it. When they find a virgin, they will spend, Lass. Trust me.”

Weird, but I do. So, I click the virgin box, sign her up as my big sister, and hit submit.

Profile under review. Verification pending.

I stare at the screen. No lightning strikes, no alarm bells, just a quiet sense of a domino tipping.

Arabella’s phone dings. “They’re quick. You’ll get an email in an hour asking for ID selfies and a fifty-dollar refundable verification fee. Pay with that tutoring money—keep sugar money separate.”

I nod like I’m absorbing nuclear physics equations. My pulse drums behind my ribs, not entirely unpleasant.

Arabella folds her long limbs, stands, and stretches. “I have spin class at six. Text me screenshots, and I’ll help you polish your bio copy.” She flicks a playful salute. “Welcome to the sweet life, SnowLass.”