26. Atticus
ATTICUS
The hospital is too quiet this morning.
Not quiet in the restful sense. Not the kind of quiet that suggests healing or peace. This is the strained, artificial stillness of fluorescent lights and low voices, punctuated by distant coughs and the occasional squeak of rubber soles on polished tile.
Colin is still asleep when I arrive. He’s curled on his side, one arm under the pillow, the other tangled loosely in the blanket.
There’s color in his face again, and not just the gray smudges under his eyes.
That’s good. The IV drip is almost empty, and the heart monitor is steady—slow and strong. For all his recklessness, he’s durable.
Dean is perched in the corner chair, laptop on his knees, but he’s not typing. Just staring at the screen. I don’t ask what he’s thinking about. I don’t need to.
Yesterday rattled all of us. But for Dean? Watching Colin collapse after everything that’s happened—after the company, after the resignation, after the months of pressure—I suspect it landed somewhere deeper.
Thalassa’s sitting in the chair nearest the bed, legs folded up beneath her, hoodie sleeves half covering her hands. She hasn’t looked up since I came in. She hasn’t looked away from Colin either.
She was terrified yesterday. When she ran into the hospital, she looked like she’d just seen someone die. The fear wasn’t just on her—it was in her. And it’s still there now, simmering just under the surface.
I can’t blame her.
None of us expected Colin to hit his limit so publicly. And none of us knew how badly he was pushing himself. We should have known.
I should have known. I’m his big brother. That’s my job.
I glance toward the counter near the sink and spot the hospital-issued coffee cup—half full, thin as dishwater. Colin’s going to hate it when he wakes up.
“I’m going to the Starbucks downstairs,” I say quietly. “He’ll want something real.”
Dean nods, rising. “Good idea. I’ll walk down with you.”
I meet his gaze. He means to give Thalassa a moment alone with Colin, and I can’t fault him for that. She looks like she needs it.
I adjust my cuffs, smooth my coat, and follow Dean out into the hall. The elevator doors close behind us, sealing in the quiet hum of early-morning tension. Dean leans against the wall, arms crossed. He waits until we’re between floors before he speaks.
“You looked strange,” he says, voice low but direct. “When I said we were all the father.”
I glance at him. “Did I?”
He gives me a look. One brow raised. “Don’t insult both of us by pretending I imagined it.”
I exhale, slow and quiet. I’d hoped this wouldn’t come up. Not yet. But of course it would. Dean notices everything. He always has.
The words fight to get out. “I had a vasectomy.”
He blinks once. That’s it. He doesn’t flinch or ask why. He just waits.
“It was shortly after Serena died,” I continue. “I didn’t tell anyone. There was no reason to. No one to tell.”
The elevator hums beneath us. We descend in silence for a moment.
Dean shifts slightly. “Because of the pregnancy complications?”
“Yes.” The word comes out sharper than I intended. I force my hands to unclench. “The hemorrhaging wasn’t supposed to happen. The doctors said it was rare. That it couldn’t have been predicted. I don’t like unpredictability.”
“Understandably.”
“And I—” I pause. My throat is tight. “I couldn’t do it again. I couldn’t ask that of another woman. That kind of risk…it’s too much. So, I took myself out of the equation.”
Dean exhales, jaw tight. “Tic…”
“I’m not looking for sympathy,” I say. “Just honesty.”
He nods, slowly. “Then here’s some. That doesn’t change anything. Not to me. Not to Colin.”
“I’m not the biological father,” I say, and it sounds hollow out loud.
Dean steps forward, meeting my gaze. “You were there. You love her. You’ll love them. That’s more important.”
“It’s not about what I feel. It’s about what’s real.”
“It is real,” he says firmly. “What we have with her is real. What we’re building is real. And those kids? We’ll raise them together, or not at all. That’s real.” His voice is steel. His certainty cuts through the noise in my mind like a clear bell.
“I never thought I’d get another chance,” I murmur.
“You have one,” he says. “Right now.”
The elevator doors slide open.
And I believe him. Even if part of me still doesn’t believe I deserve it.
We order drinks—Dean’s black coffee, my espresso, and something disgustingly sweet and cinnamon-sprinkled for Colin, who only pretends to like plain things, and chamomile for Thalassa.
On the way back up, Dean doesn’t say much. He doesn’t need to. The silence between us is no longer heavy.
When we return to the room, Colin’s sitting up, bed reclined, pale but awake. He grins when he sees the coffee. “You read my mind.”
“It was that or another cup of industrial hospital runoff.”
He takes a sip and makes a face. “Damn. Now I know you love me.”
I glance over at Thalassa. She’s watching him, but something in her expression is lighter now. Less panic, more grounded worry. She hasn’t let go of the idea that something worse could happen—but she’s breathing again.
We all are.
The doctor comes in an hour later. Young, competent, more cheerful than I would prefer at this hour. He checks Colin’s vitals, reviews his chart, and declares he can be released tomorrow, barring any new complications.
“Good news,” the doctor says. “Just exhaustion and dehydration. Pretty spectacular exhaustion, to be fair. But with rest and fluids, you’ll be back to yourself in no time.”
“Damn,” Colin mutters. “Was hoping for at least a broken rib. Get some sympathy points. I fell pretty hard, you know.”
Thalassa smacks his arm.
Dean laughs, then his phone buzzes. He glances at it. His expression shifts. “Marcus.”
Of course.
He walks toward the window to take the call, and I follow him. “Yes?” he says flatly. Then, “I resigned three days ago, Marcus. What do you want me to do about it now?”
A pause.
Dean’s jaw tightens. I catch only his half of the conversation, but it’s enough. Too much is happening. Too many fires. Marcus wants someone in charge. Wants a Copeland face back at the helm—even if just for appearances.
Dean hangs up and turns toward me, exasperated. “He’s panicking. Trying to get me to rescind the resignation.”
I consider it. Then I smile. “Tell the board to meet me in conference room three in twenty minutes.”
Dean stares. “Tic?—”
“Trust me,” I say. “I have an idea.”
When I get there, the conference room feels smaller than it used to.
I think it’s the chairs. Marcus swapped them out a few months ago for sleeker ones—low-backed, modern, uncomfortable. He said they make the room feel “more agile.” I think they make us look like a tech startup having an identity crisis.
Today, I sit in the old chair. The one at the head of the table. The one he didn’t replace, because he wanted it for himself.
Marcus is already here when I arrive. He’s pacing. Pretending he isn’t, but he is. I’ve known the man since I was born. I’ve watched him orchestrate hostile takeovers and manipulate board sentiment like a concert pianist. But today, he’s off-key.
He smiles when he sees me, but his eyes are tight. “Tic. Dean said you called this meeting?”
“I did.” I set my coat over the back of the chair and sit.
One by one, the board members filter in—some curious, some tired, some clearly annoyed that they’ve been called in on a random morning. I nod to each, acknowledging them without inviting chatter.
Dean arrives last, still on the phone. He gives me a small nod, then sits beside me. When the door clicks shut, I begin.
“We’re in crisis,” I say. “We have a data breach impacting tens of thousands of customers. We’ve lost millions in revenue. Our CTO collapsed on national television after working fifty consecutive hours to hold the infrastructure together with duct tape and hope.”
I let that settle.
“We’ve had no CEO for three days. No cohesive leadership. No direction.”
Marcus clears his throat. “Yes, well, that’s exactly why I suggested?—”
“Do not interrupt.”
The room goes quiet.
I glance down at the file in front of me.
“I’m offering a temporary solution. One that will allow us to stabilize without appointing a new CEO mid-crisis.
” I slide a document across the table. “I’ll front a private bridge loan to cover the fallout—liquid, immediately available, no interest—on two conditions. ”
Marcus leans forward. “Which are?”
“One. A full forensic audit of all payment systems, vendor accounts, and communication logs going back six months.”
There’s a ripple of surprise around the table. Someone murmurs, “Six?”
“Two,” I continue. “Unfettered oversight by a third-party cybersecurity firm of my choosing. Not yours. Not Finance’s. Mine.”
Marcus frowns. “That’s…aggressive.”
“We have a leak. A rat. Someone inside this company sold or mishandled information in a way that allowed this breach to happen, or they’re in on the leak and selling customer data. Malice or not, it ends now.”
Marcus spreads his hands. “This is exactly the kind of paranoia that makes people question Copeland leadership.”
I meet his gaze. “Our name is on the building. It’s the brand. If they don’t like our leadership, they know where the door is.”
He pauses. “And what if the audit points fingers in the wrong direction?”
I tilt my head. “Is there a wrong direction, Marcus? Or just a direction you don’t like?”
He falters, but rounds up his gumption. “Maybe it’s time we consider whether the Copeland brothers have too much emotional investment to make objective decisions. Perhaps it’s time the board looked outside the family.”
There it is. His real play.
I let the silence stretch. Then I lean forward, fold my hands on the table, and smile. “Excellent,” I say. “That’s exactly what the audit will help us determine.”
Marcus stiffens. His phone vibrates. He glances at it, then quickly silences it. His fingers twitch. A minute ago, he was smug.
Now, he’s texting. Good. Let him squirm.
After the meeting, Dean and I walk back into the hospital side by side.
The sun is higher now, but the chill hasn’t burned off yet. It feels sharp against my skin—bracing. Grounding.
“You sure about this?” Dean asks.
“No.”
He smiles. “Still doing it anyway?”
“Yes.”
He hesitates. “Do you want them to be yours?”
I glance at him.
“You said you’re not the biological father. I’m asking if you want to be one anyway.”
I stare at the light, waiting for it to change.
My heart hurts. I don’t want to admit it. But I’m not lying to Dean. My voice rasps, “More than anything.”
Dean nods. “Then you are.”
It’s not biology. It’s belief. And I want to believe.
Colin is awake when we return. Thalassa is curled sideways on the edge of the bed, her hand in his, fast asleep. Arabella is dozing in a chair with a book open on her lap. I’m surprised to see her here. I thought she didn’t like us.
She’s probably just here to support Thalassa. I respect that.
The room is warm, quiet, and soft in a way hospitals rarely are. Dean walks over and gently brushes Thalassa’s hair out of her face. She stirs, eyes blinking open, confused but calm. I stand in the doorway a moment longer, watching them.
My family. Messy. Unconventional. Utterly mine.
I’m still afraid. But the difference is—I’m here. I’m not hiding in retirement or grief. I’m here. Maybe that’s what makes a family. Not biology, not inheritance, not legacy.
Maybe it’s being there for your loved ones when they need you the most. Or when you need them the most. Right now, it goes both ways.