Page 138 of My Big, Fat, Secret Billionaire Baby

What the fuck am I doing?

Who the fuck am I trying to be?

And who am I going to destroy in the process?

Myself?

Mia?

Sabrina?

All of the above?

But then the look on her face is gone. Replaced by a forced smile.

The silence in the nursery stretches.

And for the first time, the thought of flight doesn’t feel like actual freedom anymore.

It feels like betrayal.

And I suppose, it is.

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Sabrina

Mr. Maxwell is currently focused on his full recovery and his commitments to Maxwell & Briggs. No decisions regarding future competitive events have been made at this time.

I hit send on the email to yet another sports blogger sniffing around for a comment on the Red Bull Chamonix invitation.

Standard non-answer. Vague. Deflective. PR 101.

My inbox is full of similar inquiries, all angling for the scoop: Is the Daredevil Billionaire making a comeback?

God, I hope not.

Leo’s downtown at the office today, a rare occurrence since… well, since my life officially became a spin-off of his. He said something about needing to show his face at Maxwell & Briggs, appease Luca, reassure the remaining investors that he wasn’t, in fact, going full hermit-dad.

Right.

I suspect it’s also a strategic move to escape the relentless baby-proofing discussions and the sight ofme giving him the side-eye every time he disappears into his home gym for another ‘physical therapy’ session. Or maybe it’s Luca’s toxic influence already seeping back in. My stomach clenches at the thought. Those ‘friends with benefits’ he was rumored to have on rotation at the office… are they still in play? Is Jen Takahashi currently leading him through a ‘recovery workout’ on his office sofa?

Stop it, Sabrina. Paranoia is not a good look.

We’ve still been having sex each night. It’s still good. And I’ve still been returning to my guest room bed when we climax. But something definitely seems off. Like he’s distracted. When we make love, it’s more like a desperate fucking, as if he’s worried it might be the last time.

And honestly, if he continues down this reckless path, one of these days it very well might be. And Mia and I will be left holding the bag.

The empty, lifeless bag of our lives.

My mind drifts to the new drill sergeant he’s hired. I’ve seen the equipment Auger Smythe has been setting up. Resistance bands configured like a goddamn human catapult. Balance boards that would challenge a mountain goat. It screams ‘wingsuit muscle simulation’ louder than Mia screams for her morning banana.

Leo claims it’s just ‘weight and balance training,’ or ‘rebuilding core strength.’

Core strength my ass.

I say it’s him mentally already halfway off a cliff in Chamonix.

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