Page 188 of My Big, Fat, Secret Billionaire Baby

If I leave now, while the reporters are still occupied, the traffic around Madison Square Garden will be minimal.

I pull out my phone, ignoring the constant chime of incoming emails, and order an Uber.

Time to earn the next retainer.

48

Leo

The press conference has turned into a clusterfuck. A Category Five hurricane of PR disasters. No thanks to fucking Luca.

Jesus.

I didn’t think he’d try to upstage me the way he did. I thought we’d handle our falling out privately. With lawyers. NDAs. That sort of thing.

Not this public shitshow.

I should have known better.

Luca is a big fan of scorched earth.

I try to get to Sabrina, try to cut through the goddamn feeding frenzy of reporters, but it’s useless. They shove their microphones in my face and shout questions that blur together into a deafening roar.

“Mr. Maxwell, what prompted your retirement!”

“Is Luca Briggs starting a competing firm!”

“What happens to Maxwell & Briggs now!”

“Are you losing your edge!”

By the time Charlie and Darius, my ever-present security bulldogs, manage to carve a path through themedia mob, she’s gone. Leaving me to face the fallout alone.

Again.

Luca Briggs has also exited stage left, the fucking coward, leaving me as the sole chew toy for the media jackals. Their excitement, or bloodlust, depending on how you look at it, is practically a physical force.

So, I do what I do best. I put on the mask. Answer a few carefully selected questions, spin some bullshit about amicable separations and exciting new ventures, and then let Charlie and Darius extract me from the chaos.

When we’re finally making our way from the venue, instead of heading back to the empty penthouse, I instruct Darius to take me to Brooklyn.

To her.

When we arrive, her brownstone looks… small. Quaint. A million miles away from the sterile, glass-and-steel world I inhabit.

Just like I remember it.

My leg aches as I climb the stoop, a dull throb that’s nothing compared to the ache in my chest. I knock, my hand surprisingly steady.

The door opens, and it’s not Sabrina. It’s her mother.

Diane Taylor.

The woman who, a few weeks ago, basically accused me of being Sabrina’s father reincarnated, minus the charm and plus a few billion dollars. She looks surprised to see me, but there’s a flicker of something else in her eyes too. Understanding? Maybe even sympathy?

Fuck knows. Women are a goddamn mystery.

“Mr. Maxwell,” she says, her voice softer than I remember. “Sabrina’s… busy.”

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