Page 47 of My Big, Fat, Secret Billionaire Baby

Her chin lifts slightly. “My angle, Mr. Maxwell, is understanding the underlying narrative and reshaping it authentically. It’s not just about press releases; it’s about demonstrating resilience, managing expectations, and leveraging thetruthstrategically. The other firms likely focused on spin and optics. I focus on substance presented effectively.”

Substance.

Interesting word choice.

She’s got balls, I’ll give her that.

Standing here in her apartment, facing down a billionaire demanding miracles, and she’s talking substance.

“All right, Taylor,” I say. “Let’s talk specifics. What’s your initial assessment? First steps?”

“Well, if you’ll have a seat, you can fill me in on the background a bit, and then we can come up with a plan.” She beckons at the couch again.

But again I stubbornly ignore her. “I’m happy to fill you in right where I am.”

And so we talk for a good twentyminutes. She asks sharp questions, listens intently, occasionally jotting notes on a tablet. She’s good. Focused, analytical, cutting through my impatience. The faint scent of baby powder persists, such a weird counterpoint to all this high-stakes business talk.

“Okay,” I say finally, checking my watch. “Do you have everything you need?”

“I do,” she replies.

“Good. If there’s anything more you need, contact either my assistant or Luca’s. Then send us a proposal. Detailed strategies, timelines, budget. You know, the works. My legal team will handle the contract.”

I need to get out of here. Standing this long is killing my leg. And being this close to her is... distracting.

More distracting than it should be.

That Vegas blank spot is suddenly itching like a phantom limb.

Did we or didn’t we?

“I’ll have something for you by tomorrow morning,” she says. She had remained standing the whole time as well. Professional courtesy.

“Excellent.” I turn to leave, and take a step, the cane finding purchase on the wood floor.

And then I hear it. A distinct, frustrated cry from a room off the living area. Sharp. Demanding attention.

What the fuck?

Sabrina visibly flinches, her professional mask cracking for a split second. Her eyes dart towards the closed door the sound came from before snapping back to me, her face paling almost imperceptibly.

Too late.

I saw it.

That scent. The play mat I saw earlier.

The sudden tension in her posture.

My gaze locks onto the closed door.

She has a kid?

Here?

Maybe driven by pure instinct, maybe by that prickling sense ofsomethingbeing off, I shift my position slightly to get a better view down the short hallway. The door to that room isn’t quite latched. It’s cracked open just enough...

And through the gap, I see movement inside. A crib against the far wall. A small figure pulling herself up, gripping the rail.

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