Page 60 of My Big, Fat, Secret Billionaire Baby

He nods slowly. “So it was a fortunate accident that I showed up when I did.” He purses his lips, and I have no idea what’s going on behind those green eyes of his. Finally:

“You left her with a sitter today?” he asks, a new edge to his voice. Concern? Or checking up on my logistics?

“Yes. Mrs. Gable, my regular sitter, was available today, thankfully.”

He nods slowly. “Good. Okay. So. We need to talk about… arrangements. But maybe not right now. Does Friday work for you? Supervised? At my place?”

My stomach clenches.

His place.

I wanted to start with my place, in an environment where Mia would feel comfortable, and I’d feel in control. But maybe starting wherehefeels in control is the smarter play. It shows that I’m willing to cooperate. And build… something.

Not trust. Too soon for trust.Maybe just… détente?

“Yes,” I confirm. “Friday works. You mentioned you have physical therapy in the afternoon?”

“Yeah. Ends around four. Can you come by around five?”

“Five is fine.” Though I’ll have to leave extra early to avoid rush hour.

“Good.” He takes a sip of his coffee. “So. The proposal.” He gestures towards my tablet. “The turnaround is impressive. The analysis sharp. And the timeline is aggressive, but realistic.”

Okay. Shifting back to business. This is definitely safer ground.

“Thank you,” I reply. “I reviewed the materials Vivian sent over last night.” I see him bristle slightly at the name Vivian.

Before I continue, he interrupts: “I’d prefer you liaise with my assistant Michelle going forward.”

“Consider it done,” I reply smoothly. “Back to the proposal... the declining investor confidence, the media speculation post-Chamonix… it’s a challenging landscape, but not unsalvageable. The core issue is perception. You need to project stability, resilience, and forward momentum.”

“Easier said than done when I’m still hobbling around with this thing,” he mutters, tapping the cane.

“It’s not about pretending the injury didn’t happen,” I counter, slipping fully into PR mode. This, I know. This, I can handle. “It’s about framing the narrative. You survived a near-fatal accident. You’re fighting your way back. That shows determination, resilience. Those areassets. We leverage them. We control the story. Not the gossip columns online.”

He raises an eyebrow, a flicker of the old Vegas charm surfacing. “Leveraging the truth strategically, wasn’t that your line yesterday?”

He remembers.

“It was.” My cheeks warm slightly.

Keep it professional, Sabrina.

“All right,” he says, leaning forward, suddenly all business again. “Walk me through the key phases. The strategic appearances, the targeted media placements…”

We dive into the proposal. For the next hour, it’s almost… normal. We’re two professionals dissecting a problem, brainstorming solutions. He’s sharp, asks insightful questions, pushes back intelligently. He might be a reckless playboy, but he didn’t build this empire by accident. The professional overlap feels less uncomfortable when we’re focused solely on Maxwell & Briggs, not Maxwell & Mia. His initialwarmth, the apology… it did put me slightly at ease. Maybe… this can actually work?

Just as we’re deep into discussing damage control for a potential negative article in Forbes, the conference room door swings open.

18

Sabrina

Luca Briggs strolls in, radiating expensive cologne and effortless arrogance. I recognize him from the photos I’ve seen online.

“Sorry I’m late,” he says, flashing a blindingly white smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. He glances at me, then at the clock on the wall. “Must admit, we don’t usually have appointments showing up quite so early.” A subtle dig couched in politeness.

The shift in Leo is instantaneous. The tentative warmth evaporates. His posture stiffens, his expression cools, becoming guarded, almost challenging. The easy back-and-forth we’d established vanishes.

---