Page 58 of My Big, Fat, Secret Billionaire Baby

Time to put on the professional armor, plaster on the competent smile, and walk into the lion’s den. Or, you know, the fifty-story gleaming monument to capitalism that is Maxwell & Briggs HQ.

I step off the train, and take the stairs to street level. Stepping outside onto the sidewalk next to the intersection of Broadway and Wall Street is like entering an entirely different ecosystem. The Financial District of Lower Manhattan is filled with men and women striding past in expensive suits, talking urgently into phones about leveraged buyouts and market disruption. It’s a world away from my cozy, chaotic Brooklyn apartment.

It doesn’t faze me, though. Or I try not to let it, anyway. I remind myself I used to have an office here, once upon a time.

Before I had Mia.

When I could actually afford it.

I glance at the map on my phone. Leo’s building should be just ahead.

I keep an eye out, and then I see it. The building.

Holy.

Shit.

It doesn’t just scrape the sky; itstabsit. Fifty floors of glass and steel, reflecting the frantic energy of the Financial District. My own defunct downtown office now feels like a lemonade stand incomparison.

This isn’t just a company; it’s an empire.

Leo Maxwell’s empire.

And I’m about to walk in and tell him how to manage his image problem while pretending I didn’t have his baby.

Totally normal, right?

The lobby is cavernous. Marble floors gleam under recessed lighting. A waterfall cascades down one wall. It’s less office building, more modern art museum meets Bond villain lair.

I nervously approach the security desk, manned by two guards who look like they chew nails for breakfast.

“Sabrina Taylor,” I say, trying to project confidence. My cheeks feel warm; pretty sure I’m blushing like a teenager caught sneaking out.

Smooth, Sabrina. The guards will be super impressed with you now. They won’t think you’re out of place and shouldn’t be here. Not at all.

“Appointment with Mr. Maxwell and Mr. Briggs,” I continue. Even saying Luca’s name feels weird now, knowing he’s Leo’s partner.

One guard checks his computer, murmurs into a headset. His eyes flick over me, assessing. Probably wondering if I’m another one of Leo’s…off-the-books recreational activities.

My blush deepens.

“Ms. Taylor?” A crisp female voice answers through the guard’s earpiece, audible even to me. “She’s quite early. But send her up. Executive elevator, 50th floor.”

Early.

Damn right, I’m early.

Rule number two of crisis management: always be over-prepared and arrive before the client. Showsinitiative. Shows control. Even when your personal life is a dumpster fire.

The guard directs me to a separate bank of elevators, sleek and imposing. I need to scan my driver’s license, then place my thumb on a biometric pad.

Okay, definitely Bond villain lair.

The elevator arrives with a silent whoosh. I enter the empty car and press the button marked50.

The doors glide shut, and I ascend with unnerving speed and silence. My ears pop.

The doors open onto… wow. Not an office floor, but a plush, hushed reception area. More marble. More expensive art. Thick carpet muffles all sound.

---