Page 176 of My Big, Fat, Secret Billionaire Baby

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Sabrina

I’m officially running on fumes, caffeine, and the sheer stubbornness that comes with being a single mom entrepreneur.

My Brooklyn apartment, my supposed sanctuary, currently feels like a command center for a very sleep-deprived army of one.

I landed another consulting gig last week, a tech startup with a PR crisis that makes Leo’s drama look like a minor hiccup.

Haven’t told Leo, of course.

Our communication these days is strictly professional. Emails about Maxwell & Briggs. Brief, sterile phone calls about press releases.

The man who once pinned me against his office window and fucked me senseless now discusses media strategy with the detached formality of a tax auditor.

It’s… weird.

And okay, fine, maybe a tinypart of me is a little miffed he hasn’t evenattempteda follow-up dinner invitation. Or, you know, casually inquired about the well-being of his actual offspring.

Radio silence. Great crisis communication strategy there, Maxwell.

As for Mia, well, for the past two weeks she’s been undergoing a phase I like to call ‘The Pre-emptive Daddy Issues Debutante Ball (BYO Earplugs).’

Which means I’ve barely slept a wink lately.

My mind feels like eggs cooked too long on high heat and neglect.

Just like my love life. Zing!

So, when my mother, queen of unsolicited advice, called a few days ago and offered to fly in from Chicago to ‘help out,’ I surprised myself by saying yes.

Desperation, thy name is Sabrina.

She’s been here for a day now, a surprisingly calm presence, acting as a human shield between me and total meltdown. She’s currently camped out on my pull-out sofa, a temporary fixture in my living room/office/nursery.

It’s… crowded.

But also weirdly comforting.

Tonight, after Mia hasfinallysuccumbed to the siren song of Pat the Bunny and organic sweet potato puree, Mom finds me hunched over my laptop, trying to decipher a particularly convoluted crisis communications plan for my new client while simultaneously mainlining lukewarm coffee.

“You look like you wrestled a badger, honey,” she says, settling onto the edge of my sofa with a mug of herbal tea.

“Feels like it, Mom,” I sigh, rubbing my temples. “This new client… it’s a dumpster fire. And Leo’s… well, Leo’s Leo. His PR situation is still… volatile.” Understatement of the century. The Red Bull Chamonix competition looms, and I’ve been trying to spin it as the comeback of the century, even though my heart isn’t in it. And it shows. My most recent press releases... well, let’s just say, his investors are still nervous about Chamonix, and no new investors have shown up yelling ‘take my money.’

I don’t think I’ll ever be able to spin it the way he wants, which leads me to the inevitable conclusion: Taylor Strategic Communications is probably going to have to dump its highest-paying, most infuriatingly attractive, and emotionally catastrophic client.

Because the alternative is delivering PR that’s about as convincing as a politician’s promise, and my professional pride just won’t stand for that.

Substandard work? Over my post-baby body.

But the thought of officially severing that last tie to Leo makes me... well, let’s just say, yearn for those ten Black Forest cakes.

“Sabrina,” Mom says, her voice hesitant. “Can I ask you something? About Leo?”

I brace myself. Here it comes. The lecture. The warnings. The ‘he’s just like your father’ speech, Part Deux.

“Sure, Mom. Lay it on me.”

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