Page 172 of My Big, Fat, Secret Billionaire Baby

Zero Mia.

Zero Sabrina.

Just a room.

Fuck!

I miss them. Both of them.

I miss Mia’s gummy grin, her surprisingly strong grip on my finger, even her ear-splitting rage-quota meltdowns.

And Sabrina… fuck, I miss her quiet presence, her sharp intelligence, the way she called me on my bullshit, the heat in her eyes when we fought, the fire when we…

Don’t go there.

Too late.

Already there.

The memory of her, sitting on my face, flushed and breathless, is a constant, low-grade torture. The feel of her surrounding me when I’m making love to her, tasting her shoulder, smelling her hair, biting her neck, licking her throat.

Yes. It’s literal, fucking torture.

The intercom on my desk buzzes, startling me out of my self-pity spiral. Jake, head of building security, speaks over the line. “Mr. Maxwell, Luca Briggs is in the lobby. Unscheduled.”

Luca.

Just the name sends a jolt of irritation through me. I haven’t spoken to him since he was released from the hospital, before he checked in to rehab.

“He’s done rehab already?” I ask, my voice flat.

“Apparently so, sir,” Jake replies.

“All right,” I sigh. “Have Thomas bring him up.”

I head to the living area and take a seat.

Soon, the private elevator dings. Thomas, ever the stoic household manager, ushers Luca into the living area.

Luca looks… superficially better, maybe? The energy about him isn’t quite as frantic today, possibly dialed down by his medically supervised detox.

Or maybe he’s just on better drugs.

His expensive Italian suit is still impeccable, as usual, and his dark hair is perfectly styled.

“Thanks, Thomas,” I say, dismissing him. He gives a slight nod and retreats back to the elevator, leaving me alone with my partner-in-crime.

Luca flashes his trademark white grin, the one that usually precedes him suggesting something monumentally stupid or illegal.

“Leo! Partner! Good to see you, man.” He gestures around the quiet penthouse. “Enjoying your… newfound freedom?”

Freedom? Is that what he calls this echoing fucking tomb?

He doesn’t wait for an answer. He reaches into the inner pocket of his jacket, pulling out a familiarsleek vial.

He unscrews the top and taps a small mound of white powder onto the back of his hand.

Cocaine.

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