Page 80 of My Big, Fat, Secret Billionaire Baby

Sabrina saw right through my bullshit, obviously. Her sighs got progressively heavier, her glances at the clock more pointed. But she didn’t push it. Didn’t just scoop Mia up and bolt. Probably because dragging a tired, potentially cranky baby out into the night and navigating Brooklyn traffic felt marginally worse thanenduring another ten minutes of awkward co-parenting in a billionaire’s penthouse.

Or maybe she was just too damn tired to fight me on it.

My master plan is working.

Who the fuck am I kidding?What plan? I don’t have a goddamn plan. All I knew was I didn’t want them to leave. Not yet. Didn’t want the silence to descend again. Didn’t want to be alone with the wreckage of my life and the ghost of those green eyes.

So I stalled.

Like some desperate teenager trying to stretch out a curfew.

Pathetic, I know.

But she’s asleep now. In the crib. In the nursery I threw together. And Sabrina… Sabrina is still here. Curled up on the opposite end of the massive white sofa, nursing a glass of wine I practically had to force on her. She initially refused, citing professional boundaries, yadda yadda, but I finally got her to agree to one drink.

I figured we both needed it.

She looks… different tonight. Softer. More like the girl I remember from Vegas, before GHB stole my memories of her. She’s wearing a simple dark sweater and leggings. Her hair is loose, those dark curls framing her face. Without the makeup and power suit, she looks younger, more vulnerable.

And maybe even more fucking attractive.

Which is a complication I definitely don’t need right now.

Or maybe I do.

Fuck knows. The last week has messed with me worse than the Chamonix crash. Fatherhood. Co-parenting. Baby-proofing. Talking about my ‘intentions’ with her mother.

It’s a whole new level of disorientation.

I swirl the amber liquid in my own glass. A twenty-five-year-old Macallan. I watch Sabrina over the rim. She’s staring down into her wine like it’s the most fascinating thing in the world.

“So,” I say finally, breaking the awkward quiet. “She seems to like the nursery. And didn’t immediately reject the plush llamas. That’s a win, right?”

A smile touches her lips. She glances towards the baby monitor. “She was mostly just exhausted. But yeah, the llamas are… cute.” She takes a sip of her wine. “It’s… a beautiful room, Leo. You didn’t have to go through all that trouble.”

“Trouble?” I scoff lightly, leaning back against the cushions. “Please. Thomas handled the logistics. I just clicked ‘buy now’ on a few things. And...”

I swallow, wondering if I should say what’s on my mind.

Fuck it.

Don’t ask, don’t get.

“After all the effort,” I continue, “assembling that crib… the nursery... seems a shame not to use it. You sure you don’t want to just let her stay the night?”

Sabrina’s posture stiffens almost instantly. The walls go back up.

Fucking predictable.

“Leo, we talked about this…”

“I know, I know,” I cut her off gently. “Supervised visits. Boundaries. Got it. But look at her.” I nod towards the monitor where Mia is sleeping peacefully, one tiny fist curled near her cheek. “She’s out cold. Moving her now is just asking for another meltdown. Forboth of you.”

If she really wants to go I’ll let her, of course. But I’m going to have her take the Maybach, not the subway. Not with my daughter in tow, this late at night.

She studies me, her dark eyes searching mine. Looking for the angle? The manipulation?

Probably.

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