Page 59 of My Big, Fat, Secret Billionaire Baby

Straight ahead is a massive window with a jaw-dropping view of the Statue of Liberty. To the left and right, corridors presumably lead to offices. There’s a waiting area couch beside me, currently unoccupied. Directly facing the elevators are two identical, imposing reception desks, each manned by a sharply dressed woman.

The woman at the left desk looks up and offers a bright, efficient smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Ms. Taylor? Michelle Park. Welcome to Maxwell & Briggs.” She gestures down the corridor to her left. “Mr. Maxwell is expecting you in the main executive conference room. Third door on your right.”

Michelle Park.

Leo’s PA. The one who texted yesterday? No, wait, that wasLuca’sassistant, Vivian Wong. She would be the model-like Asian woman manning the desk on the right, then.

I head toward the left corridor. As I pass Leo’s gatekeeper, she looks up again... her smile isdefinitely running on high-grade corporate fakery. She probably fields calls from jilted super models all day.

Great. Adding ‘potential baby mama’ to her list of potential headaches.

“Thank you, Michelle,” I say, matching her professional tone. My own smile feels plastered on.

I head down the indicated corridor. Plush carpet swallows the sound of my heels. The air smells faintly of expensive wood polish. Doors line the hallway, heavy, imposing wooden slabs with no nameplates. Discreet power.

Third door on the right.

I take a breath, square my shoulders, and push it open.

The executive conference room is… intimidating. A massive, gleaming table dominates the center, surrounded by at least twenty high-backed leather chairs. One entire wall is a window overlooking the harbor. Another wall seems to be entirely made of integrated screens. And sitting at the head of the table, nursing a coffee mug, is Leo.

He looks… better than yesterday. Still pale, still relying on the cane resting against his chair, but the raw fury has banked slightly. He’s wearing dark trousers and a soft gray cashmere sweater. His dark blond hair is artfully tousled. When he looks up, those green eyes hit me with the force of a physical blow. No denying paternity there.

He stands as I enter, a slight grimace flashing across his face as he puts weight on his healing leg. “Sabrina. Thanks for coming. You’re early.”

“Mr. Maxwell,” I reply, forcing my professional voice. “I believe in punctuality.”

Especially when walking into a potential minefield.

He gestures to the chair opposite him. “Please. Coffee?”

“No thank you. I’m fine.” I sit, taking a spot strategically spaced two chairs away from him, and place my tablet and portfolio on the gleaming table in front of me.

Project control. Project competence.

He sits back down, steepling his fingers. The silence stretches for a beat, thick with unspoken tension.

“Look,” he says finally, breaking eye contact to stare out the window. “About yesterday. I… apologize for my reaction. It was unprofessional. I was… blindsided.”

Blindsided.

That’s one word for it.

“Understandable,” I manage, keeping my tone neutral. This is delicate territory. One wrong move and the lawyers could be back on speed dial.

“Doesn’t excuse it,” he says, meeting my gaze again. His eyes are unreadable now. Wary? Calculating? “Finding out like that… finding out about… Mia.” He says her name carefully, like testing a foreign word. It sends a weird jolt through me. “It wasn’t ideal.”

“No,” I agree softly. “It wasn’t.”

“If I hadn’t shown up yesterday... if Luca hadn’t accidentally scheduled a meeting with you... if the three previous PR firms hadn’t failed so miserably... I would have never known she existed. Would you have ever told me about her?”

I look down at my hands.

So much for projecting control and competence.

“I... I don’t know,” I tell him honestly. “Maybe... maybe one day. But probably not fora long time.”

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