Page 45 of My Big, Fat, Secret Billionaire Baby

Luca set this up.

Said she was the best, discreet, handled high-stakes reputation management.

Came highly recommended by someone, can’t remember who. Whatever.

After the last three agencies shit the bed, Maxwell & Briggs needs a miracle worker, not just a PR flack. Investor confidence is circling the drain faster than my chances of ever wingsuiting again.

No, fuck that.

I’ll fly again.

Iwill.

Charlie, riding shotgun, exits the vehicle first, his eyes scanning the surroundings with practiced efficiency before nodding almost imperceptibly. Darius kills the engine but remains behind the wheel.

Charlie opens my door.

I haul myself out, grabbing the cane leaning against the seat, the familiar jolt of pain shooting up my leg as I put weight on it.

The brownstone steps look like Everest.

Pathetic.

Charlie stands impassively beside me.

I’ve told him a thousand times I don’t need help, so he’s stopped asking.

I growl, starting the slow, agonizing ascent up the steps, with Charlie falling into step just behind me. My leg screams in protest with each riser.

I reach the door. Apartment 2B. Charlie rings the bell. We wait. Footsteps approach from inside. Thedoor opens.

And I freeze.

No. Fucking. Way.

It’s her.

The pool party.

The cabana.

The... blank space.

The face that flashed behind my eyes right before everything went black in Chamonix.

Her.

Sabrina Taylor.

SabrinafuckingTaylor.

Standing right here, looking surprised, professional... and maybe a little terrified? Yes, that was definitely a flicker of panic I saw cross her features before she masked it.

She’s dressed in some kind of smart casual thing, dark pants, a loose top that still somehow shows off curves I frustratingly don’t quite remember.

Am I still hallucinating eleven months later?

She recovers first, her PR training kicking in, though her cheeks are flushed a tell-tale pink.

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