Page 33 of My Big, Fat, Secret Billionaire Baby

Today’s objective is a synchronized exit through the Tooth, pulling up with less than fifty feet to spare before the quarry floor introduces itself.

Stupidly dangerous.

Yet utterly necessary.

“Stay tight,” I bark back, adjusting my trajectory by millimeters. The granite walls rush towards us, claustrophobic, unforgiving. The wind is squirrelly today, gusting unpredictably off the cliff faces. My shoulder, the one I nearly ripped off last year kissing that cliff in Norway, gives a warning twinge.

Stephen, my physiotherapist, would flip if he saw this shit.

We approach the narrowest point.

The V-shaped exit looms, the rock screaming up at us. Adrenaline floods my system, sharp and clean, better than any line of coke.

This is fuckingliving.

Now!

I arch my back, flaring the suit, pulling up hard. The wind gusts hard, fighting me. The rock rushes past beneath my boots, a blur of granite and scrub brush. Too close.

Way too fucking close.

Shit!

Misjudged the exit wind shear. A fraction lower and I’d be scraping myself off the quarry floor right now with a spatula.

But I still need to clear the lip ahead...

Adrenaline screams through me as pure instinct takes over. I yank back harder, forcing the suit to climb, muscles screaming in protest, shoulder threatening to pop right out of the socket again.

I glimpse Luca flaring beside me, slightly higher... fucker realized my line was too low.

For a split second, as I approach the lip, there’s nothing but the certainty of impact.

But then... daylight.

I clear the lip with maybe a fucking foot to spare.

Air whistles past as I bank hard left over the treeline, my heart hammering like a jackhammer against my ribs, and I suck in a ragged breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

Luca is right there beside me, and we deploy our chutes almost simultaneously.

The sudden deceleration is violent, snapping me upright under the canopy. Below us, the quarry floor looks deceptively peaceful. We touched death’s ball sack down there and walked away grinning.

Fucking perfect.

“Cutting it fine today, aren’t we?” Luca says over the comms as we drift towards the designated landing zone where the chopper waits.

“’Fine’ is for accountants, Luca,” I retort, pulling on the toggles for a smooth landing flare. “We nailed it.”

“If you say so,” Luca replies. “It’s a good thing we still have two months to practice.”

We land perfectly, collapsing our chutes like the pros we are. The chopper pilot gives us a thumbs-up. Jen and Michelle are waiting by the open door, next to our security detail, looking ridiculously hot in designer athleisure wear. Vivian Wong, Luca’s assistant, is also with them. Let’s just say her tank top leaves nothing to the imagination.

Jen, my personal trainer, has that intense, fucking me with her eyes look she always gets after I do something stupidly risky. Michelle, my PA, just looks impressed, or maybe just calculating the bonus potential of surviving anotherday with me.

“Is it just me, or were you flying a little close to the Tooth?” Jen says as she approaches.

“Just you.” I grin, shrugging out of the wingsuit harness. “Gotta practice for all eventualities, you know. Chamonix isn’t an easy run.”

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