Page 173 of My Big, Fat, Secret Billionaire Baby

Of course.

“Thought we could celebrate,” Luca says, holding it out to me with that same old conspiratorial gleam in his eye. “Your return to the land of the living. My… uh… successful sabbatical. To old times. And to getting back to what we do best, partner...printing fucking money!Let’s line up the next unicorn, nail the next billion-dollar exit! Time to make it rain fucking bills and whores again!”

I stare at the white powder, then up at his face. The casualness of it. The assumption.

After everything.

After the overdose that nearly killed him.

After the PR nightmare he unleashed.

A nightmare we’re only just starting to recover from, thanks to Sabrina.

“You learned absolutely fucking nothing?” The words are quiet, stripped of anger, filled only with a weary disgust.

Luca’s grin falters. Then he shrugs, bends over and sniffs hard, absorbing the line himself before I can even decline. “Learned what? That life’s too short to sweat the small stuff? That a little pick-me-up helps smooth the edges?”

He wipes the white powder from the edges of his nose, trying for nonchalance, but his eyes have become too bright.

“Fuck rehab, Leo,” he continues. “Bunch of whining quitters trading war stories. I learned I need this shit to function. Keeps me sharp.” He gestures to the vial again. “Come on. For old time’s sake. Remember how we closed that Series B for MetaFlowafter pulling an all-nighter fueled by coke and sheer fucking willpower?”

I remember. I also remember the crash afterward. The paranoia. The hollow feeling that no amount of money or success could ever quite fill.

“No, Luca,” I say, standing. I turn my back to him and walk to the massive floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. “I’m never touching that shit again. Not ever.” I see my reflection in the glass, transparent, looking like a ghost floating over the city. The ghost of who I once was.

The realization hits me then.

He hasn’t changed.

ButIhave.

Somewhere between finding out I was a father, holding Mia in my arms, fighting with Sabrina, and watching Luca almost die… something fundamental shifted inside me.

The old escapes, the chemical shortcuts, the hollow thrills… they don’t hold the same appeal. They feel… dangerous.

Like playing Russian roulette with a life that suddenly feels like it might actually be worth living.

“Never?” Luca scoffs behind me. “You sure?”

I see his reflection in the window, too. Behind me, he’s extending a hand, offering another line of coke.

“I’m good,” I reply.

“Since when are you just ‘good?’ You’re Leo Fucking Maxwell. King of Venture Capitalists. And soon, the world. You don’t do ‘good.’ You doepic. Legendary.” He sniffs the next line, then walks over to stand beside me. He looks out at the skyline. “So, what’s the plan? Heard Balinski and Accel are back in play. Good save with the PR chick,by the way. Though maybe hiring your baby mama wasn’t the smartest move, optics-wise.”

“Leave Sabrina out of this,” I growl.

“Whoa, touchy,” Luca raises his hands in mock surrender. “Fine. Forget the baby mama. Let’s talkbusiness. The real shit. We need a big win, Leo. Show the world Maxwell & Briggs hasn’t gone soft, that the king hasn’t lost his crown just because he took a tumble.” He leans closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially, buzzing with that familiar manic energy. “Chamonix, partner. Chamonix! It’s perfect. I saw the promo footage from your quarry jump. Fuckingpoetry, man! I’m so excited. Only six months to go. Imagine the narrative! The comeback! It’s the ultimate fucking PR move! We’re so back, baby!”

He’s practically vibrating with excitement, high on coke and the prospect of reflected glory. He assumes the jump, the training, means I’m back to being the old Leo.

The old Leo.

The one who just drove Sabrina away.

The one who might actually orphan Mia.

“Luca…” I start, trying to find the words. Trying to reconcile the man standing in front of me, the partner who helped build this empire, with the hollow ache in my chest left by Sabrina and Mia’s absence.

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