23. Dean
DEAN
The house is quiet at this hour, save for the gentle hum of the espresso machine winding down in the kitchen and the far-off sound of sprinklers rotating over hedges we planted last spring.
I take my coffee out onto the side terrace, away from the pools.
The morning air is cooler than usual—crisp, light, a break from the sticky spring buildup we’ve been enduring all week.
From here, I can hear the water, but I can’t see it. That’s intentional.
The lazy river winds around the estate like a silk ribbon—beautiful, indulgent, and impossible to ignore. Two of the pools connect directly to it, and it flows along the perimeter in an artificial loop that was, at one point, supposed to represent luxury.
Now, it just makes Thalassa flinch.
She hasn’t moved in—not officially, anyway—but she’s been here more nights than not. Her things are still in her dorm, but her presence is all over this place. Her mug is in the dishwasher. Her scent is on my pillows. Her laugh lives in the corners of this house.
I find her everywhere.
She has the staff completely smitten, which is saying something.
Particularly Mrs. Culpepper, who hasn’t liked a single person we’ve ever dated or hired or even introduced.
But Thalassa walks into the kitchen, barefoot and bleary-eyed, and that woman lights up like the sun rose just for her.
Last night I caught Culpepper setting aside the good tea set—porcelain, with the gold rim—for Thalassa’s chamomile. She never does that for us.
I think it’s the way she’s so unaware of the effect she has.
She doesn’t pretend to belong here. She just fits.
Effortless, in that way, people from completely different worlds sometimes are when they come into your orbit and refuse to perform.
They simply are who they are, no artifice, no pretense.
God, I think I’m falling for her.
No—I know I am.
It’s too fast, too soon, and maybe that’s part of why I feel so off-balance.
I’ve spent my entire life making decisions carefully, deliberately.
I move with purpose. But Thalassa? She moves like wind—graceful, wild, unpredictable.
One look at her and every plan I’ve ever made takes a different shape.
One glance from her and I want something else entirely.
But I still don’t know how she feels about us.
Not just me, but Tic and Colin too.
She stays here. She touches us like we’re hers.
She curls against us at night and lets her body soften in our arms. But then she leaves again, disappearing back to campus, back to Arabella, back to her world of midterms, student group chats, and microwaved mac and cheese.
And when she sees the pools and the lazy river winding through the property, her whole body tenses.
She looks away fast, like it hurts. She won’t talk about it. Not yet.
I don’t push. Not because I’m not dying to know, but because she’s already trusted us with so much. I can wait. But the waiting is starting to ache.
At 9:00 a.m., I’m in the boardroom.
It has a panoramic view of the city and smells faintly of upholstery glue and citrus polish, no matter how many times they “update” the decor. Marcus is already seated, a thick stack of folders in front of him, posture perfect, tie straight.
Everyone else files in slowly—legal, marketing, R&D, regional ops. Tic is absent, by design. After all, he’s just a consultant these days. We agreed he’d hold off on showing his hand until we’re sure what Marcus is trying to pull.
I sit at the head of the table, give the expected nod, and flip open my notepad.
The room hums with tension. I can feel it behind the polite murmurs and half smiles.
Our Q4 sales dipped harder than projected.
Nothing catastrophic, but enough to make the shareholders antsy.
Supply chain costs were worse than expected, and Marcus has been seeding his little suggestions—passive, always, with that charming, grandfatherly tone of his—for weeks now.
He wants me out. I know it. He knows I know it. What’s worse is he’s built his case with such studied subtlety that if I try to call him out too early, I’ll look paranoid.
I don’t want to think the worst of him, but he’s made it so easy.
The meeting drags through numbers I already know, lines I’ve read a dozen times. Then Marcus clears his throat. “I hesitate to bring this up,” he says, hands folded on the table like he’s offering prayer, “but we’ve received…feedback.”
Here it comes.
“Several shareholders have expressed concern. They feel the recent volatility points to uncertainty in leadership. Not necessarily failure,” he says quickly, raising one hand. “Just…misalignment.”
I keep my face neutral. I don’t interrupt.
Marcus sighs, a picture of reluctant wisdom. “Dean, you’ve done admirable work stepping in when Atticus retired. Truly. No one disputes your competence. But perhaps it’s time we consider a change. A return to steadier waters.”
The room stills. Nobody makes eye contact. Not legal, not ops, not even the guy from HR with the nervous twitch.
“You’ve never wanted this position,” Marcus says kindly. “Perhaps it’s time to step aside and let someone more experienced handle it. Temporarily, of course. Just until confidence stabilizes.”
I could laugh. Instead, I nod once. “You’d be willing to take that on, Marcus? For the good of the company?”
He smiles like a man burdened by duty. “If asked, yes. For the company, always.”
Of course.
I glance at the room. No one meets my eyes. They’ve all read the numbers. They’ve all felt the drop in stock price. If I resist, there’ll be a no-confidence vote, and it’ll look like I’m clinging to power.
But if I step down myself, I can control the narrative. I can make it temporary. And if Tic’s audit unearths what we think it will, I can come back before Marcus settles too deeply into the chair.
Still, it’s a blow.
I breathe once, deeply, set my pen on the table, and look up.
“I’ll resign,” I say. “Effective immediately. But I’m not going far.”
Marcus blinks. Not part of his script.
I smile politely. “I’ll retain a seat on the advisory committee. And I’ll support your interim leadership, Marcus, assuming the board accepts it. But I’ll also be taking a personal leave.”
Someone coughs. Legal’s pen scratches the margin of a notepad. Marcus’s mouth tightens. Evidently, no one knows quite what to say. Were they expecting a fight?
I stand, button my jacket. “Thank you, everyone. I’ll work with HR to finalize the paperwork.”
And then I walk out.
The elevator ride down is long. My hands shake, just a little. The weight of the job is still sliding off me, like armor I didn’t realize I’d been wearing until it started hitting the floor, piece by piece.
Part of me aches. This company is my life. My family’s legacy. There’s always been a Copeland in the CEO’s chair. I grew up in these hallways. I took naps on my father’s office couch during summer board meetings. I carved my initials under the reception desk in the finance wing when I was ten.
And now, I’m out. I don’t like it.
But a bigger part of me feels free. Light. Ready.
There’s something about watching Thalassa fold into our world so carefully, so gently, like she’s testing the weight of it on her shoulders before she decides whether she can stay.
I want to be home when she does. I want to know if she chooses us.
I want to be there to soften the floor if she stumbles.
And I want to be the one testing bottle warmers, researching sleep training, and losing my mind over the difference between one kind of swaddle and another.
I want to be there when the wallpaper gets picked and replaced twice.
I want to be the one she leans on when she’s too tired to finish a sentence, and the one who rubs her feet.
I want to take care of her and the twins. The thought makes me smile. Another set of twins in the family. I wonder whether they’ll be identical. Or maybe a boy and a girl. The thought pinches in my chest.
I don’t know if she wants that with us. I don’t know if she’ll keep the babies or put them up for adoption. She’s outside the termination window, barring complications. I don’t even know if she knows how deeply I’ve already handed her the reins to my future.
But I know this—I don’t want to be ten floors up, arguing over logistics, when she decides what comes next.
Colin’s waiting by the car, arms crossed, brow furrowed. I didn’t text. He just knew.
The twin thing, I suppose. I hope our kids have it too.
“Was it bad?” he asks.
“It was Marcus.”
He nods once. “So?”
“I stepped down.”
His eyebrows lift. “Shit.”
“I had to. He’s set the board up for a no-confidence vote. They wouldn’t stop him.”
Colin exhales, long and low. “You okay?”
I consider the question. “I think I am. I don’t want to be in that chair right now. Not with everything going on. Let Marcus play his hand. When Tic’s audit hits, we’ll have leverage.”
Colin tilts his head. “And in the meantime?”
“In the meantime,” I say, pulling open the car door, “I’m going home.”
I don’t have to say what that means.
Colin smiles. “Tell her hi for me.”
The car pulls away from the curb, and I look out the window, watching the skyline slide by. Home is waiting. And for once, I can’t wait to get there.