Page 132 of My Big, Fat, Secret Billionaire Baby

My blood runs cold.

Attached to Vivian’s forward is a separate document. A PR strategy proposal, drafted by…Luca Briggs?

My eyes narrow.

It’s slick, aggressive, all about framing Leo’s potential participation as a ‘triumphant return,’ a ‘redemption arc,’ a ‘testament to the indomitable human spirit.’

It’s also utter bullshit, designed to appeal to Leo’s ego and the media’s hunger for a dramatic narrative. It positions his near-fatal crash not as a consequence of reckless behavior, but as a heroic battle against the elements.

Give me a frickin’ break.

Vivian’s cover note is so brief it’s almost laughable.

Sabrina,

Luca thoughtyou might find this useful for crafting potential proactive media angles should Mr. Maxwell decide to accept the invitation. Luca believes a strong narrative could further bolster investor confidence in Leo’s resilience. Thoughts?

V.

ShouldMr. Maxwell decide to accept.

And I’m sure Luca ‘The Enabler’ Briggs isn’tsubtly (or not so subtly) pushing him in that direction at all. This has Luca’s manipulative fingerprints all over it.

He’s usingme, using my PR expertise, to try to legitimize this insanity. To give Leo a professionally (andpersonally) sanctioned excuse to go jump off another freakin’ cliff.

The sheer audacity.

My hands are shaking slightly as I put down my coffee cup. Mia chooses that moment to fling a spoonful of sweet potato with surprising accuracy, hitting my laptop screen.

“Good aim, kiddo,” I mutter, wiping it off with a napkin. “I couldn’t agree more. This is definitely poop.”

I spend the rest of the morning on edge, every email notification making me nervous, every ring of the phone sending a jolt of anxiety through me.

Is Leo going to mention it?

Is he evenconsideringit?

He’s been so… different lately. More focused on Mia, on his recovery. And on restoring the business. He hasn’t mentioned wingsuiting even once since I moved in, not even in passing. I’d almost allowed myself to believe that part of him, the reckless, adrenaline-junkie part, was… dormant. Maybe even… gone forever?

Wishful thinking, Sabrina.

Naive, stupid, wishful thinking.

Later that afternoon, after Mia’s nap, I find him. Not in his office, not on a conference call.

He’s in the massive home gym, the one that looks like something out of a luxury sports magazine. He’s not workingout, though.

He’s standing in front of a massive flatscreen TV, watching…wingsuitingvideos.

Of all things.

It’s old footage of him... younger, leaner, launching himself off impossibly high cliffs and carving lines through the sky with terrifying grace.

He doesn’t hear me approach. His focus is entirely on the screen. As I get closer, I can see the longing in his eyes, the hunger that makes my stomach clench with dread.

It’s the look of an addict staring at his drug of choice after a period of forced sobriety.

My carefully constructed PR strategy... the one focused on ‘calculated risk-taker,’ ‘resilient leader,’ ‘responsible father...’ suddenly feels like a house of cards.

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