Page 167 of My Big, Fat, Secret Billionaire Baby

Ugh. Complicated.

Do I miss the easy smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes? The surprisingly gentle way he held Mia? The way he looked at me sometimes, like I was the only person in the room, even if the room was filled with priceless art and the ghosts of supermodels past?

Maybe.

Do I miss the sex?

The mind-blowing, wall-slamming, gym-bench-defiling sex that made me forget my own name, let alone my walls and professional boundaries?

Okay, yeah.

Definitely miss the sex.

A lot.

The way he can make my body do things that no other man—

My cheeks flush just thinking about it.

Typical, Sabrina.

But a relationship can’t be built on toe-curling orgasms alone, especially when the foundation is rotten. When one partner thinks ‘calculated risk’ involves jumping off mountains, I can’t live like that. Waiting for the phone call saying he didn’t make it back this time. I can’t do that to myself. I won’t. And I sure as hell won’t do that to Mia.

She deserves... more.

I was right after all. He’s not father material. He never was.

I don’t know why I thought I could change him.

I guess it’s a fantasy we women have, born of too many rom coms and fictional happy ever afters.

So, am I going back?

Right now, the answer feels like a firm, resounding no.

This “break...” it’s probably permanent. It hurts, yeah. More than I want to admit. But it feels a lot safer.

Speaking of safer, I dismissed the security detail yesterday. Jonas and Terrence. After a couple of days holed up here, with zero sign of paparazzi camping outside my brownstone, having two ex-military behemoths shadowing my every move felt excessive. And frankly, a little suffocating. Apparently the ‘mystery brunette’ aka Sabrina Taylor is old news already, and the tabloids have moved on to lower hanging fruit.

Anyway... distractions. I have work to do.

I pull my laptop closer, trying to focus on the draft of the press release addressing the…ahem… ‘speculation’ following Luca Briggs’ unfortunate ‘medical leave for exhaustion.’ God, even typing it feels like a lie. But it’s the narrative Leo approved. The one that keeps Luca’s overdose and the subsequent investor jitters contained. It’s damage control 101.

Leo wants me to work in his return to Chamonix as well, and spin it as a super positive thing. So I’ll do that, too.

Even though I hate the very thought of it.

My concentration breaks as an incoming video call notification pops up on my screen.

Leo.

Of course.

My stomach tightens.

We’ve been keeping in touch exclusively by email since I left, but I knew I’d have to accept a video call at some point. I guess I was just hoping it would be a few days out yet.

I smooth down my blouse, take a sip of lukewarm coffee, and accept the call, plastering on my best ‘work’ smile. You know, the ‘coke and a smile’ one.

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