Page 46 of My Big, Fat, Secret Billionaire Baby

“Mr. Maxwell?” she says, her voice smoother than I remember, but it’s definitely her. She glances at Charlie. “And... Mr. Briggs?”

“No, Charlie,” I tell her. “My security. Luca couldn’t make it.”

“Ah,” she tells Charlie. “I thought you looked familiar. Vegas, and all.”

“Vegas,” I repeat, my voice rough. I can’t take my eyes off her. It’s like seeing a ghost, but solid, breathing, undeniably real.

And making my pulse hammer in a way that has nothing to do with climbing those fucking steps.

“Small world,” she says, her professional mask firmly in place now, though her eyes dart nervouslybetween me and Charlie. She steps back slightly. “Please, come in. I… uh… I admit I was a bit confused. When Mr. Briggs called, the company name was unclear. I logged it under his name, didn’t realize it was Maxwell & Briggs.”

“No problem,” I say, stepping inside, the cane clicking against the polished wood floor.

Her apartment is... neat. Surprisingly so, considering Luca said she worked from home. Clean lines, some modern art that doesn’t look cheap, but subtle signs of... something else. A brightly colored play mat tucked in a corner? A faint scent of baby powder underneath something floral?

Weird.

Very weird.

“Charlie will stay outside,” I tell her.

Again, I see a flicker of panic or tension or something else flit across her features before she hides it. Almost like she’s afraid of being alone with me.

“Works for me.” Sabrina closes the door behind me, her posture straightening.

She looks directly at me now, professional composure winning out. “I read about your accident online, Mr. Maxwell. I was very sorry to hear about that. It looked... severe.”

Severe.

Understatement of the fucking century.

“It was,” I bite out. “Which, conveniently enough, brings us to why I’m gracing your… home office… today.” I gesture vaguely with the cane. “Investor confidence isn’t exactly soaring when one of the named partners nearly becomes a red smear on a French mountainside. Turns out, almost dying while wingsuiting isn’t great PR.”

“I see,” she says quietly, her gaze droppingbriefly to my cane before meeting my eyes again. There’s sympathy there, but also a sharp intelligence I remember noticing before taking GHB in Vegas.

“We’ve burned through three PR firms in the last six months,” I continue. “All bullshit artists promising the moon and delivering jack shit. We need results, Sabrina. Real ones. You think you can handle that?”

Without hesitation, she says: “I can.” She gestures toward a nearby couch.

“Well that’s good, because apparently you work miracles,” I say, leaning on the cane. I purposely remain where I am. Sitting down and getting back up is a production I’d rather avoid, especially in front of her.

“Maxwell & Briggs is hemorrhaging funds,” I tell her. “Not operating funds, obviously, but investor capital. It’s a clusterfuck. They see me like this...” I indicate the cane again. “And they see instability. Weakness. They’re pulling out, and new money isn’t exactly lining up at the door. We need to change the narrative. Project strength, recovery, unwavering focus on the future. Convince the world I’m not just back, but I’m sharper than ever.”

Even if I feel like hammered shit.

“So I ask again,” I add. “Can you do that?”

She doesn’t answer immediately this time. Instead, she studies me, her dark eyes analytical. It’s unnerving. Like she’s seeing past the bullshit, past the Maxwell & Briggs power play I’m putting on, right down to the fractured mess underneath.

“My firm specializes in crisis management and reputation repair, Mr. Maxwell,” she says finally, her voice regaining its professional certainty. “If the situation is salvageable, I can develop a strategy. But I need full transparency. Access to financials, internalcommunications, medical reports related to your recovery prognosis...”

“Whatever you need,” I cut her off. “Carte blanche. Just fix it.”

“It won’t be instant,” she warns. “Rebuilding trust takes time. It requires consistent messaging, strategic appearances, managing media perception meticulously...”

“Yeah, yeah, the standard PR spiel,” I wave a dismissive hand. “What’s your angle? What makes you different from the other three clowns who took our money and delivered nothing?”

And why the fuck do I keep thinking about you and Vegas...

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