Page 163 of My Big, Fat, Secret Billionaire Baby

Louder.

Screams‘I’m back, motherfuckers, and I’m still untouchable.’

Sabrina won’t like it.

Fuck Sabrina.

No, wait.

Don’t fuck Sabrina.

But I do want tofuckher...

Shit, I don’t know. My head’s a mess. But this… this feels necessary.

For the firm.

And for… me?

Because maybe I need to prove it to myself, too.

That Chamonix didn’t break me.

I think about the mini PR crisis my training jump caused when it leaked.

Crisis? Barely a fucking ripple.

Sure, Sabrina fielded some annoying calls, looked at me like I’d personally kicked a puppy. But fundamentally? No investorspulled out over the jump itself. And the spin Sabrina masterminded, reluctantly or not… framing my little quarry excursion not as the reckless fuck-up she clearly thought it was, but asproof Leo Maxwell, the risk-taker who built this empire from nothing, was back in fighting form.

The ‘resilience,’ the ‘sharpened focus’ ready to conquer new markets… bullshit PR terms, maybe, but they fuckinglanded.That narrative actually seemed to calm the herd, maybe even excite them a little, remembering the kind of returns the ‘old Leo’ delivered.

It probably counteracted some of the panic over Luca, ironically enough, especially when she painted me as the picture of health in the aftermath.

Too bad Sabrina refuses to see it that way. Or maybe she does, and just hates thatthisis the version of me that actually works in this fucked-up world.

I find her in the home office. Mia’s napping in the nursery. Sabrina’s at her workstation, fingers flying across the keyboard as usual. Fucking beautiful, even with the shadows under her eyes. The sight of her sends a jolt through me. Desire, guilt, resentment, all in one.

“Sabrina,” I say, keeping my voice level. Business time. “We need to talk strategy.”

She looks up. The professional mask is firmly in place. Good. Makes this easier. “Okay, Leo. What’sthe latest?”

“The latest,” I say, leaning against the doorframe, “is Chamonix. I’m doing it. The Red Bull competition.”

Her face darkens instantly. The mask cracks, revealing the fear, the anger I knew was lurking underneath. Her knuckles whiten where they grip the edge of the desk. “You’re… what? Leo, we talked about this. Youpromised…”

“I promised I heard your concerns,” I cut her off, my voice hardening. “I didn’t promise shit about my decision. This is happening, Sabrina. The firm needs it. After Luca… after the tabloids… we need a win. A big one. This is the narrative. Maxwell’s comeback. Conquering the mountain. Fucking phoenix from the ashes. You know the drill.”

“The drill?” Her voice trembles with suppressed fury. “Leo, this isn’t a PR stunt! This is the place that almostkilledyou! Mia almost lost her father before she even met him! And you want to go back?”

“It’s calculated risk,” I lie, echoing the bullshit PR lines she feeds the press. “It shows strength. Resilience. It’ll reassure the investors more than any fucking quarterly report.”

“And what about us?” she whispers, the fight seeming to drain out of her, replaced by a weary sadness that hits me harder than her anger. “What about Mia? Does she just… not factor into your calculations?”

“Of course she does!” I snap, stung by the implication. “Everything I do is for her now! Building a legacy! Security!”

Even as I say it, it sounds hollow. A justification. Am I trying to convince her?

Or myself?

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