Page 1 of My Big, Fat, Secret Billionaire Baby

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Sabrina

Vegas.

The land of questionable decisions, blinding neon, and air conditioning set to ‘meat locker.’

My mantra for the weekend:What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas… unless it gives you an STD or ends up on TikTok.

So far, so good on both counts. But we’ve only just arrived.

We’re strategically positioned on loungers at Aria’s Liquid Pool Lounge. The bass thumps through my ribcage. Beautiful people drape themselves over every available surface, sipping antifreeze-colored cocktails. It’s less a pool party, more a live-action Instagram feed.

It’s… a lot. The pressure to look effortlessly perfect, the cacophony, the sheerperformanceof it all. My PR brain automatically starts analyzing the crowd dynamics, the subtle power plays, the brand messaging of everyone’s swimwear choices.

Stop it, Sabrina. You’re off the clock.

Tatiana is fidgeting beside me, adjusting the microscopic red bikini top like it’s rigged with explosives, looking more uncomfortable than I feel.

“Stop fidgeting,” I hiss, handing her one of the potent-looking blue concoction the server just delivered. “You look hot. Own it.”

Rule number one of crisis management: control the narrative.

Though secretly I’m praying that the damn top Jess loaned her doesn’t burst open.

We toast Amara’s promotion, and I gulp my own glass of blue poison. The alcohol hits my bloodstream with pleasant warmth, fuzzing the edges of my perpetual low-grade anxiety.

That’s when I seehim.

Okay, wow. Across the pool, holding court in the center of a vortex of equally attractive friends and flanking women, is…a specimen. Tall, athletic build that looksearned, not bought. Wavy dark blond hair styled in that perfect ‘I woke up like this’ messy look that definitely takes some fussing with expensive product. And his eyes…green. Like, really green. Striking.

He’s laughing, and the corners of those green eyes crinkle attractively.

Damn it.

Blondie McTrouble is the kind of effortlessly charming guy my dad probably was before he perfected the disappearing act. The kind that makes warning bells clang in my head even as my ovaries do a little tap dance.

“Holy shit, is that Dominic Rossi?” Tatiana suddenly hisses, yanking me out of my impromptu risk assessment.

I frown. I don’t think she’s talking about Blondie McTrouble, but she’s gazing in the same generaldirection. Dominic Rossi... is that really his name? I don’t think so. Still, the name is familiar somehow...

“Where?” Jess and Amara snap their heads around like meerkats sensing a predator. Or prey.

“Don’t look!” Tatiana hisses, way too late. We are now officially That Group Of Obvious Fan Girls. Smooth.

“Damn,” Jess whispers, practically drooling. “This is the guy who occasionally shows up at your office, Tat? The tabloids don’t do himjustice.”

Dominic Rossi… the name finally clicks. He’s definitely not Blondie McTrouble. No, Rossi is a self-made real estate mogul and billionaire, and also close friend of Tatiana’s boss, Christopher Blackwell.

Rossi is, however, in the same group as my guy. Unlike Blondie, however, he looks intense and focused even while relaxing. Not my type. I prefer them… well, less intimidating.

My gaze drifts back to Blondie. He catches me looking and offers a slow, easy smile that hits me straight in the solar plexus. It’s the kind of smile that suggests he knowsexactlyhow good-looking he is and isn’t afraid to use it.

Definitely my type. My problematic type, that is. If hotness had a body, it would be that man.

“He’s looking this way,” Amara stage-whispers.

I quickly look away, pretending to be fascinated by the melting ice in my drink.

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