Page 137 of My Big, Fat, Secret Billionaire Baby

This isn’t normal equipment.

“Getting back in shape,” I deflect. “Doctor’s orders. Increased physical activity.”

“Right.” He doesn’t buy it. “Increased physicalactivity that just happens to perfectly mimic wingsuit training. Coincidence, I’m sure.”

“What’s your point, Dom?” I snap, my patience already wearing thin. I don’t need a fucking lecture from Captain Responsible.

“My point, Leo,” he says, his voice firm now, “is that you have a daughter. A beautiful, innocent little girl who needs her father. Alive. And preferably in one piece. You have Sabrina, a woman who, against all odds, seems to be willing to build something with you. At least, so I surmise from everything you’ve told me. So the question is: are you really going to throw all that away for some fucking adrenaline rush?”

Defensive anger flares, hot and immediate. “This isn’t about throwing anything away!” I retort. “This is about who I fuckingam!That accident… it took something from me, Dom! It broke me! Getting back in the suit, conquering that fear… it’s not just an adrenaline rush. It’s… it’s about reclaiming myself!”

“Reclaiming yourself? Or running from the man you’re becoming?” Dom challenges, his gaze unwavering. “The man who changes diapers and reads bedtime stories? The man who actually looks… happy… when he’s holding his daughter? Is that guy so fucking terrifying you need to go jump off a cliff to escape him?”

His words hit too close. Too fucking accurate. That guy… that father… heisterrifying.

Because he’s vulnerable.

Because he has something to lose.

Something more important than any IPO, any thrill, any fucking title.

“You don’t understand,” I bite out, turning away from the screen, unable to meet his gaze.

“Then make me understand, Leo.”Dom’s voice softens slightly, but the intensity remains. “Because right now, all I see is the same old pattern. You find something good, something real, and you immediately start looking for the self-destruct button.”

Suddenly, a faint sound cuts through the tension. A whimper. Then a full-blown cry. Mia.

From the nursery monitor still active on my desk.

“Fuck,” I mutter, torn.

Dom.

Or Mia.

“Go to her, Leo,” Dom says quietly. “She needs you. We’ll talk later.”

He’s right. She does. Whatever existential bullshit I’m wrestling with can wait.

My daughter is crying.

“Take care, Dom,” I say curtly, already moving towards the door. My leg protests the sudden movement, but I ignore it.

Earlier, Sabrina took Mia out to meet Tatiana for a playdate thing with her own kid. So Miashouldbe happy and played out by now. Not crying.

But when I push open the nursery door, it’s not Mia I see first. It’s Sabrina. She’s standing by the crib, her back to me, gently rocking Mia in her arms, murmuring soft, soothing words.

Beat me to it.

Mia’s cries are already subsiding, her face buried against Sabrina’s shoulder.

Sabrina turns as I enter, and her eyes meet mine. And the look on her face… it’s not relief. It’s not welcome. It’s… accusation. A quiet, knowing sorrow that hits me harder than any of Dom’s angry words.

She already knows. She sees the familiar patterns. And she’s bracing herself for the inevitable disappointment.

She’s already picturing me at the top of that Chamonix cliff, a tiny figure poised for oblivion.

And in that moment, staring at her resigned face, holding our daughter who has finally quieted in her arms… the hunger for the sky, feels… tainted somehow. Almost shameful.

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