31. Dean
DEAN
I sit at the head of the conference table in the south wing boardroom, the one with the lower ceilings and frosted glass windows, deliberately chosen for how unthreatening it looks.
The new financial team files in exactly one minute early. Good sign.
All five of them are impeccably dressed, visibly nervous, and trying very hard to seem competent without seeming like they want Marcus’s job too badly. I can smell the calculation in the air—cautious ambition with a hint of caffeine-sweat. That’s fine. I’d be nervous too.
No one wants to be the next Marcus. Especially after watching the last one get escorted out in cuffs.
I don’t speak right away. I let them settle, open their laptops, murmur their greetings. Only after they’ve had fifteen full seconds to feel the silence do I begin. “Thank you all for coming.”
Murmurs of “of course,” “thank you,” “Mr. Copeland.”
I nod once. “We’re not here to rehash what happened. We’re here to correct course. And I want to be clear—this department doesn’t get a second black mark. You will operate above board, with full transparency, or you will be replaced. Am I understood?”
Everyone nods. Good.
I press a finger to the touchpad and bring up the first slide. “There are three things I want to implement immediately. None of them are up for debate.”
No one blinks. That’s wise.
“First, executive compensation freezes—for all C-suite bonuses—until profitability has stabilized.”
A few controlled exhales.
“Second, discretionary spending reviews. Anything over twenty-five K gets routed through legal and ops. We’re not doing another spa retreat for ‘team morale’ anytime soon.”
One of the women coughs, unsuccessfully covering a laugh.
“Third,” I say, “effective next quarter, five percent of Copeland Restaurants’ net global profits will be diverted to a new environmental foundation focused on conserving Puerto Rico’s endemic species.”
Now they blink.
One of them—a younger man with a Wall Street haircut and a new tie—raises a hand hesitantly. “Sir, just to clarify…is this in response to the recent—uh—publicity concerns?”
“No,” I say calmly. “It’s in response to a need.
A need that has existed for years. The money will go to the foundation, which will, in turn, fund both independent research and the expansion of an existing ecological station on a privately held island.
The board will be named next month. Oversight will come from a panel I’ve already recruited. ”
Someone nods slowly. Another taps notes into a spreadsheet. No one dares object. They can’t. Not yet. And I’m not giving them the opportunity.
After they leave, I stay in the room a moment longer.
The windows face east. Sunlight pools across the glass tabletop. I stare at my reflection, then down at the list I didn’t show them.
On it, a full operations grant for the next five years of research. A new equipment shipment. Housing expansion. Scholarships for field students who want to study there. Enough to change lives.
I keep thinking about Thalassa’s parents. About their cottage and their small boat. Small, according to Tic, could mean a kayak or a thirty-foot yacht. But it doesn’t matter. Their important work was barely surviving.
Not anymore.
Tic’s project—his new center for ecological outreach—won’t drain his personal funds. Not with this in place. And Thalassa’s parents won’t have to worry about the longevity of their research. They’ll be able to hire a team. Build labs. Do more than anyone ever gave them credit for.
And they’ll never know it was me. That matters.
She asked us to stop doing things behind her back. And I meant it when I said I’d try. But I also believe in leaving people better than we found them. Sometimes that means writing a check and walking away. Sometimes that means not being thanked.
I’m fine with that. What I’m not fine with is letting the opportunity pass.
Tic arrives just after ten. True to form, he knocks once on the door and walks in without waiting. I close my laptop and gesture for him to sit. He doesn’t. He rarely does, unless necessary.
Instead, he crosses the room to examine the slides still displayed on the far wall—projected graphs of the company’s current quarterly breakdown and a few summary pages I haven’t dismissed yet.
“I heard about the foundation,” he says without turning around.
Of course he did.
“I know you were planning to fund the station privately. I just thought—if we have the means, it shouldn’t fall on your shoulders alone.”
Tic looks back at me slowly. I’ve seen him surprised before, but never caught off guard. “I didn’t tell anyone about that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
His eyes narrow slightly. “Dean…”
“I know it’s not what she wanted,” I interrupt. “Not exactly. But it’s not behind her back either. The foundation is public. Transparent. She’ll see the paperwork. She’ll connect the dots. If she asks, I’ll tell her the truth.”
He studies me for another long moment. Then, finally, he nods. “Thank you.”
That’s all he says, but coming from Tic, it carries weight.
“I figured you’d rather spend your money on something a little more…impractical,” I say lightly.
“I’d like to keep a few indulgences, yes,” he replies. “I’m considering installing a private flamenco studio.”
I blink. “What?”
He doesn’t elaborate.
Before I can ask, the door opens again.
Colin strides in, carrying a heavy leather folder under one arm and two iced coffees in his other hand. He looks far too smug for someone who collapsed on live television five days ago.
“Morning, gentlemen,” he says, dropping into the seat across from me. “Anyone feeling unusually responsible today? Because I brought paperwork.”
Tic and I exchange a look.
“Should we be worried?” I ask.
“Only if you don’t like planning for worst-case scenarios.” He tosses the folder on the table and slides it open.
Inside: legal documents. Signature tabs. Copies of something stamped by both a notary and our family attorney.
“What is this?” Tic asks.
“A will,” Colin says. “Or, more precisely, a co-parenting agreement. In case of disaster.”
I lean in, brow furrowing. “Explain.”
“If something happens to us…” He pauses, then shakes his head. “Okay, not all of us, because then it’s a very boring funeral—but if anything happens, this makes sure Thalassa and the babies are taken care of. Permanently. Financially, legally, and structurally. No arguments. No infighting.”
Tic flips through the first few pages. “You wrote this?”
“With a lawyer,” Colin says. “And a bottle of very old bourbon. But yes. I wanted it done before she moved in.”
I exhale. It’s sobering. Necessary. And long overdue.
We’ve spent so long pretending we’re invincible. Untouchable. That the name Copeland was enough to shield us. But it’s not.
It didn’t stop Colin from collapsing on live television. It didn’t stop Thalassa from having a scare. And this agreement is the first time we’ve acknowledged that our lives are no longer just our own.
“I’ll sign it,” I say.
Colin raises an eyebrow. “No lecture about paperwork being heavy-handed?”
“No. You’re right.”
Tic nods. “Me too.”
We pass the folder around. One signature. Then another. Then a third.
It’s not dramatic. But it feels momentous. We’re not boys anymore. We’re men. And we’re going to be fathers.
“Did you tell Dean about how I was funding the Puerto Rico project?” Tic asks Colin.
He snorts. “You have a hacker for a brother. Do you think anything is truly private?”
I say, “You know, when I hear that being said to someone else… She’s right. It is creepy.”
Colin smirks. “But effective.”
Tic, without looking up, murmurs, “Still creepy.”
We all laugh.
Not hard. But real.
We sit in companionable silence after the paperwork is signed. Tic scrolls through something on his phone. I sip my coffee, cold now but still effective. Colin looks entirely too pleased with himself, which is always dangerous.
“Out with it,” I say, narrowing my eyes. “You’re holding something in.”
Colin leans back, grinning. “Okay, yes. I have one more thing.”
Tic doesn’t look up. “Is it expensive?”
Colin shrugs. “Not as expensive as a yacht. But maybe as satisfying.” He pulls out his phone, unlocks it, and flips it around to show us a photo.
At first, I don’t understand what I’m looking at. But then I realize it. It’s…breathtaking.
“Colin,” I say slowly. “What did you do?”
“Nothing too crazy.”
I keep staring at the photo. “You said you wanted to avoid being heavy-handed.”
“I tried ,” he says. “But then I saw a Pinterest board she didn’t know was public, and?—”
“Oh my god,” I interrupt. “You’re the worst.”
He shrugs. “She’s going to love it.”
He’s right. I can already picture her reaction.
For a moment, I let it wash over me—the comfort of this room, the men beside me, the future we’re building with too many hands and not enough caution.
And for the first time in weeks, I don’t feel like I’m on the edge of breaking. I’m on the edge of building something new.