Page 162 of My Big, Fat, Secret Billionaire Baby

She stirs slightly, snuggling closer.

Relief washes over me then, so potent it makes my knees weak.

Thank god.

Thank god it wasn’t Leo in that hospital bed. Thank god Mia still has her father, flawed and complicated as he is.

But as I hold my daughter close, rocking her gently in the dim light, a cold dread snakes around my heart.

Yes, it wasn’t Leothistime.

But with Chamonix looming, with the pull of that old life still so evident, how long will that continue to be the case?

How long before I’m the one sitting vigil in a sterile hospital room, waiting for news I don’t think I could bear?

It could have been him.

42

Leo

Two days.

Two fucking days since Luca decided to flirt with the wrong side of the overdose line. He’s still laid up at Mount Sinai, but conscious now, thank fuck. Out of the ICU at least.

Looks like hammered shit, paler than I’ve ever seen him, but the doctors say he’ll physically recover. And after a rather… pointed conversation yesterday involving Victoria, myself, and the very real threat of legal intervention if he didn’t get his act together, he actually agreed to rehab. Some high-end place upstate with scenic views and mandatory group therapy, starting the second the hospital discharges him.

Whether he actually follows through remains to be seen.

So, Luca is technically ‘stable’ and heading towards ‘treatment.’ And despite the fact that he’s been a manipulative piece of shit lately, I still feel guilty. Like what happened to him has been my fault somehow. I should have been more watchful of him. More attentive. Should have insisted on rehab sooner.

Well, he didn’t actually fucking die, so there’s that.

Doesn’t mean the pressure’s off, though. The investors are still jumpy. The panicked emails Michelle keeps forwarding haven’t stopped. Luca’s sudden “medical leave for exhaustion,” as Sabrina brilliantly spun it in the initial holding statement… is a perfect storm.

Stability? Maxwell & Briggs looks about as stable as a fucking Jenga tower in an earthquake right now.

They need reassurance.

They need the old Leo Maxwell.

The rainmaker.

The closer.

The guy who eats risk for breakfast and shits out billion-dollar exits.

Not… not this guy.

The one pacing the penthouse, haunted by the phantom weight of a baby in his arms.

I need to make a decision.

The Red Bull Chamonix invitation still sits in my inbox.

It’s the perfect counter-narrative.

It’s bigger.

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