Page 20 of My Big, Fat, Secret Billionaire Baby

Definitely not my shared room with the girls.

No, this is Leo Maxwell’s palatial Sky Suite.

And I’m definitely naked under the sheets, which are currently tangled around the equally naked, deeply sleeping form of Leo himself beside me.

Oh, Sabrina. What have you done?

Panic, cold and sharp, claws its way up my throat. I shut my eyes and lie perfectly still, my heart hammering against my ribs as if it’s trying to escape the scene of the crime while leaving me here.

Slowly, carefully, I open my eyes and look at him again.

God he’s so beautiful when he sleeps. Annoyingly so. The intensity from last night is gone, smoothed away. His dark blonde hair is mussed against the pillow, ridiculously perfect even in sleep. Long lashes rest against his cheekbones. His mouth, the same mouth that kissed me with bruising intensity hours ago, is slightly parted, relaxed. He looks younger, almost vulnerable. Nothing like the primal, drug-fueled force of nature who…

Okay, don’t think about that.

My stomach churns with a toxic mix of residual pleasure, shame, and blinding panic. He was high. Not just drunk, but GHB high. The ‘gentleman’s version’ as he called it, whatever the hell that means. And I… I wasn’t.

I faked taking it.

I was sober-ish. Tipsy from tequila, maybe, but aware. Consenting? Yes, technically. But ethically? Sleeping with someone who’s significantly chemically altered feels… murky. Predatory, almost. Even if he initiated everything. Even if my body responded like a goddamn fireworks finale.

He wouldn’t have wanted me without the GHB.

The thought lands like a punch to the gut, cold and certain. I’m not a model. Sober, charming Leo, wouldn’t look twice at sensible, curvy Sabrina, the PR consultant who makes killer lasagna. He’d want someone flashier, someone from his own glittering world, someone who actuallytookthe party enhancers.

Last night wasn’t aboutme. It was about his drug-fueled libido finding the nearest warm body.

Which happened to be mine.

My cheeks burn with humiliation. God, I need to get out of here. Now. Before he wakes up. Before he looks at me with those clear green eyes, confusion dawning as he tries to place the vaguely familiar brunette in his bed.

Before the inevitable awkwardness, and then the polite dismissal.

My father didn’t even give me a polite dismissal.

The thought twists like a knife. No, I can’t face that. Not again.

Carefully, painstakingly slowly, I begin to untangle myself from the sheets and his surprisingly heavy arm draped across my waist. He murmurs something in his sleep, shifting slightly, and I freeze, holding my breath until he settles again. His skin is warm against mine, the contact sending an unwelcome jolt of awareness through me.

Stop it.

Finally free, I slide off the edge of the massive bed onto the plush carpet. My legs feel shaky. I scan the room, spotting my clothes scattered near the door where they landed last night. My jean shorts, my tank top, my bra, my underwear… evidence of a hasty, frantic undressing.

I look back at Leo, still sleeping soundly.His jeans are pooled on the floor near the bed, his knit shirt discarded nearby. An idea, born of pure panic and a desperate need to rewrite reality, sparks in my mind.

Damage control. Crisis management.

If he wakes up naked, me naked beside him, the conclusion is obvious. But if he wakes up… dressed? Mostly dressed? Maybe the memory loss, the GHB fog, will make him doubt what happened. Maybe he’ll think we just passed out.

MaybeIcan pretend we just passed out.

It’s insane. It’s probably pointless.

But I’m going to do it anyway.

But first, my own clothes. God, if he woke up while I was dressing him and meanwhile I was fully naked? The mortification alone would kill me.

My hands tremble as I gather my clothes and quickly dress, fumbling with buttons and zippers. Underwear, jean shorts. Bra, tank top.

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