Page 13 of My Big, Fat, Secret Billionaire Baby

We end up back at the Aria, spilling out into the lobby. It feels like days have passed, not hours.

“Well,” Sam says, clearing his throat. “That was… something.” He looks at Amara. “Walk you to your room?” She nods gratefully, and they disappear towards the elevators.

Rossi murmurs something to Tatiana, kisses her gently, and then nods to Leo and me before steering his new wife away. His security detail follows.

Marco lingers near Jess, an awkward tension between them.

“So…” Marco begins, shifting his weight. “Guess I should… you know. Get some sleep. Big day.”

I give Jess a warning look.

He’s getting married tomorrow...

She smiles wistfully, then looks at Marco.

“Yeah,” Jess replies, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “You should get some sleep. Congratulations, Marco.”

“Thanks, Jess,” he says, offering a small, almost regretful smile. “It was… fun hanging out.”

“Yeah, it was,” she agrees softly.

They stand there for another beat, the unspokenwhat ifhanging heavy in the air, before Marco gives a final nod and heads off in the oppositedirection, shoulders slightly slumped. Jess watches him go for a second, then turns toward the elevators with a sigh.

And then it’s just Leo and me, standing under the excessively bright lights of the casino lobby. The adrenaline has worn off, leaving me feeling drained yet oddly wired at the same time. It’s the strangest feeling. Though not so strange as being high on GHB I imagine.

“So,” Leo says, turning to me. That charming grin is back, but softer now. “That was unexpected.”

“Understatement of the century,” I reply dryly. “I can’t believe you let your friend and Tatiana do this to themselves.”

He shrugs. “If they don’t like it, they can always annul tomorrow.”

“That’s the most likely scenario, actually...” I tell him.

“Well at least they’re happy tonight,” he replies. “Nothing and no one can take that away from them.”

I purse my lips, considering. “I suppose you’re right. In a twisted way.”

He steps closer. “You know, despite the matrimonial chaos… I had fun tonight, Sabrina. I really did.”

“Yeah,” I admit quietly, avoiding his gaze. “Me, too. Mostly.”

Except for the part where my best friend impulsively married a billionaire under the influence.

“But the night’s not over yet,” he says softly. His thumb gently brushes my cheek, sending a jolt through me. “My suite is considerably quieter than this lobby. And probably has better champagne than that chapel did. What do you say?”

My brain is screaming warnings all over again.

Go to your own room.

Alone.

Drink water.

Sleep.

Yes, playtime’s over, Sabrina. Reel it in.

Because ‘better champagne’ sounds fun in theory, but the reality usually involves regret, awkward morning-afters and walks of shame, and potentially needing a burner phone.

---