Page 81 of My Big, Fat, Secret Billionaire Baby

Can’t really blame her.

My track record isn’t exactly stellar.

“Okay,” she says finally. “She can stay.”

My eyebrows shoot up.

That was easier than expected.

“On one condition,” she adds quickly.

“Which is?”

“I stay, too,” she says firmly, a hint of defiance in her tone. Like she’s daring me to object. “I’m not leaving my eleven-month-old daughter overnight in a stranger’s penthouse unsupervised. Crib or no crib.”

Stranger.

Ouch.

But… fair. Twenty months of secrecy followed by one confrontation and a few visits doesn’t exactly equal trust.

“Wouldn’t expect you to,” I say quietly. Which is true. The thought of her leaving Mia here alone feels… wrong. “Guest room’s down the hall. Fully equipped. Probably less baby paraphernalia than your place right now.”

I try for a small smile.

She hesitates only a fraction of a second, then gives a curt nod. “Fine. Thank you.”

Progress.

Maybe.

Or perhaps just logistical necessity.

Either way she’s staying here.

Overnight.

The thought sends a weird jolt through me, something entirely unrelated to fatherly responsibility.

Down, boy. Heel!

We lapse back into silence. The comfortable quiet from earlier is gone, replaced by a new layer of awkward tension. She’s staying. We’re… alone.

Together.

With our sleeping daughter in the next room.

This feels dangerously close to something domestic.

And it brings Vegas crashing back. The lingering questions. The blank space in my memory that’s been itching like a phantom limb ever since I saw her again.

Fuck it.

Vulnerability.

Honesty.

That’s what her mother implied I needed. That’s what Dom suggested.

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