Page 124 of My Big, Fat, Secret Billionaire Baby

I won’t push it.

For now.

“All right, Sabrina,” I concede. Too easily? “Guest suite it is. Your little fortress of solitude. Minus the ice crystals.”

“And my apartment,” she adds. “I’m keeping my apartment. My business address. My… independence.”

“Understood.” I get it. She needs hersafety net. Needs to know she’s not trapped here, dependent on me. Fair enough. “But when youdoneed to go out... to your office, meetings, whatever. You’re not going alone. Not anymore.”

Her eyes narrow slightly. “What does that mean?”

“It means I hired additional security,” I say matter-of-factly. “Dedicated detail for you and Mia. Whenever you leave the building. Non-negotiable.” I pull out my phone, navigate to the file Michelle sent over earlier. “Meet your new shadows.”

I show her the screen. Two photos. One guy, mid-thirties, serious expression, military buzz cut: Jonas Fulsome. Ex-Delta Force, apparently. The other, slightly younger, built like a fucking tank, with a shaved head and intense eyes: Terrence ‘The Terminator’ Jackson. Former Secret Service.

Both top-tier operators from the firm Carter Security Solutions recommended. Sam Carter’s firm... yes, that would be the same Sam from Vegas.

Sabrina stares at the photos, her expression shifting from surprise to resignation. “Seriously? ‘The Terminator?’”

“Nickname, apparently,” I shrug. “Point is, they’re the best. They’ll be discreet, but they’ll be there. Outside your apartment when you go back to pick up any personal effects, shadowing you to meetings, running interference with any paparazzi assholes. I can’t keep sharing my own detail with you. You need your own. Especially if we want to be in two separate public places at once.”

She sighs again. “Is all thisreallynecessary, Leo? They sounds expensive.”

“Theyareexpensive, and yes they’re necessary.” I meet her gaze, letting her see the absolute conviction there. “Protecting you, protectingher… it’s the only thing thatisnecessary right now. Everything else is just noise.”

She studied me for a moment.

“Okay, Leo,” she says finally. “Okay. And... thank you.”

Those last words land with surprising weight.

Thank you.

Not something I hear often.

Not something I usually care about hearing.

But from her?

Right now?

It feels… good.

Really good.

And maybe this is what progress looks like. Not giant leaps, but small steps.

Shared exhaustion over a colicky baby. Agreements about living arrangements. Hiring fucking Terminators. Building something… different.

Together.

The thought is still terrifying.

But tonight?

It also feels right.

Like maybe we'll be able to get through this after all.

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