Page 164 of My Big, Fat, Secret Billionaire Baby

“Right,” she says, her voice flat, devoid ofemotion. “A legacy. Just make sure you’re alive to see it.”

The conversation stalls, the air thick with unspoken words. This isn’t going how I planned. Not at all.

“Look,” I say. “I’m heading out this afternoon. Doing a practice run upstate. The quarry. Easy shit. Nothing like Chamonix. Auger’s meeting me there. We need footage. For the announcement. The PR push.”

I see the flicker of panic in her eyes again. “Today? You’re jumpingtoday?”

“It’s necessary, Sabrina. For the campaign.” I turn to leave before she can argue further, before I can see the full extent of the hurt, the fear, the fucking disappointment in her eyes.

It’s cowardly, I know. Walking away.

But at least this time, she can’t accuse me of lying.

I told her exactly what I was doing, even though I knew she wouldn’t approve.

Progress, right?

Fucking stellar.

The chopper rideupstate is a blur. When we land, Auger checks my rig, all quiet competence and professional detachment.

Luca absence is glaring. Usually, he’d be buzzing, high as a kite, feeding off the pre-jump tension. Somehow it feels… wrong to jump without him.

That familiar twinge of guilt again.

Fuck him. He made his choices.

And I’m making mine.

Standing on the edge of the cliff, thewind whips around me, cold and sharp. The drop yawns below.

My heart hammers. I see Sabrina’s face again. The look in her eyes when I told her. When I walked out.

Fuck it.

I exhale.

And jump.

The cliff face drops away.

Michelle emailsthe footage to Sabrina almost immediately upon my instruction after I land.

When I arrive back at the penthouse, I find Sabrina there, staring at her laptop screen, her face pale.

“So,” I say, trying for casual. My leg aches like a motherfucker after that jump. The parachute landing was a bit... hard. “Did Michelle send over the footage? Good stuff for the announcement, right?”

She looks up at me, and the careful neutrality is gone. Her eyes are blazing, not with fear this time, but with a cold anger that unnerves me more than any investor panic.

“Good stuff, Leo?” she spits. “I watched it. Frame by fucking frame. You were feet from that cliff face.Feet. Don’t you dare tell me that was an ‘easy run.’”

“It was controlled, Sabrina,” I argue, the defensiveness rising again. “Auger was there. I knew exactly what I was doing.”

“Did you?” Her voice trembles. She’s furious. “Did you know what you were doing tome?ToMia?What am I supposed to do when it’syouin the hospital, Leo? Not Luca.You. When the doctors are saying ‘touch and go?’ Am I supposed to just issue anotherfucking press release about your ‘indomitable spirit’ while praying our daughter doesn’t lose her father? I won’t be able to bear it, Leo. Ican’t.”

The argument escalates quickly from there. She accuses me of being selfish, of prioritizing adrenaline over my daughter, of risking orphaning Mia just to prove some macho bullshit point to myself.

“You’re being ridiculous!” I shout back, abandoning any pretense of calm. “This is who I am! And you’re being controlling! Besides, this is your own fucking PR strategy! The one selling my ‘resilience,’ my ‘comeback,’ remember? You’re fine leveraging the narrative when it suits the firm, right?”

---