Page 89 of My Big, Fat, Secret Billionaire Baby

My pulling back did this. I know it did. But I can’t help it.

Letting him see the emotional chaos churning inside me feels too dangerous. As does lettinganyonethat close.

Especially him.

My heart is not up for grabs, no matter how good the sex was.

And I thought he’d ruined me before...

What have I done?

“Can you show me...” I swallow. “Can you show me to the guest suite, please?”

“Of course,” he replies icily. He rips off the condom, tosses it into a nearby wastebasket.

Then he pulls up his pants and retrieves his cane, the New York Leo back in full force.

25

Leo

The gray light of dawn filters through the floor-to-ceiling windows, painting the Manhattan skyline in shades of red. The city that never sleeps is taking a fucking breather.

Unlike me.

Sleep never really came. I’ve been up all night thinking about what happened... after that kiss, after the raw fucking honesty, after the sex against the goddamn window that felt like mainlining pure adrenalin, she retreated. Fucking retreated. Physically, pulling her clothes back, avoiding my gaze. And emotionally, slamming those walls back up so fast I practically felt the reverberation.

And my own walls? They snapped right back into place, too, of course. It’s a defense mechanism I guess. She pulls back, I pull back harder. Basic physics of fucked-up relationships. Or whatever the hell this is.

She’s right to pull back,a voice whispers in my head.What the fuck do you think you’re doing, Maxwell? Playing house? This isn’t you.

I heard Mia cry at around 3 AM. A sharp wail that suddenly cut through the penthouse silence. I got up, not sure what to do, but before I could even step out of my bedroom I heard soft, quick footsteps from the guest suite down the hall. Sabrina. Then I heard her murmuring voice through the nursery door, low and soothing, until the crying subsided back into silence. She handled it. Alone. While I stayed in my massive, empty bedroom, feeling… useless.

I sigh, then ease myself out of the bed. My leg aches like a motherfucker.

I reach for the cane beside the nightstand, the carbon fiber cool beneath my hand. I tread lightly, trying to avoid the cane’s usual loud clicks and thuds so as not to wake my guests. I don’t want to face the awkward morning-after conversation just yet.

I need to see Mia.

The thought is automatic.

As I pass the guest suite in the hallway, I pause instinctively. The heavy door is ajar, maybe from her middle-of-the-night dash to the nursery. Inside, bathed in the soft pre-dawn light filtering through the blinds, I see Sabrina fast asleep in the center of the king-sized bed. She’s curled peacefully on her side, one arm tucked under the pillow, the other flung out across the white duvet. Her dark curls are a messy halo against the pale sheets.

Even in sleep, there’s a faint line of worry etched on her brow. Still, seeing her like this, unguarded and peaceful despite the chaos surrounding us, sends another confusing jolt through me. A mix of tenderness and a fierce, unfamiliar urge to protect her from… well, from guys like me, probably.

Shaking the thought off, I continue silently down the hall.

The nursery is hushed, dim. The fancy decorative llamas rotate slowly overhead, casting faint shadows on the wall. And in the center, in the hi-tech crib I still don’t fully know how to operate, lies my daughter.

My daughter.

The words still feel foreign, yet fundamentally true.

She’s sleeping on her back, tiny fists curled near her face, dark lashes resting against her chubby cheeks. Her breathing is soft, even.

She looks so fucking small.

So vulnerable.

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