Page 97 of My Big, Fat, Secret Billionaire Baby

And maybe I need protection, too. Not just physical, but… from the overwhelming fear of doing this alone against the glare of the world’s spotlight.

“Okay,” I whisper, the word feeling like both a surrender and a lifeline. My pride takes a backseat to the primal need for security. For Mia. “Okay, Leo. We’ll come.”

“Good,” he says, relief evident even in that single word. “Charlie just texted. They’re five minutes out now. Pack a bag for you and Mia. Overnight stuff. Just essentials for now.”

Overnight. Right. He didn’t sayhow longthis would last.

“All right,” I agree, my mind already racing, trying to process the logistics, the implications. Staying at Leo’s. Living under the same roof. Not just for a supervised visit, but indefinitely? Until the ‘crisis blows over?’

How am I supposed to do that, after the mind-blowing sex we had. After the—

Ishake my head.

My entirelifejust became the crisis.

“Sabrina?” Leo’s voice pulls me back. “You sure you’re okay?” He sounds genuinely concerned.

“Yeah,” I lie. “I’m okay. We’ll be ready.”

I hang up, leaning my forehead against the cool wood of the apartment door. Mia’s cries have subsided into whimpers again.

I scoop her up, holding her tight.

“Well, kiddo,” I murmur against her soft curls. “Looks like we’re moving on up. Temporarily, anyway.” To a penthouse palace with wall-to-wall windows, minimalist llamas, and a very complicated, very protective billionaire baby daddy currently throwing his considerable resources into keeping us safe.

Against my better judgment, against every instinct honed by years of self-reliance and a deep-seated fear of abandonment, I said yes.

Because when it came down to it, his offer wasn’t about control or power.

It felt… genuine.

Like maybe the man beneath the damaged reputation was finally starting to emerge.

And that?

That scares me more than any reporter lurking on my doorstep.

But I guess we’ll just have to see how it goes...

27

Leo

Two days.

Feels like two fucking years.

Sabrina and Mia have been living here, in my penthouse, for forty-eight surreal hours.

My life, previously a tightly controlled operation optimized for ruthless efficiency and maximum personal freedom, now feels… infiltrated. Like occupied territory.

And the strangest part?

I don’t entirely mind.

Okay, mostly I don’t mind. Sharing my space is still fucking strange.

Finding tiny socks wedged between sofa cushions? Baffling. Hearing baby giggles echo where usually there’s only the hum of the market or the clink of ice in a whiskey glass? Disorienting.

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