Page 171 of My Big, Fat, Secret Billionaire Baby

“It’s a monumentally stupid, self-destructive coping mechanism, absolutely. And maybe itproveshe’s not ready. But is it the same as your father just… checking out? Walking away because it got inconvenient? Or is this Leo acting out of a warped sense of needing to fix things, to reclaim control, even if his method is insane and terrifyingly dangerous? He told you heheardyour concerns, right? He didn’t just dismiss them entirely, even if he made the wrong choice afterward?

“Look, I’m not saying you have to stay and watch him potentially self-destruct. Hell no. You protect Mia, you protect yourself, always. But walking awaycompletelyright now, making this break permanent before he even gets close to that Chamonix cliff… are you closing the door on the man who held Mia like she was the most precious thing in the world? The one who actuallylistenedto your mom, even when she was tearing him down?”

The one who looked absolutely gutted when you showed him Mia on FaceTime?

“I don’t know, Sabrina,” she continues. “It’s your call. But... there’s a difference between a man who runsfromresponsibility, and a man who runstowarddanger because he’s terrifiedofresponsibility and doesn’t know any other way to feel in control. Isone just as bad as the other in the end? Maybe. But are they exactly the same thing? No.”

Her words land quietly, but with surprising force.

She’s right. To a degree.

My father walked away. Leo… Leo came back. He’strying, however clumsily, however infuriatingly. He wants access to Mia. He wants… something.

Even though his latest decision could kill him.

I shake my head.

I don’t know.

I just don’t, anymore.

Is it possible? Could Tatiana be right? Am I so blinded by my own past, so braced for the inevitable abandonment (or even death, heaven forbid), that I’m pushing away the one man who might actually be trying, in his own flawed way, to break the pattern?

The thought is… unsettling. It doesn’t erase the lies, the risks, the fear.

But it does… complicate things.

And it does plant a tiny seed of doubt in my resolve.

44

Leo

Two weeks.

Fourteen fucking days since Sabrina walked out, Mia wailing in her arms, leaving behind a silence in this penthouse so absolute it feels like the end of the world.

Fourteen days of rattling around this hollow, multi-million dollar monument to my own ambition.

Fourteen days of emptiness. Inside and out.

Communication between us has been… minimal. Strictly professional. She sends emails with PR strategy updates for Maxwell & Briggs. We’ve had maybe two brief phone calls, all business, her voice clipped and distant, my own carefully guarded.

I haven’t asked her to dinner again, not since she shot me down that first time. Haven’t asked to see Mia, either. Can’t fucking bring myself to. Can’t bear the thought of another rejection hitting me where it actually hurts. Not yet.

Damn it.

My life used to be optimized for ruthless efficiency and maximum personal freedom. You know, closingdeals, chasing thrills, and cycling through disposable women.

Now? Now my fucking expensive Italian leather sofa mocks me with the phantom imprint of where Sabrina used to sit, nursing a glass of wine, pretending not to watch me play blocks with Mia.

Fuck fuck fuck.

I find myself standing in the doorway of the nursery more often than I care to admit. The ridiculously overpriced crib is empty. The Diaper Genie stands guard, never employed. The minimalist llamas hanging from the mobile sculpture are perfectly fucking still.

It’s just a room again.

Four walls. Expensive furniture. Zero life.

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