Page 210 of My Big, Fat, Secret Billionaire Baby

Sabrina

One year later.

And so here I am, back in Vegas.

Full circle, I guess you could say.

Or maybe it’s all just an elaborate PR stunt orchestrated by the universe to prove that sometimes, against all odds, happy endings actually happen.

Even to cynical, slightly-too-independent PR consultants and reckless, emotionally constipated billionaires.

We’re at Marco Fiore’s place. Not a casino this time, thank god, but his gorgeous, sprawling desert oasis of a home. It’s his son’s first birthday party.

Mia, now a confident, babbling two-year-old, is currently engaged in a high-stakes negotiation with Dominic and Tatiana Rossi’s equally adorable (and equally opinionated) toddler over a bright red plastic shovel.

Future CEOs, both of them. Or maybe just future reality TV stars. The jury’s still out.

Leo is beside me, his hand resting possessively on the small of my back, a silent anchor in the happy chaos. He’s laughing at something Nico, Dom’s brother, just said, his green eyes crinkling at the corners.

He’s not the haunted, driven man I first met in that Vegas pool lounge. Nor the angry, defensive stranger who confronted me in my Brooklyn apartment. Nor even the raw, vulnerable man who laid his soul bare on my IKEA rug.

This Leo is… settled. Happy.

It’s a good look on him. A really, really good look.

He catches me watching him, and he leans in, his lips brushing my ear.

“You okay, Mrs. Maxwell?” he murmurs. His voice still sends electricity down my body, even after all this time.

Mrs. Maxwell.

The name still feels… new. A little unreal. But the large, sparkly diamond on my left hand, the one that occasionally blinds unsuspecting strangers when the sun hits it just right, is pretty damn real.

As is the matching gold band on Leo’s own hand.

Yeah. We did that. Six months ago. A private ceremony in the penthouse garden, surrounded by our closest friends and family.

No press.

No PR spin.

Just… us.

“Couldn’t be better, Mr. Maxwell,” I whisper back, inhaling his familiar scent.

Our friends are all here. Dom, Nico, and Tatiana, as mentioned already. Sam Carter. Christopher Blackwell and Lucy Hammond-Blackwell. Jess. Amara.

It’s a far cry from that first disastrous Vegas trip,the one that started this whole insane, improbable journey. No GHB-laced cocktails this time. No accidental bikini top malfunctions. Just… friends. Family. Laughter.

And a whole lot of Black Forest cake.

Which, for the record, is strictly for celebratory purposes this time. Not the usual ‘my-life-is-a-raging-dumpster-fire-and-only-multiple-layers-of-chocolate-and-cherries-and-whipped-cream-can-soothe-my-existential-dread’ type of cake.

No, sir.

This is a top-tier, ‘holy-shit-I-actually-got-a-happy-ending’ cake.

A significant upgrade to my emotional eating portfolio, if I do say so myself.

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