Page 29 of My Big, Fat, Secret Billionaire Baby

She. I smile.Already assuming her gender, am I?

Still, hiding a pregnancy, hiding ababy, from my friends, my family, the world? It seems impossible. A logistical nightmare. A PR crisis of epic proportions waiting to happen. The world will find out eventually, of course. But the father’s identity? I’ll never tell asoul. Except maybe my little one, when he or she is old enough.

I look down at my still-flat stomach, placing a protective hand over the spot where life is quietly unfolding.

Failure is not an option. Not this time.

I can’t help but smile again.

I said I was doing this alone.

But I’mnotalone.

Not anymore.

9

Sabrina

Five and a half months later...

Seven months pregnant.

One hundred and ninety-six days of harboring a secret the size of a rapidly expanding watermelon.

Said watermelon is currently attempting to rearrange my internal organs via a series of aggressive kicks aimed directly at my bladder.

Thanks, kid. Mommy appreciates the enthusiasm.

Really.

I shift uncomfortably on my ergonomic office chair, which is currently stationed in my living room because my actual downtown office is now a fond memory and an unjustifiable expense. Welcome to Taylor Strategic Communications, Global Headquarters, aka my one-bedroom apartment. The glamour is almost overwhelming.

Running a PR firm while gestating a human can be... interesting. Client meetings are exclusively Zoom now. Pitches are delivered with a breathlessenthusiasm that’s fifty percent passion, fifty percent ‘please let this end before I need to vomit or nap.’

It’s exhausting. The constant vigilance, the low-grade nausea that never fully disappeared, the sheer physical awkwardness of trying to appear sleek and competent when you feel like an overinflated beach ball with swollen ankles. Add in the crushing weight of The Secret, and it’s a miracle I haven’t spontaneously combusted.

My laptop beeps, mocking me with an unanswered email from a potential new client. I should be crafting a killer proposal, showcasing my unique blend of crisis management expertise and marketing savvy.

Instead, I’m staring blankly at the cursor, contemplating whether pickles and ice creamactuallytaste good together and trying to discreetly adjust the waistband of my maternity leggings for the fifth time this hour.

No one even knows I’m pregnant yet. I haven’t told anyone. Well, except for Tatiana. We were having dinner at her and her husband’s ridiculously gorgeous penthouse. As usual, I was wearing an oversized sweater to hide the baby, though I guess it was super obvious what I was doing, because at the table, Jess, never one for subtlety, made a joke about me being next to have a baby after Tatiana and Dom. I nearly choked on my water, and managed to signal Tatiana for a bathroom escape.

Once we were safely away from prying eyes, Tatiana gently confronted me. She knew something was up; she recognized the signs. Cornered and exhausted, I finally admitted I was seven months pregnant. The relief of saying it aloud was immediately followed by terror. Tatiana, sharp as ever, putthe pieces together... the Vegas timeline, me waking up in Leo’s room. She softly guessed Leo was the father. I didn’t deny it, just confirmed he wouldn’t remember anything because of the GHB and begged her, practically pleaded, not to tell anyone. She promised and didn’t push for more details, just offered her unwavering support.

Knowing she wouldn’t betray my secret has made the burden slightly less crushing.

Slightly.

A sharp rap on my apartment door jolts me back to the present. I’m not expecting anyone. And packages usually get left downstairs.

I heave myself off the chair and waddle towards the door. I pause next to my closet, and automatically shrug on an oversized, cable-knit sweater.

Maybe it’s just Mrs. Hanik from next door needing sugar again.

I peek through the peephole.

Oh, holy hell.

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