Page 108 of My Big, Fat, Secret Billionaire Baby

A much younger Leo, maybe ten or eleven, all gangly limbs and that same unruly dark blond hair, stands awkwardly between two adults. He’s not smiling his usual charming grin; he looks… serious. Almost wary.

The older man beside him, presumably his father, has a similar facial structure but lacks Leo’s spark. His eyes look distant, almost hollow. Haunted, even.

The woman, his mother, is blonde, pretty, buther smile seems brittle, painted on, her hand hovering near Leo’s shoulder but not quite touching him.

They look… disconnected.

All of them.

Posing for a picture but miles apart emotionally.

It’s strangely poignant. A glimpse behind the curtain of Leo Maxwell, the carefully constructed brand.

“Your parents?” I ask before I can stop myself.

Professional boundaries have gone out the window.

Along with my panties, apparently.

Leo glances over, following my gaze to the photograph.

His expression tightens instantly. He limps closer with his cane, standing beside me, staring at the picture with a look I can’t quite decipher.

Resentment? Sadness?

Maybe just… distance.

“Yeah,” he says curtly. “Ancient history.” He reaches out like he’s going to turn the frame face down, then seems to think better of it, letting his hand drop back to his side.

“You look… serious,” I venture, studying the young Leo in the photo again. That guarded look in his eyes feels oddly familiar.

It’s the same look I sometimes see now. For example, in this very moment even.

He lets out a short, humorless laugh. “Serious occasions require serious posing.” He taps the glass over the image of his father. “That’s Richard Maxwell. Master of disappointment. Drank himself senseless after running the family business into the ground.” The bitterness in his tone isundisguised.

“And your mother?” I ask quietly, looking at the woman with the brittle smile.

Leo shrugs, his gaze on the photo but his focus seemingly miles away. “Mom was… overwhelmed. Spent most of my childhood trying to keep him... upright. Not much left over for… anything else.” He waves a dismissive hand. “Like I said, ancient history. Doesn’t matter.”

But itdoesmatter. I see it instantly. The connection. His father’s failures, his alcoholism, the financial instability he mentioned once before… his mother’s emotional absence, being overwhelmed…

It’s the blueprint for Leo’s own carefully constructed walls. His relentless drive for success, his need for control, his aversion to commitment, his fear of… what?

Becoming his father? Failing like his father did?

And his fear of fatherhood itself, perhaps.

It’s not just about the lifestyle change, the inconvenience. It’s deeper than that. It’s tangled up in this painful history somehow, this image of a disconnected, failing father and an emotionally absent mother.

He’s terrified of repeating the pattern, just like my mother is terrifiedIwill with him.

Suddenly, his guardedness, his reckless behavior, even his initial fury at me… it clicks into place with painful clarity. He wasn’t just angry about the secret; he was probably terrified of the responsibility, terrified of becoming the kind of father he himself endured.

“Leo,” I say softly, turning to face him. He finally tears his gaze away from the photo, looking down at me, his green eyes wary again. Expecting judgmentperhaps. “Itdoesmatter. It shapes us, doesn’t it? Our parents. The things we run from.”

He studies my face for a long moment.

“And what are you running from, Sabrina?” he asks quietly, turning the tables.

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