14. Atticus
ATTICUS
Atlanta’s skyline usually soothes me at night—the clean geometry of lit windows.
Simple, tidy. But tonight every window glints like a question I can’t solve.
I stand at my penthouse glass wall with a tumbler of neat Japanese whisky I haven’t tasted.
My reflection stares back. Silver flattop gone rogue, shoulders squared by habit, espresso-brown eyes weary from hours of pacing hardwood floors.
Behind me, the living room’s indirect lighting is dimmed to gallery mode, so my paintings hide in half shadows, and the grand piano looks more like a threat than an instrument.
Dad was explicit in Havana. Hold tight to what you want. Yet tightness is all I feel—no reassuring grip, just tension. Two weeks of endless gym time, philanthropic luncheons, and board consults haven’t diluted the pulse of curiosity, worry, and a gnawing desire to do .
Thalassa Howard has lived in my head rent-free since the morning we left her on the campus steps.
Her laugh loops as reliably as a screensaver, sometimes arriving with the faint scent of her shampoo, sometimes with the memory of her eyes widening in moonlight.
I’ve tried journaling, boxing drills, even cold plunges—nothing purges the loop.
It’s been just over a month. My self-discipline—my proudest asset—feels like thin ice cracking under weight. I set the untouched whisky on the bar and walk a quiet lap. Again. Study, dining room, terrace, and back. Hardwood planks creak under bare soles. Even the floor complains of my circling.
Dad’s confession about his wives stunned me—the Thaddeus Copeland I grew up with never admitted insufficiency.
But the truth rings in my ears now while I roam my penthouse mausoleum of achievements.
A hand-signed cricket bat here, framed Fortune cover there.
The accolades look strange, like fossils, and the life they were supposed to enhance feels hollow.
What if Thalassa is a key instead of a distraction? The thought scares me more than corporate collapse.
A new anxiety pulses below the desire. What if she’s hurt? What if she needs help? But the truth is, it’s me who needs the help.
My phone sits in the corner like a dare. I circle it three times before giving in. I’m done waiting for something that may never come. I’m a man of action, always.
But right now, I feel like a scared teenage boy with a suffocating crush.
Fuck it. Her name glows. I thumb the call. The ring stabs silence—one, two, thr?—
“Hello?” her voice answers, watery, frayed.
Adrenaline blasts through me like shrapnel. Something’s wrong. “Thalassa, it’s Atticus. What’s happened?”
She inhales a shaky breath that turns into a soft sob.
Panic spikes. I grip the phone hard enough that my knuckles blanch. “Thalassa, speak to me. Where are you?” Authority buckles beneath urgency, coming out harsher than intended.
Her words trip over tears. “Bre…Breckenridge—Pine…Summit…”
Static swallows the line, and background noise jars. I freeze, listening. No voice, only a muffled scuffle.
“Thalassa!” My shout ricochets off twenty-foot ceilings. No response. I pace three strides, nearly bowl over a planter. Rage at my own helplessness flares—plane now, find her, claim her, keep her safe.
A female voice comes on the line, sharp as broken glass. “Who is this?”
“Atticus Copeland. And you?”
“Arabella Von Castell. Thalassa’s best friend. The one mopping up your mess.” Each syllable drips acid.
“My mess? Explain.”
“Did anyone ever teach you boys how to use a condom?” Arabella snaps.
“What? Why? What’s wrong?” My brothers and I are disease-free. We’re tested all the time. This makes no sense.
“What do you think, genius? She’s fucking pregnant!”
The world tilts. My breathing stops. Pregnant. Nausea churns, but I keep my voice steel. “Listen carefully, Arabella. We will fix this. Where exactly is she?”
“Pine Summit Resort, Breckenridge. Chalet 4-B. She’s trying to sleep. She has a concussion. Keep your jet grounded, she doesn’t need more drama.”
“A concussion?” My protective instincts howled earlier—now they roar. “What hospital? Is she stable?”
“Stable enough that we’re back at the resort. The hospital already discharged her. Don’t bother showing up. Like I said, she needs to rest.”
“She needs help. I can provide that?—”
“No!” Arabella barks. “You and your brothers have done enough!”
“I’m grateful she has such a protective best friend.” Each word lands like a gavel strike. “Thank you for taking care of her.” I’m not arguing with her friend, and I’m not asking permission either.
“Yeah, don’t thank me—just leave her the hell alone.” She hangs up.
I lower the phone. My legs tremble for half a second, but I force stillness. Dad said to hold tight. Fine. My grip will be iron.
I text my brothers for an emergency, non-optional, get-your-ass-here-now meeting, and within fifteen minutes, Colin knocks on my door with Dean beside him. They take in my expression, their faces looking every bit the identical twins that they are. Colin asks, “What blew up?”
They stride in, and Dean adds, “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
I seal the door behind them before speaking. “Thalassa is in Colorado with a concussion.”
“What?” Colin snaps.
“And she’s pregnant.”
Dean’s knees give out from under him and he collapses onto the nearest leather sofa. He rasps out, “Are you serious?”
“Deadly.”
“Pregnant?” Colin echoes, voice cracking between awe and terror.
“Arabella—allegedly her best friend—delivered the news. She’s protective, hostile, and not wrong.
” I pause to admit what they haven’t asked.
“I called to check in on her. Yes, I know that breaks sugar daddy protocol, but I can’t be bothered to give a damn right now.
Thalassa’s voice…she sounds so fucking lost that I can’t take it.
Arabella stole the phone and told me everything. She’s angry on Thalassa’s behalf.”
Dean’s analytic brain kicks into gear. “Timeline?”
“Had to be Thanksgiving, right? It’s too early for it to be anything else.”
Colin runs both hands through his hair, then gets on his phone. “Give me a minute.”
Dean rubs his temple. “This is a lot.”
I nod. “Drink?”
“I think I’d rather be sober right now.” He huffs a laugh. “How weird is that?”
“Got it,” Colin says, still staring at his phone. “The hospital’s firewall is garbage, fuck. They should hire me?—”
“What are you seeing?”
He slowly nods. “Concussion listed as mild. Lots of bruising…apparently some asshole crashed into her on the slopes. And she’s four weeks pregnant, if we align the doctor’s estimates with what she told them.”
Dean nods instantly. “Then we go to the resort. I’ll contact our pilot?—”
Colin lifts a finger. “Hold. Consent. Does Thalassa want us there? Showing up unannounced could magnify her stress, which has to be pretty fucking high right now.”
I grind back a growl. “She got off the phone mid-panic. You didn’t hear her, Colin. She sounded terrified. I can’t just sit here, wondering how she’s doing.”
Dean says to Colin, gentler, “We owe her a choice, yes. But duty demands proximity.”
Colin exhales. “Okay. We go but stay flexible. She might slam the door right in our faces, and she has every right to do so.”
“Deal. Dean, call Hank. Let’s get moving on this.
” While he gets our pilot on the line, I set up a rental SUV, and Colin checks into the resort website, pulling the chalet layout to ensure the stairs won’t aggravate her concussion.
He searches OB offices within fifty miles and flags Dr. Norris, board-certified, high-risk pregnancies, accepts walk-ins. Can’t be too careful.
I’m mindful of the fact that we’re coming in hot on this. We should present a united front of calm, not a corporate takeover. When things slow for a moment, I clear my throat. “Guys, what outcome are we working toward?”
The question makes the room fall silent for a beat. Colin shrugs. “Her body, her choice, right? I think we just want to be her support staff for the time being. Let her take the lead.”
Dean nods. “She’s in a shit situation. If there’s a way we can make it better, then that’s our job.”
“And while we’re at it, let’s call Jeff.”
Dean sets his phone on speaker. Our attorney answers, bleary from the late hour.
Dean scripts what-ifs. Prenatal expenses, guardianship, trust vehicles, even emailed NDAs for resort staff and others.
I half listen, jaw tight, eyes on the resort webcam showing quiet snow-dusty chalets under a cold moon.
Plans are locked by one a.m. Colin’s eyes are bloodshot, yet he’s still fine-tuning altitude oxygen projections for concussion safety and cross-checking avalanche forecasts because apparently that’s how his anxiety manifests.
Dean is all practical logistics. The pilot, the lawyer. He’s even put out a few emails to nutritionists who specialize in prenatal nutrition. They leave to pack, and now, my place feels stifling.
I should be by her side. I should never have let her leave my sight.
Packing should take ten minutes, yet I stand in the closet staring at rows of suits. None fit the situation. I select charcoal slacks, cashmere crewneck—soft, approachable. Then a wool peacoat because Colorado nights bite.
I toss clothes in my carry-on, zipper teeth loud in the night hush. Inside, fear asks too many questions. What if she rejects help? What if pregnancy complications arise? Other triggers? How do three men divide fatherhood? Could we fracture her life more than enrich it?
I kneel by the suitcase, breathing steady. Four counts inhale, four hold, four exhale. Fear won’t win tonight, and I can’t get the answers to those questions if I’m having a damn panic attack.
Before sunrise, we reconvene over protein bars and black coffee in the hangar. I find my voice edging authoritarian. They don’t push back. “Touch any topic only if she initiates,” I decree. “No blame, no shock projections.”
Dean lifts a mug. “Agreed.”
Colin nods but slips a phone into his pocket. “Prepared an app for fetal development if she wants it. No pressure.”
My protectiveness, once clinical, feels primal now—like a tectonic plate locking. “Any threat must break against me first. This is territory defense. She’s ours to protect until she says otherwise.”
Dean says softly, “Tic, we’re with you. Not under you.”
“Sorry,” I concede, shoulders lowering. “Old CEO habits die hard.”
Sunrise hints purple along the horizon. The city hums low in the distance. An ache in my chest sets up residence, and Dad’s words echo in my head again. Hold tight.
I will.