Page 136 of My Big, Fat, Secret Billionaire Baby

Back to the silence.

Back to the only place I’ve ever felt truly alive.

The Red Bull invitation sits unanswered in my inbox. A ticking fucking time bomb.

Luca keeps texting, prodding, sending links to course simulations, talking about new suit designs, practice runs on nearby canyons.

The manipulative bastard knows exactly which buttons to push.

“All right, Maxwell. Break.” Auger’s voice cuts through my internal monologue. “Hydrate. Five minutes.”

I collapse onto the bench, grabbing a towel, my chest heaving. My body aches, but it’s a good ache. An honest ache. The kind that tells you you’re still capable of pushing limits. Still alive.

Something I might not be, if I do Chamonix again.

Thoughts of Mia intrude, unbidden. Her gummy grin this morning when I fed her smashed banana. The surprisingly strong grip of her tiny hand on my finger. The soft weight of her sleeping against my chest.

These images, feelings… don’t fit here.

Not in this selfish hunger for the sky.

Because that’s what it is, isn’t it?

Selfishness.

God, how the fuck do Ireconcile this?

The man who wants to hurl himself off a mountain, and the man who wants to protect that tiny, perfect human from every possible harm?

They can’t coexist.

Can they?

My giant wall-mounted screen flickers to life. Incoming video call.

Dom.

Fucking perfect timing.

“Auger,” I call out, wiping sweat from my face. “Take five. Kitchen. Rafael will sort you out.”

Auger nods, already heading out. He doesn’t do small talk. Just results.

I like that about him.

I hit ‘accept’ on the call. Dom’s face fills the screen, looking annoyingly fresh and well-rested. Tatiana is probably glowing with maternal bliss beside him, their own little bundle of joy cooing peacefully.

My life, on the other hand, feels like a goddamn cage match between responsibility and self-destruction.

“Leo,” Dom says. He can apparently see the gym equipment behind me, because he adds, “Good workout?”

“Productive,” I grunt, taking a long swig of water. “Rehab’s on track.”

“Rehab for what, exactly?” Dom asks quietly, but there’s an edge to his voice.

He knows.

He fucking knows.

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