Page 121 of My Big, Fat, Secret Billionaire Baby

And the kicker, delivered with his usual infuriatingly calm demeanor: “If you continue on this trajectory, Leo, resuminglightwingsuit training by the end of the month isn’t entirely out of the question.”

Lighttraining. Yeah, right. Like I do anything lightly.

But still.

Wingsuiting.

Flying again.

The thought sends a jolt through me. A jolt of pure, uncut adrenaline that has nothing to do with Mia or Sabrina or the clusterfuck my life has become.

Freedom.

Escape.

The silence up there, the absolute focus…

Fuck, I need it.

Like oxygen.

And you know what’s almost as good? The numbers from Maxwell & Briggs. Sabrina’s PR blitz is actually fucking working. The bleeding has stopped. Accel Partners, after the Balinski follow-up call, has agreed to reinvest a tentative amount. It’s not the full capital they had with us before. They’re still watching, obviously. Everyone is. But the panic seems to have subsided.

New inquiries are even starting to trickle in. Taylor Strategic Communications. Worth every damn penny.

So, my professional life is stabilizing. My physical recovery is accelerating. I should be feeling on top of the fucking world, right? King fucking Midas again.

Instead, I feel… weirdly conflicted. Restless.

That glimpse of getting back in the suit, back to the edge… it used to be the only thing that mattered. Now?

Now there’s Mia. Sleeping peacefully in her ridiculously expensive crib down the hall. And there’s Sabrina, currently coordinating a media schedule from my office like she fucking owns the place (which, professionally speaking, she kind of does right now).

Worse? My fast recovery, professionally and personally, is entirely due to them. Well, professionally, anyway.

I sigh.

My world used to be simple.

Deals.

Thrills.

Distractions.

Now it’s… complicated.

Messy.

Filled with baby monitors and whispered conversations after midnight and the lingering scent of lavender baby lotion mixing with Sabrina’s peonies and cardamom perfume.

And the strangest fucking part?

It doesn’t entirely suck.

Which brings me to tonight.

Hell night, apparently, in the world of tiny humans. Mia’s got colic. Or gas. Or maybe she’s just pissed off that the minimalist llamas aren’t performing adequately.

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