Page 116 of My Big, Fat, Secret Billionaire Baby

Meanwhile,myaccidental Vegas conception led to twenty months of secret-keeping, culminating in public exposure and cohabitation with a man who is equal parts terrifying and tender.

Not exactly parallel trajectories.

Still, talking to Tati helped.

Mostly.

Then came the afternoon after I got back to the penthouse. A relentless barrage of media inquiries, damage control statements, calls with Leo’s increasingly nervous (and occasionally hostile, thanks to Luca) business associates.

All managed from the temporary command center Leo set up for me in his home office, while Leo himself oscillated between taking aggressive investor calls and… playing peek-a-boo with Mia like it was the most important funding round of his life.

But now… quiet. Mia is finally asleep in her ridiculously fancy nursery down the hall. I just finished the bedtime story ritual, which tonight featured Pat the Bunny... apparently a classic in the high-stakes world of infant literature.

This while Leo watched from the doorway. Watchedme. Not just Mia.

His gaze was… intense. Like he was trying to decipher a complex algorithm instead of just observing basic parental routine.

It made my skin prickle, my cheeks flush.

Damn it, Sabrina, get a grip.

Now we’re standing awkwardly in the hallway outside the nursery. The silence stretches, filled only by the soft hum of the penthouse’s climate control system.

“Long day,” Leo says finally. He looks tired, too, leaning more heavily on his cane than he was thismorning. Managing investors probably takes a toll, even for him.

“Understatement,” I agree, running a hand through my hair. I feel… grimy. Stressed. Like I’ve run a marathon fueled by Red Bull and anxiety alone. “Think I need about twelve hours of sleep and maybe a vat of coffee.”

He gives me a sympathetic smile. The rare, genuine one that crinkles the corners of his eyes and makes my stomach do those stupid little flips again.

“Can’t help with the sleep yet, but… how about a shower? A long one? My bathroom’s… excessive. Might help you relax.” He gestures vaguely down the corridor towards his wing of the penthouse.

My first instinct is to refuse.

Boundaries. Professionalism. Don’t get comfortable.

But the thought of escaping into a cloud of steam, washing away the stress of the day, the lingering scent of stale coffee and baby powder… it’s incredibly tempting. His bathroom is probably bigger than my guest suite, let alone my entire apartment.

“Are you sure?” I ask, hesitating. “I don’t want to intrude…”

“Sabrina,” he says firmly, stepping closer so that his familiar ozone-and-fig scent curls around me. “You’re living here, temporarily at least. Using the damn shower isn’t intruding.” His gaze searches mine for a moment, then: “Go. Relax. You deserve it after today.”

The unexpected kindness chips away another brick from the wall.

“Okay,” I relent. “Okay, thanks. That actually sounds… amazing. I mean, the guest shower is fine, but if it’s not a big deal...”

“It’s not.” His smile widens. “Guesttowels are in the linen closet inside. Fluffy ones on the left.” He turns, heading towards the main living area. “Take your time. I’ll just be… working.”

Right. Work. Because billionaires neverreallyclock out.

His ensuite bathroom is, as predicted, excessive. And incredible. Marble everywhere, heated floors, a shower stall the size of a small European nation with more jets and nozzles than a jacuzzi. There’s even a built-in sound system.

Because of course there is.

I strip off my clothes, leaving the stressed PR consultant persona in a heap on the ridiculously plush bathmat, and step under the cascade of hot water.

I’m in heaven. Pure and unadulterated.

The tension starts to melt from my shoulders almost instantly.

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