Page 64 of My Big, Fat, Secret Billionaire Baby

Which means suffering through this fucking torture first.

“All right, Leo, take a deep breath. Now engage the core. Lift slowly.” Stephen Aung, my physical therapist, twenty-six years old, annoyingly cheerful, and built like a goddamn gymnast, watches me with hawk-like intensity.

I’m lying on a mat in my penthouse gym, staring up at the state-of-the-art lighting grid, trying to lift my right leg one fucking inch off the mat without my hip screaming bloody murder or my core completely giving out. It’s pathetic. Eleven months post-crash, and this basic movement feels like trying to deadlift a fucking car.

“Come on,” I grit out. I lift my head to look at him but sweat immediately drips into my eyes so I relax my neck again. “Engage the core? My core checked out around month three of this bullshit.”

“Language, Leo,” Stephen chides gently, though there’s a glint of amusement in his eyes. He knows my frustration is my default setting these days. “Your core is stronger than you think. Mind over matter. Focus on the movement, not the limitation.”

“Easy for you to say,” I mutter. I strain again... the muscles in my leg tremble violently. Pain,sharp and familiar, shoots up from my reconstructed hip joint. “You’re not the one whose leg feels like it’s attached with fucking duct tape.”

“Progress, Leo. Remember last month? You couldn’t even activate the quad without assistance. Now look.” He points. My leg is hovering. Maybe half an inch. “See? Progress.”

I let the leg drop back down with a thud, breathing heavily. “Progress measured in millimeters. Fucking stellar.” I hate this. Hate the weakness. Hate the dependence. Hate being trapped in a body that betrayed me, that failed me when I needed it most. Hate that Luca walked away clean while I’m stuck here, fighting for inches.

Fucker.

I’m still pissed about what he did. Trying to force that NDA on Sabrina after I specifically told him not to. Undermining me in front of her. Trying to assert dominance.

FUCKER.

He forgets who built this firm from the ground up. He forgets whose name comes first.Maxwell& Briggs. Not the other way around.

He needs a fucking reminder.

“Okay, let’s switch to controlled stretches,” Stephen says, oblivious to my internal tirade. “Hamstring focus today. Gently does it.”

He starts guiding my leg through the movement. It’s agony. Every nerve ending screams. I clench my jaw, focusing on the burn, trying to channel the frustration into something productive instead of just raw, useless anger.

The chime of the private elevator arriving on the penthouse level echoes faintly from the main living area. Four thirty. Who the fuck is arriving now?Security knows better than to let anyone up during my PT. Thomas, my household manager, wouldn’t interrupt unless the building was on fire.

On cue, Thomas appears at the gym doorway, his expression impassive as ever. “Mr. Maxwell? Ms. Taylor has arrived for her five o’clock appointment.” He pauses, his gaze flickering towards the clock. “She’s slightly early.”

Slightly?

Thirty minutes.

Figures.

The woman who was meticulous enough to hide a baby for twenty months is probably pathologically punctual.

“Shit,” I mutter, caught flat on my back, leg halfway to my ear, sweating like a pig. Not exactly projecting power and control here. “Fine. Tell her… tell her I’ll be out in a minute. Offer her coffee. Or whatever the hell she drinks.”

Thomas nods and disappears.

Stephen raises an eyebrow. “Ms. Taylor? The new PR consultant?”

“Yeah,” I grunt, trying to push through the stretch. “Long story.”

“Friend of yours?”

“Definitely not.” The denial is instant, vehement. Then I pause.

What the fuckisshe? The mother of my child. A PR consultant working for my company. A woman I can’t remember having sex with in Vegas twenty months ago.

What a goddamn mess.

“It’s complicated,” I finish.

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