Page 77 of My Big, Fat, Secret Billionaire Baby

Whether Sabrina trusts me yet or not, whether her mother Diane approves or not, whether I even trustmyselfnot to fuck this up… doesn’t matter.

This is my new reality.

And it feels a hell of a lot more real, more important, than any fucking Series A round or IPO ever did.

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Sabrina

Okay, the cognitive dissonance is getting real.

So here I am, at my next scheduled visitation inside Leo’s penthouse, stupidly trying to get some work done.

One part of my brain, the rational, professional PR strategist part, is methodically outlining Phase Two of the ‘Leo Maxwell Public Image Restoration’ campaign on my laptop.

The other flustered, sleep-deprived, emotionally scrambled single mom part, keeps sneaking glances across the vast expanse of Leo’s ridiculously luxurious penthouse living room.

My targets? Exhibit A: Leo Maxwell himself, currently sprawled on a plush rug, looking utterly engrossed in… stacking colorful wooden blocks?

And Exhibit B: Mia Grace Taylor, my daughter,ourdaughter, sitting opposite him, babbling enthusiastic encouragement (or possibly just commenting on the structural integrity of said blocks) while occasionally making grabby motions with her chubby starfish hands.

It’s been… what? Three visits since the park? Twice here at the ‘sky palace’, once at my ‘cozy’ Brooklyn command center. And each time, this weird transformation occurs. The driven, cynical, slightly terrifying businessman I met with Luca, the one who practically radiated ‘get the fuck out of my way,’ suddenly vanishes the moment Mia is in the room.

Replaced by… this guy. The guy who patiently lets Mia knock over the block tower for the fifth time, who makes ridiculously goofy faces that actually elicit a genuine baby belly laugh, who seems completely unfazed when she inevitably tries to chew on his very expensive watch.

This guy… is dangerously close to the charming, easy-going guy I met poolside in Vegas, before the subsequent twenty months of secret-keeping chaos. The guy I might have, under different, less chemically altered circumstances, actually… liked.

Which is terrifying.

Because that guy, the Vegas guy, not the New York guy, is currently making airplane noises while pretending a wooden block is landing on Mia’s head.

I could fall for that guy.

Hard.

And that’s a PR crisis I am absolutely not equipped to handle.

My whole Unsuitable Father Material narrative is getting harder to maintain when the evidence right in front of me is… well, this.

He’strying.

Genuinely, awkwardly, sometimes cluelessly, but undeniably trying.

He asks questions about her schedule, her favorite foods (currently anything mushy and orange), her nap routine. He listens, and I mean,actuallylistens, when Iexplain the subtle difference between her ‘I’m hungry’ cry and her ‘I’m bored and contemplating world domination’ cry.

He even bought a crib (though I doubt he assembled it himself). But still. And there’s a fully equipped nursery down the hall that looks like it was ripped from the pages of an insanely expensive baby magazine. With a stocked changing table and a Diaper Genie present and accounted for.

It’s… a lot. It’s confusing. He’s doing all the right things,sayingall the right things (mostly). He hasn’t mentioned lawyers again. He wired the retainer for the PR work immediately. He texts before I visit, asks about Mia’s week, even sent over a ridiculously large basket of organic baby food one time ‘just in case.’

Am I… leading him on? Letting him build this nursery, letting him get attached, when deep down I’m still terrified he’s going to revert to factory settings the second things get hard? The second the novelty wears off? The second Luca whispers more poison in his ear?

My stomach twists with familiar anxiety. I should put a stop to it, shouldn’t I? Reinforce the boundaries. Remind him this is supervised visitation, not playing house. Remindmyself.

But watching him carefully guide Mia’s hand to place the final block on the wobbly tower, seeing the genuine, unguarded smile light up his face when she squeals with delight… I don’t have the heart.

Not yet.

Not while he looks like… this. Like maybe hecouldbe different.

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