Page 73 of My Big, Fat, Secret Billionaire Baby

So unlike me.

So...perfect.

“Need a hand there, boss?”

I look up. Dom’s face grins at me from the giant flatscreen integrated into the living room wall. We’re on a video call. Me, surrounded by intimidatingly complex baby-proofing hardware. Him, looking disgustingly relaxed, probably calling from his own ridiculously perfect Tribeca loft where he’s currently living out his happily-ever-after with Tatiana.

The guy who accidentally married his way into domestic bliss is now my go-to source for parental wisdom. The irony is so thick I could cut it with a fucking hedge fund report.

“Just contemplating the sheer number of ways my apartment can apparently murder a small child,” I say dryly, poking the baby gate box with my cane. “This shit requires an engineering degree.”

“Tell me about it,” Dom chuckles. “Tatiana had a spreadsheet. Color-coded. Risk assessments for every fucking electrical outlet.” He leans closer to his camera. “Seriously though, outlet covers. Get the ones that are hard for adults to remove, otherwise they just become choking hazards. And cabinet locks. The magnetic kind are best. Oh, and corner guards. Lots of corner guards.”

“Right. Corner guards.” I make a mental note. Probably need about five hundred of them for this place. “What the fuck is a Diaper Genie? Sounds like a bad magic trick involving baby poop.”

Poop? Did I actually say poop instead ofshit?

Maybe I’ll turn into a real father, yet!

Dom laughs outright. “Close enough. Trust me, you want one. Maybe two.”

We spend another twenty minutes going over the basics. Cabinet locks, outlet covers, anchoringfurniture, the surprising lethality of decorative cords. Dom, a former commitment-phobe like myself, dispensing practical baby-proofing advice like he’s been doing it his whole life.

It’s surreal.

“You got this, Leo,” he says finally, his expression softening slightly. “It’s overwhelming at first, but you’ll figure it out.”

“Yeah, well. Trying,” I mutter, uncomfortable with the sincerity. “Gotta go. Got deliveries arriving.”

“All right. Call if you need anything. Seriously.” He disconnects.

I stare at the blank screen.

Trying.

Is that what this is?

Tryingto be… a dad?

The concept still feels absurd. But the alternative... walking away, letting Sabrina handle it alone, proving her mother right, feels even worse.

My phone buzzes. A text alert. Michelle, confirming the delivery window for the mountain of nursery furniture I ordered online yesterday in a fit of bewildered proactivity. Crib, changing table, rocking chair, mountains of shit I have no idea how to assemble or use. It’s all arriving this afternoon.

Another buzz. This one’s a Facetime request. From Sabrina.

My pulse gives a little kick.

Showtime. Again.

I smooth my hair automatically, then realize how fucking stupid that is.

Why do I care what I look like in front of her?

I accept the call, leaning back against the couch, trying to project casual competence.

Her face appears on my phone screen. Still tired, but maybe more… relaxed than Friday?

She’s holding Mia, who is currently chewing thoughtfully on a brightly colored plastic ring.

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