Page 95 of My Big, Fat, Secret Billionaire Baby

Betterthis way.

“Hello,” I reply, matching his professional tone. “Mia and I should get going. I need to get back to my apartment to start working on… this. I work better with my own setup.”

I see the doubt in his eyes. He’s not buying the professional excuse. He knows I’m just running away scared again. I can see it in his gaze. In the way his lips twitch.

“Fine,” he says. “Darius can take you in the Maybach.”

“No, thanks,” I say quickly. Too quickly? “Subway’s faster during rush hour.” Accepting rides feels too... personal. Too much like something beyond a client relationship or co-parenting logistics. Need to keep those lines clear, even if they got spectacularly blurred last night. “I’ll text you once I’ve drafted the initial holding statement and mapped out the media outreach.”

“All right.” He pushes away from the counter, grabbing his cane. He limps over to the highchair, his movements still stiff. He reaches out, gently stroking Mia’s dark curls. She beams up at him, banana smeared across her chin, and pats his hand with sticky fingers.

My stomach does that stupid little flip again.

Damn it.

“Be good for your mom, Killer,” he murmurs to her, a surprising softness in his voice. Then he looks back at me, his expression guarded again. “Keep me updated. Every step of the way.”

“Will do,” I reply.

Back in Brooklyn,the apartment feels blessedly familiar.

Blessedlymine.

Even with the overflowing laundry basket and the ergonomic chair wedged against the bookshelf.

I settle Mia in her playpen with a mountain of toys, grab my laptop, and dive into work, fueled by coffee and sheer adrenaline.

This is my turf. Crisis management. I draft holding statements, acknowledging Leo’s commitment to privacy while subtly confirming his dedication to his family.

I field calls from Michelle Park, Leo’s PA, coordinating access to internal comms. I reach out to my network... the trusted journalists, the industry vloggers... planting seeds, shaping the narrative preemptively.

Control the story before it controlsyou.

Basic PR.

The hours blur. Mia naps, wakes, eats mushy peas, demands attention, naps again.

I work through it all, juggling conference calls between sessions of peek-a-boo, drafting press releases while wiping spit off my keyboard. It’s frantic, exhausting, but… focused.

The professional challenge is a welcome distraction from the emotional turmoil simmering just beneath the surface.

By late afternoon, I’m running on fumes. Mia’s getting fussy again, and my caffeine levels are dangerously low.

Need coffee.

And I’m talking real coffee, not the instant sludge I have left.

Just a quick run to the corner coffee shop. Five minutes, tops. What could go wrong?

Famous last words...

I bundle Mia into her stroller, grab my wallet and head out.

The air is crisp, carrying the scent of roasting nuts from a street vendor.

I’m halfway down the block when I see him. A guy in a nondescript jacket, holding a phone like he’s casually checking messages, but his eyes are scanning the street with way too much intensity.

He clocks me pushing the stroller and his eyes light up with predatory glee.

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