Page 52 of My Big, Fat, Secret Billionaire Baby

This is so far beyond a standard PR crisis.

Thisisthe crisis.

I hold Mia closer, feeling the steady beat of her tiny heart against mine.

“It’s okay, little one. It’s just you and me.”

And him.

“I’ll keep you safe. I promise.”

Somehow.

16

Leo

The polished glass walls of the conference room feel like a fucking cage.

Forty-ninth floor, Maxwell & Briggs headquarters.

Victoria Kowalski, my killer Chief Legal Counsel, sits ramrod straight, radiating icy competence. That’s the Victoria I need right now. All business. The transactional part of our relationship is walled off completely when it’s game time like this. Today, she’s my CLC, and that professional focus is the only thing in this room that counts.

Beside her are Peterson and Vale, senior partners from the white-shoe law firm we keep on retainer for precisely this kind of messy, high-stakes bullshit.

“So, to summarize, Mr. Maxwell,” Peterson drones, adjusting his perfectly knotted tie, “given the timeline and the, ah, visual evidence you described, establishing paternity should be straightforward. DNA confirmation is merely a formality. The primary focus shifts to custody and access arrangements.”

Access arrangements.

Like I’m applying for a fucking visitors pass to see my own… daughter.

The word still feels foreign. Like a language I never learned.

My jaw is clenched so tight it aches. The rage from Sabrina’s apartment hasn’t faded; it’s just cooled, hardened into something sharp and dangerous.

She hid my child.

For twenty goddamn months.

Lied.

Deceived.

Built her little life around this massive fucking secret.

“I want full custody,” I bite out, the words tasting like metal. “She doesn’t get to dictate terms after pulling this shit.”

Victoria raises a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “Leo, a primary custody battle against a mother with no prior history of neglect, who has been the sole caregiver since birth… it’s an uphill battle. Extremely expensive. And the optics…”

“Fuck the optics!” I slam my hand on the table, ignoring the jolt of pain up my arm. Only eleven months ago that entire arm and shoulder were shattered.

“This isn’t about PR, Victoria,” I continue. “This is about my daughter.Mydaughter.” The possessiveness still feels strange, unfamiliar, but potent. “Sabrina played games. Now the games are over.”

“We can certainly file aggressive motions,” Vale assures me smoothly, ever the predator sensing a kill. “Demand immediate shared parenting time, petitionfor naming rights, challenge her sole decision-making authority…”

My phone buzzes on the table, loud in the quiet tension of the room. I glance down.

Dom.

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