Page 135 of My Big, Fat, Secret Billionaire Baby

Muscles screaming.

Sweat dripping.

The rhythmic clang of weights.

This… this feels right.

This feels likeme.

Or at least, the me I used to be.

The me I’m trying to fucking reclaim from the wreckage of Chamonix.

Auger, my new personal trainer, watches me with clinical detachment. He’s nicknamed for the way he drills impossible lines through canyons. I first spotted him doing jumps on YouTube a while back. And now, he works for me.

He’s going to train me, get me back into wingsuit flying shape.

So at least I’ll have the option to someday fly again.

If I want to.

I smile sadly. I alreadyknowI want to.

“Core tight, Maxwell!” Auger says. “Explode up!Control the descent! Think about the airflow, the balance point!”

I’m on a specialized rig in my home gym, a contraption of pulleys and resistance bands designed to mimic the insane forces of wingsuit flight, specifically targeting the muscles needed for stability and control.

My repaired shoulder howls in protest. My leg, still not 100%, trembles from the effort, pain stabbing through it with every hold. But I push through. Embrace the fucking pain. I have to.

It’s a hell of a lot simpler, cleaner, than the emotional clusterfuck currently occupying my penthouse.

“Again!” Auger commands.

Sabrina’s disapproval has been a fucking cloud hanging over us for the past week. She hasn’t said anything since that day, hasn’t issued any ultimatums. She likely knows that would just make me dig in my heels.

But the worried glances, the forced brightness in her tone when I talk about my ‘rehab progress,’ the way she pointedly changes the subject whenever wingsuiting even remotely comes up… yeah, I get the message.

Loud andfuckingclear.

She thinks I’m going to choose the cliff face over my daughter.

Over her.

And you know the worst part?

I don’t know if she’s wrong.

This training… it’s just preliminary. Just weight and balance exercises. Meant to rebuild atrophied muscle. Get my body back into fighting trim.

At least, that’s what I tell myself.

And that’s what I tellher, when she asks. It’s notactualwingsuit training. Not yet. Just… responsible rehabilitation. Calculated risk management.

Bullshit.

Every rep, every agonizing stretch, every simulated flight maneuver… it’s all pulling me back.

Back to the edge.

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